#i could go on and on about what other characters got up to

[rainandsentences]

Long Enough

older conrad fisher x f!reader

synopsis: he realizes what has been always in front of him...

rate: 16+

warnings: angst with fluff ending!

a/n: as many of you requested it, here it is part two of this <3

————————————————————————

He didn’t go after you right away.

He just stood there, on the edge of the beach, watching your silhouette disappear into the dark — the sound of waves louder than his heartbeat, but not by much.

Belly had looked at him like she was unraveling. And all he’d done was stand there and let it happen.

He sat down in the sand, elbows on his knees, hands rubbing over his face like that could undo the way you had looked at him — like he had broken something he never deserved in the first place.

And yes, he had.

So for a long time, all he could do was stare out at the water because he didn’t know what he expected to feel when Belly walked in. Maybe some kind of closure. Maybe relief. Maybe that old spark that used to make everything else fade out. Because, how could he be so stupid to make you feel like that? You didn't deserve it, not when you've done so much for him, when you had loved him... maybe that was it, he was afraid of going to the bottom of his heart and finally clear what he felt and what he wanted.

Not again. In the past, he lost Belly for his lack of communication for his fears and intrusive thoughts. And now, he couldn't lose you, not like that.

Now all that he felt was panic.

Not because he wanted Belly, she was his past and he could understand that.

Because he knew exactly what you would see in him in that moment — and worse, he knew you were right.

He smacked himself mentally for saying that, for saying that he was still hers. Belly's.

And he was right about it, but not in the way you had thought. She was still part of his life, she was his friend and one of his first loves.

But now they were adults, he was a doctor and the teenager fever was now away, away for good and for the best.

He didn’t hear Belly until she sat down beside him.

He didn’t look over. Just murmured, “Didn’t think you’d come.”

“My parents are the main characters, Conrad.,” she said gently. "You didn't wanted to see me?"

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you were surprised.”

He exhaled. “Yeah.”

They were quiet for a while. The music from the tent drifted faintly through the wind.

“She left,” Belly said.

“I know,” he whispered. “She should’ve.”

“She loves you, you know.” Belly looked at him. "It's been a while, Conrad. And honestly I´m so happy for you, she is really amazing and you both complement each other for good."

“I know.” Conrad said as he nods slowly. "But I'm a fool... she deserves better. She´s beautiful and so intelligent..."

"And you love her.”

That made him pause.

Then, voice low: “I didn’t know how much. Not until I saw her walk away.”

Belly didn’t try to console him. She didn’t tell him he was forgiven, or that you’d come back, or that any of this was easy.

Instead, she nodded toward the water. “I think we all got stuck in something we outgrew.”

Conrad’s throat tightened.

“You were the first boy I ever loved,” Belly added. “But we both know I’m not the last girl you’re going to so, I think you can try talk to her and fix up things," she said. “ I don't know what happened between you guys but she’s worth it, Conrad." She says softly. "Don't mess it up."

Ho looked away as he nodded. "It was nice to see you, Belly. Send your parents our congratulations." He said as he stood up and walked out of the party.

It was almost midnight by the time he got to your hotel. He didn’t stop to think about what to say — just knew that if he didn’t say something now, it would haunt him for the rest of his life.

He knocked once, then again.

You opened the door slowly, wearing one of his sweatshirts and eyes that didn’t look angry anymore — just tired.

His heart clenched.

“What do you want? Don’t say you’re here to explain,” you said.

“I’m not,” Conrad replied, stepping forward just enough that you could see the truth in his eyes. “I’m here to tell you what I should’ve said a long time ago.”

You didn’t speak, just crossed your arms and waited.

“I’ve been holding onto a version of myself that doesn’t exist anymore,” he started. “The guy who was in love with Belly — I think he faded out a long time ago. But I kept chasing his ghost, trying to make sense of a story that already ended.”

Your jaw tightened.

He kept going.

“And while I was doing that, you were there. With me. For me. You let me be quiet. You didn’t try to fix me, or compete with what I lost. You just loved me.”

His voice cracked.

“And I’ve been a coward. Because part of me thought I didn’t deserve to be loved like that. Especially not by someone like you.”

He took a step closer.

“But I do love you. I’m in love with you. And I think I have been for a long time, but I was too scared to admit that the thing I wanted most was right in front of me.”

You looked up at him, slowly, and he saw the tears in your eyes.

But you didn’t back away.

"You looked at her like the world shifted,” you said, voice shaking.

“I looked at her like I remembered something,” he said. “Not like I wanted it back. Not like I wanted her. Just... like I saw a chapter close for real. And I panicked, because I didn’t know how to tell you that it was over without making you feel like you were second choice.”

You looked away.

“I’m not asking you to forget tonight,” he said gently. “I’m not even asking you to forgive me yet. But I am asking you to believe me.”

Silence stretched between you.

Then, softly: “I don’t want to spend another day wondering if I’m going to lose you. I want to wake up and know that you’re mine because i love you... I love you with my whole heart and I as well, long to be yours."

You stared at him and stepped forward.

“I haven't forgive you, you know?,” you whispered.

"I understand." He nods sadly.

"But I love you too, Conrad." You say softly as you lean on and kissed him.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t careful.

It was every bit of the ache and anger and want that had built between you for months — maybe years. It was teeth and tears and the press of his hands at your jaw, holding you like you were real, like you were home.

When you finally pulled back, you were breathless and so was he.

You looked up at him with trembling lips and a wet laugh. “Don’t ever make me feel like I’m less than again.”

“I won't because you're not.” he whispered. "I'm sorry, darling."

You nod.

“And I'm yours...” he said. "Okay?"

"Okay."

And this time, when he held you…

You believed it.

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Laswell confronts Price. Nik eavesdrops.

cw: severe body dysphoria.

Nik knew he shouldn't be listening.

He had always seen fit to remove himself from sensitive conversations that involved intel he should not be privy to. It was an issue of respect. Laswell and John always told him what he needed to know, and John often went beyond even that, such was their bond.

But this time, he had lingered by the door. Perhaps it was something in their tone, or the way his last private conversation with each of them had ended in a riddle he simply couldn't untangle. Either way, he leaned in close to the door now, swallowed the guilty tug in his chest, and listened.

“Deformed. That's the word we're going with, is it?” Laswell.

“S’true. No one's ever pushed beyond that last few times people've been interested.” John.

“Those people weren’t Nik. He's worried about you. He thinks you have some horrific physical issue that has left you, I don't know, damaged for life…”

“Don't I? Sounds accurate.”

“For fuck's sake, I thought we were past this pity party crap.”

“Ain't a pity party. It's reality. Now, if yer done messin’ around in my private life, I've got reports to do fer your guv’nor, Kate.”

“The concept of the world and everyone in it that you've built in your head isn't reality, John. It's fiction written by a wounded heart to protect itself.”

“Get that one from the missus?”

“She thinks you're an asshole too.”

“Not a lot’s changed there then…” John sounded tired.

“You need to tell him the truth.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“I can't think of a single reason to shut Nik out on this.”

“‘ve done it all before. I tell people, an’ suddenly every’fin’ changes. The way they look at me, searchin’ for some kinda specific fuckin’ tell, which is suddenly so fuckin’ obvious and why didn't they realise before. The way they don't trust my judgement ‘nymore, the way they bloody talk to me and it becomes hard to remember how t’ refer t’ me, I lose ‘em as a friend “ John's voice grew increasingly angrier as he continued, until he was seething at her through gritted teeth. “You fuckin’ know all this. Ya watched it fuckin' well happen.”

Nik's heart hammered in his chest. He couldn't think of a single thing John could do to make him see him any different; his respect, his love, ran too deep. Like veins of precious minerals embedded deep in a mountainside.

“So, you're going to go through life pushing people away. Not letting them get too close because they might turn out to be assholes like some others back when you were young and stupid, but let them get just close enough that they serve their purpose.” Laswell sounded more irritated than she had at the beginning.

“Yeah.”

“Even the ones that have proven their devotion to you in blood.”

“Blood means fuck all when it comes to shit like this. You know that. No love, no respect, no bloody devotion, is unconditional. An’ this is one condition people can't overcome.”

“You're a coward.”

“S’got me this far,” John said, his anger faded back to tired resignation. “An’ don't Nik deserve more ‘an that? Real man, not some broken freak.”

“He deserves the truth, and the chance to make up his own mind. You’re insulting his character by believing he will turn on you. You know him better than that. And I've seen the way you look at him, John. I'm not fucking blind, and neither is he.”

There was a long pause. Nik rested his palm gently against the door, followed by his forehead. There was no sound, but the longing that threatened to pull him right into the room tugged hard around his heart.

“I can't lose ‘im, Kate,” John croaked. If Nik hadn't been close, he would have missed it. He had never heard John sound so defeated. “Not Nik.”

“I know,” Laswell replied. “But you will if you don't trust him. You need to tell him. You need to let him decide.”

“An’ what if he turns?”

“He won't.”

“But–”

“John. We both know that's not what you're worried about.” Nik heard her footsteps, the rustle of some papers. “Some things can't stay as daydreams or they turn to bitterness. Take the risk.”

“Right.”

Nik left the office door and walked silently down the hallway. The conversation had raised more questions than it had answered, but one thing was for sure; John didn't want to lose him. John wanted him but was denying them both for some reason. A reason he saw as significant, that had hurt him in the past.

It had sounded like Laswell had talked him round, but only time would tell. Nik stared at the ceiling of his small room until dawn. You will not lose me, John.

[iam-whoyouwantmetobe]

Second Chance

Synopsis - Amira lived the life that most women wanted. She was a successful business owner, married to a successful CEO of a luxury hotel chain. The two lived in a beautiful mansion in Houston with their two dogs, Pickles and Peaches. From the outside they looked like the perfect family but they were far from it. One night, after her husband stands her up, Amira decides to go to a new club that had just opened up. She ends up meeting Smoke who ultimately decides he wants her all to himself, despite the rock on her finger.

Characters - Amira, Elias ‘Stack’, Elijah ‘Smoke’, Damien, Araya

Warnings - SMUT, angst, tension, jealousy, cursing, violence, Dom Smoke, Sub OC, cheating, miscarriage.

MINORS DNI

PART 1

-

The Houston heat wasn’t something Amira was used to just yet, despite the fact that she grew up in Barbados. I mean sure, the island was hot but Houston was on a different level.

Sweat dripped down her eyebrows as she packed her groceries into the trunk of her car. She had just gotten out of work when she realized there was nothing in the fridge to make dinner tonight. Despite the ache in her feet from dealing with different clients, she still knew she had to go home and make food for her and her husband…

Amira owned her own interior design company that kept her pretty busy throughout the week and sometimes bleeding onto the weekends. Due to how demanding her job was at times, it was hard for her to keep up with other things, like for example.

Making dinner for her and her husband.

Getting in the car, Amira drove the 20 minutes home and quickly parked in the garage before starting to unload the groceries. Her lower back was on fire and the balls of her feet felt heavy. Ignoring the pain, she made her way to the kitchen and placed the bags on the counter. Peaches and Pickles ran up to her the second they heard her. Amira giggled as she petted the two big pitbulls that somehow swore they were still puppies even though they were half her height. “Hi babies.” The dogs whined as they walked to their bowls, gently placing their giant paws on them to signal for food. “You guys haven’t ate yet?” The dogs whined again as if they understood what Amira was saying.

“Damien! Did you feed the dogs?!” Damien yelled back a “no”, before the sound of his office door closing echoed throughout the house. Amira scoffed in disbelief. He’d been home for the past two hours and the dogs were usually fed on a schedule that matched theirs so that when they weren’t home, the dogs wouldn’t be starving.

Despite the irritation crawling up her skin, she quickly prepared their food before getting started on her own. Amira grabbed a claw clip and pinned her hair up, washed her hands and got to work. By the time dinner was done, Damien had finally emerged from his office. “Smells good.” He commented, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge.

“Thanks” Amira mumbled as she plated his food and set it on the counter for him to grab.

“Oh actually. Can you package that up? I’ll take it to work tomorrow.” The silence that followed could be heard throughout the whole of Houston.

“What are you talking about? You told me you were hungry. I made you dinner.” Amira’s accent sounded stronger than it usually did. Her anger bringing out a side of her that Damien rarely sees.

“Yeah. I told you I was hungry like 3 hours ago, Amira. You told me you were still at work so I ordered food.”

Amira scoffed, tightening her fists to calm her down. “You couldn’t have told me that before I spent all this time making dinner!?”

“Yo come on, chill out with all that yelling. I ain’t think you was gonna come home and cook. I thought I was helping you out by getting myself something to eat.”

Her eyes watered from frustration. Damien sighed loudly before walking up to her, he rubbed his hands up and down her arms before leaning down to press a kiss against her forehead and then down to her cheeks before settling on her lips. “Chill mama. It’s my bad. I should’ve told you.”

He pecked her lips again before wrapping his arms around her waist, bringing her closer to him. “At least you won’t have to make anything tomorrow.” Damien tried to lighten the tension but Amira was pissed. She was tired, exhausted and in pain. Her day started at 6am, she had recently gotten 4 new clients who were very demanding. Rich people usually were. She’d been bouncing from house to house, taking pictures of their layout, taking notes of what they’d like, trying her best to remain professional. As much as she loved her job, sometimes it could be too much and all she wanted was a small break.

“Don’t forget we got our session with Dr. Miranda tomorrow. Don’t be late again.” Amira walked off, leaving the kitchen a mess, the food out and her stomach empty.

-

Thirty.

Thirty minutes late.

This wasn’t even the worst of it. Sometimes he just wouldn’t show up.

He would turn his phone off so her calls wouldn’t go through and when she would get home, he would be nowhere to be found. Then he’d show up in the middle of the night when she was dead asleep so that she wouldn’t argue with him

“I’m so sorry Dr. Miranda. We can just cancel and I’ll pay the fe-”

“I’m here. Meeting ran late.” Damien walked in smelling like weed and Henny. He sat down next to Amira with a huff, as if being there was a bother to him. Anger bubbled dangerously in the pits of her stomach, her eye twitched slightly as she took a deep breath to calm herself down.

“Okay. Let’s get started then.” Dr. Miranda took out her notepad and a pen. “Amira, last week you said you felt like Damien resented you and that he’s only staying with you because he feels guilty. For your homework, I told you guys to start appreciating the things you do for each other, whether big or small. Did that help or do you still feel that way?”

Amira sighs deeply. “I’m going to be honest Dr. Miranda, we tried but I still feel the same way.” Damien rolls his eyes and slumps back in his seat.

“Doesn’t matter what I do or say, she’ll always feel that way Doctor.”

“Could you blame me? You told me I was too weak minded which is why we lost our baby!”

“Okay, let’s calm down. No yelling please.” Amira could already feel the tears forming in her eyes and her stomach turn, as it always did during these sessions.

“Damien, I know you apologized for what you said but could you see why she would still feel the way she does?” He nodded slowly, eyes to the floor as if he was actually ashamed of his actions.

“I know but what else can I do? I apologized, showered her with gifts and showed her love, and still, Nothing. I get nothing from her.”

“You get nothing from me? You’re joking right?” Amira laughed maniacally. “I come home and cook for you, I do your laundry AND your dry cleaning, I take care of the dogs, I clean the house, I show up as your fucking trophy wife whenever you have your stupid company parties and you have the NERVE to say that you get nothing??” Tears spill from her eyes and she quickly wipes them, not wanting him to see how broken she truly was. How everyday she felt herself withering away.

“Amira, let me ask you something. Is this marriage something that you still want to be in?”

Her head dropped and her lip quivered. She couldn’t imagine leaving Damien after everything they’ve been through, but the hurt he’d caused her had done damage. Damage that she wasn’t sure was reversible.

They were college sweethearts. Met freshman year and stayed together ever since. He wasn’t just somebody she could give up on but the love she felt for him had died long ago and she was just holding on to bits and pieces. He was her husband after all, they had a kid together, they lost a kid together, they have a house, they have dogs, they have a life together.

Had a life together.

Now it just feels like two bodies living under the safe roof, just tolerating each other’s existence.

“I … I don’t know.” Damiens head shot upwards, looking straight at her with furrowed eyebrows and mouth slightly ajar.

“You don’t know, Amira?”

“Damien, is this marriage something that you still want to be in?” Dr. Miranda shifted her focus to the man who somehow looked confused as to why she would ask him that.

“Of course it is. I love Amira. I want to make this work.”

“Damien, you have to understand that you stepped out of the marriage. It’s going to take some time for Amira to be fully there with you, if she even wants that. You have to give her time. Keep showing up, only if she allows you to. It’s going to take a lot of work to fix what’s been broken. Are you willing to do that?”

Damien nodded slowly. His eyes back on his wife before moving to Dr. Miranda. “Yes. Im willing to do that.”

Amira couldn’t even make out what they were saying, her head pounded loudly in her ears and she just wanted to lay down. Marriage counseling wasn’t even her idea, it was his. After she caught him cheating on her, with multiple women, Amira left. Packed her bags, left one of the managers in charge of her business and disappeared for months. He went after her, tried to follow her everywhere she went but eventually gave up. She returned home when she found out she was pregnant. Amira struggled with the ability to conceive a child and after a lot of IVF treatments, she was finally carrying. The two agreed to stay together and find a way to make it work, but her body struggled with the sudden changes, on top of the stress of finding out her husband was cheating and ultimately she ended up loosing the baby.

The aftermath was horrendous. The two argued everyday, he’d be gone for hours, sometimes days, and would leave her to take care of herself. One day the fighting got so bad that dishes got thrown, bruises were formed and the screaming was so loud that the neighbors called the police. That’s when he snapped. Blamed her entirely for the loss of their baby, told her she was too weak minded.

“I’m sorry, can we end this session? I don’t feel well.” Amira stood up before either of them could say a word and left.

Once she got home, she fed and took the dogs out for a walk. Damien hadn’t returned but she wasn’t surprised. She stripped her clothes off and took a bath long enough for her fingers and toes to prune up.

-

It was around 1 in the morning when Damien showed up, a bouquet of roses in hand. “I knew you’d be up, so I brought you these.”

Amira tried to smile but the muscles in her face refused to produce it. Specially since she wasn’t a big fan of roses, she loved lillys, they were her favorite. She grabbed the flowers and pressed a kiss to his lips. “Thank you.”

“Listen Mira, I fucked up. I know that.” He sits on the couch while she stood in between his legs. His hands rub up and down her thighs as he pressed his face to her stomach. “But I wanna make it right. I need you Mira. I love you.”

The knot in the back of her throat tightened and she tried her best to swallow it. “Okay. I love you too.” Damien nodded, knowing this was the most he was going to get out of her.

“How about we go on a date tomorrow, yeah? I’ll make reservations, all you have to worry about is getting all pretty.” Amira’s face finally cracked, slightly, her hands rubbed his face.

“Okay. What time?”

“Just be ready by 8, baby.” Amira felt her heart skip a beat, an excitement she hadn’t felt in a long time. As Damien goes to shower, she put the flowers in a vase and then crawls into bed. That night, for the first time in what’s felt like years, Damien wrapped his arms around Amira and they fell asleep just like that.

-

Amira woke up early the next morning despite how restless she felt. She walked like a zombie to the bathroom, her body feeling like it weight a ton. A sigh leaves her lips as she stares at her face. She looked like she hadn’t slept in years, there were bags under her eyes and her skin looked dull. She almost looked grey, lifeless.

After a much needed cold shower, that didn’t help at all with how tired she felt, Amira started her skincare routine. Despite the expensive oils and multiple layers of creams, Amira still looked like she’d been through war. She had been relying on makeup a lot lately to help her feel “pretty” since she always looked like her energy had been drained.

It had been like this for a while and no matter what she did, her spark was just gone. Nowhere to be found. Her husband had stolen it and destroyed it along with their marriage. But she was hopeful that they were heading in the right directions and that’s things would change.

But

Unfortunately for Amira, the slither of hope had diminished when 8:30PM hit and Damien wasn’t home.

She had gotten her hair done early, 30 inch bundles with a side part leave out. Her nails were short and French to match with her toes. Her dress was brand new, House of CB, open back, silk and in his favorite color, red. It was short and dangerous, stopping right below her ass but long enough to keep you looking. Her heels, new too, black louboutins. She wore the diamond earrings he’d gotten her with the matching necklace. Her ring was shiny, freshly polished and sitting pretty on her finger.

Amira looked like sin personified. She felt like it too.

After 10PM hit, she had enough. She didn’t bother calling or texting him, there was no point in doing so. Wiping the tears that managed to escape, Amira quickly fixed her makeup, grabbed her purse and headed out.

She didn’t know where she was going but she was going somewhere.

Amira called an uber to a local lounge that she’s visited many times before. As she stepped inside, the smell of alcohol and hookah immediately hit her. She went up to the bar and ordered a drink and a shot of tequila.

“Damn girl, you starting of strong.” The bartender handed Amira her shot first.

“Yeah I need it.”

After a few drinks in her system, Amira felt tipsy. But the lounge was boring her and she needed somewhere else to go, somewhere with more excitement. She overhead some girls talking about going to this new club that had just opened up, ‘Club Juke’ and so she ordered her second uber of the night and headed there.

-

Music played loudly through the speakers as Amira walked in. The club was packed but not overcrowded, just how she liked it. She headed straight to the bar, the liquor was sitting still in her system, not yet making its presence fully known. But it was there.

Amira sat and watched people dance, enjoying the vibrance of the crowd. Drink in her hand and hookah to her lips as her eyes traveled around the club. It was beautiful, two story from what it seems.

As she took another sip from her cup she felt someone sitting next to her, her head immediately turned and her eyes slightly widened at the man who was much bigger than her, even as he sat down. He had smooth brown skin, a crisp white tee, waves on swim, gold chains hanging from his neck, gold grills sitting in his mouth and he smelled good, too fucking good.

His eyes found her and Amira immediately looked away, embarrassed to have been caught practically eye fucking him. “You can keep looking, pretty. I don’t bite.”

God his voice. HIS VOICE

Amira cleared her throat. “I wasn’t looking at you.” She refused to turn her head, taking a pull from her hookah to distract her.

“Oh you wasn’t?”

“Nope. But it seems like you keep looking at me.”

The man chuckled slightly. “I am. Something wrong with that?” Amira could practically feel the butterflies erupting in her stomach.

“I’m married, so yeah there is a problem with that.” She turned to meet his eyes and her breath almost caught in her throat.

He is just so fucking fine.

“I’m supposed to care that you’re married?” Amira scoffed in disbelief.

“Yes. You are.”

He shrugged his shoulders like she had just told him a random fun fact. “Well, I don’t.

Amira knew she was in trouble when something about the way he said that made her thighs clench together. But she had to pretend she wasn’t phased. Choosing to ignore him, she turned her attention back to almost forgotten liquor in her cup.

“What’s your name beautiful.” She glanced back at him again, she swore that every time she looked at him, he somehow got sexier.

“Amira.” She hesitated.

“Amira.” He tested it out, her name falling like velvet from his lips. “Egyptian name, do you know what it means?”

“No. But I’m assuming you do?” Smoke smirked at her little attitude, he loved it when women talked back to him and something about Amira was really getting to him.

“It means princess.” His hand moves carefully, brushing a piece of hair to the back of her ear. “It fits you.”

She almost broke out into a smile, almost. Her lips twitched and she had to bite her cheek to suppress it. “Thank you and what’s yours?” She shouldn’t have been entertaining him. At all.

“Smoke.” He hadn’t stopped looking at her since she walked in, he was drinking her in and taking notes of the way her body moves, her facial expressions and how she spoke to him. He wanted to bathe himself in her. He wanted to ruin her. Have her in anyway possible until she couldn’t take it anymore.

“Smoke… Interesting.”

“Yeah? You like it?” Goosebumps raised on her skin as his voice travels through her ears and over her body.

“No. I don’t.”

Smoke smirked, clearly not believing her. “Whatever you say, princess.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?”

“I’m married and you don’t know me.”

“I don’t care and I’d like to get to know you.” Amira glared at him. She watched the way his lip wrapped around the rim of his cup as he took a sip of his drink.

“You can’t”

“I can’t?” He furrowed his eyebrows and tilted his head. “You sure about that?” He leaned in a little bit, not too much to scare her off but close enough where she could smell his cologne. She wanted nothing more than to burry her head in his neck. The liquor in her system was working overtime, her body felt like she was overheating. She had never bothered to look at another man that wasn’t Damien, but Smoke. Smoke was doing something to her. The way he watched her and spoke to her was dangerous, but she liked it.

Amira stared at Smoke with her eyes low and her bottom lip tucked between her teeth.

“Mm, don’t look at me like that baby.” Smoke almost lost the little bit on control he had. She looked at him just like how he looked at her. Hungry.

Amira let’s out a small giggle as her attentions shifts to the dance floor the second one of her favorite songs come on. Smoke notices the shift, the way her body slightly loosened like she wanted to move but was stuck to her seat.

“Come on, let’s dance.” Smoke stood up and held out his hand. Amira is quiet for a moment as she contemplates her next move, it’s just a dance right?

Right

Placing her much smaller hand in his, she stands up and let’s him lead her to an empty spot on the floor.

The lights were dim, changing between red and blue. The air was thick with weed smoke and heat while the atmosphere was charged with need. At this point in the night everyone was drunk of liquor, lust and love. The crowd danced in every corner of the club, sweat dripping down their bodies as they moved in sync to the music. No one judged, no one was on their phone, no one truly cared. Everyone was living in the moment.

Smoke turned Amira around so that her back met his chest, his hands traveled from her arms down to her waist where they settled there. “Don’t be scared princess. Show me what you got.” His mouth was close to her ear and she briefly closed her eyes in hopes to keep the desire buried deep in her body but when she felt his hands run down the smooth of her back and stopping right above her ass, she couldn’t hold it anymore.

Amira started wining her waist to the beat of the song. “There you go baby. Nice and slow.”

God

GOD

Amira felt like she was loosing the internal battle she had going on with herself but that didn’t stop her from bending low, grinding her ass on his very hard bulge.

“Mhm. Just like that.” His voice somehow got lower, and Amira cursed at the gods for somehow being able to hear him over the music.

He matched her pace, letting her lead as he followed. His hands hadn’t stopped touching her. He was everywhere.

Smoke grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her up to his body. She brung her arm around to the back of his head as he lowered it to her neck, placing kisses all the way down to her shoulder.

They kept dancing, never missing a beat, even as Amira’s pulse quickened and the pool forming between her legs became an ocean. Smoke placed his hands on her waist, feeling how she moved on him.

“You coming home with me.”

He wasn’t asking, wasn’t even a suggestion. No. He was telling her. And Amira was too dizzy with need to argue or to even think about her husband.

-

She didn’t know how and when it happened but the two ended up at Smoke’s house. “I just moved in a couple weeks ago so don’t mind me barely having any furniture.” Amira looked around, eyes wide and attentive.

“It’s nice. You can definitely do a lot with all this space.” She followed him into the kitchen were he pulled out a bottle of Don Julio and two cups.

“Yeah? What you thinking?” Amira watched him pour the drinks before realizing what he asked.

“I’m clocked out right now, you’re gonna have to catch me when I’m working for me to answer that question.” She responded with a giggle as she takes the liquor from his hands.

“You’re an interior designer ?”

“Yeah.” Smoke displayed that little smirk that always pulled her focus down to his lips.

“You gon help me decorate my house?” He walked up to her, standing between her legs as she sat on his stool. His hands landed on her thighs, slowly moving up and down.

Amira smiled. “Boy, no. You’ll have to go to somebody else.” Smoke slightly shook his head.

“Nah. I want you.” The smile on her lips dropped, her eyes glance at his lips momentarily before looking back at him.

“Yeah?” She sounded breathless, almost shy. Smoke leaned in, close enough so that she’d still have a chance to back away if she wanted to. But she didn’t move.

“Yeah.” Their lips meet and Amira immediately wraps her arms around his neck. The kiss wasn’t fast, no, it was slow but deep like if they’ve kissed before. She couldn’t help but moan softly into his mouth, causing him to groan as he grabbed her waist and picked her up with no effort.

-

[mononijikayu]

inspired by a clip from the chicken shop date with damson idris

you’re used to this, to be sure. after doing this so long, how would you not? you've been hosting this show called the speedline bar since you were at the tail end of your teen years. and now you were twenty-eight. time flies when you're having you suppose.

you may ask what the speedline bar was. well, the speedline bar is a kitschy, niche, fast-talking show where you sit there to conduct a 'get to know you' session and then later on, flirt with your guest, almost like its a speed dating show.

each and every time, you tried to keep a straight face no matter who sits across the table. actors. influencers. darlings of the public. you've dealt with it all. but ryomen sukuna isn’t like the others.

you didn't expect him to even consider your little funny show on the interweb as something to see, let alone promote such a mainstream show on. like, he is THE ryomen sukuna. how does he know about your show?

he arrives early. no entourage, no scripted jokes. just him. silk shirt, sleeves rolled up. rings on his fingers. not a hair out of place. he walks in like he owns the air around him, like time doesn’t apply to him. like he’s been waiting for you long before today.

he slides into the red vinyl booth across from you, arms draped along the backrest, full of the aura of confidence no one else could have. he doesn’t say a word. he doesn’t need to.

the room feels smaller now. warmer even. it was like someone turned up to the studio just to go on and dimmer on the lights and no one noticed but you. you who had such a keen eye.

your vanilla milkshake is already half-melted in front of you. the bright white red straws, two to be exact, was settled in for the visual. classic. you take a sip and glance down at your meal, clearing your throat.

"you're early, aren't you?" you say, because it's the only thing neutral enough to say.

he shrugs, lips curling. "you looked interesting."

you look up just as the cameras start rolling. the paing begins, the retro music humming tenderly in the background. the milkshake begins to sweat quietly between the two of you.

"ryomen sukuna is my date today." you begin, your voice smooth like always. "king of curses, the popular veteran in the industry. now promoting jujutsu kaisen season two. how are you adjusting to being everyone’s favorite menace?"

he gives a low laugh, picks up a fry, dips it in ketchup without ever breaking eye contact. "i was always everyone’s favorite. they’re just admitting it now."

you snort, trying not to let it show how easily he’s throwing you off your rhythm. "fair enough."

the fries sit untouched on your side of the table. he eats like he’s got all the time in the world. you glance back at camera and then the staff, who was cueing in the back with the program sheet on hand.

you don't really script your shows, like most do. but it's good to know how it was going. especially with sukuna's massive fanbase, you didn't want any slip ups.

everything came naturally with him when you both talked, when you asked questions and when you bantered. it was the sort of ryomen sukuna one would see on screen. but you do notice that he's a bit more a loose canon today.

he's leaning closer to you, he's smirking at you rather smugly. eyeing you everywhere and anytime. and you were flustered to say the least. you cannot deny charming men like that.

"okay, okay. our date is coming to an end." you say, smile bright but your fingers twitch just slightly on the paper. "last one. no wrong answers."

"i don’t do wrong." he says.

you ignore the flutter in your chest. "if you could play any character outside of yourself—who would it be?"

he doesn't hesitate. he picks up a fry. chews. swallows. then leans in, forearms resting on the table. "your boyfriend."

the words land like something soft and sharp all at once. your mouth hungs open slightly at his words. but nothing comes out. you blink, stunned. the straw clinks against the glass as your fingers twitch.

you laugh. try to, anyway. it sounds high-pitched, foreign. "w-what?"

he doesn’t clarify. he just keeps looking at you, calm and terrifying in the way only he can be. there's no smirk. just certainty. you are just stunned to death at how overwhelming this is.

you fumble, lips parting as if to say something, anything but he reaches across the table before you can. he takes your hand. slowly. deliberately. the touch of his skin is cool. and his rings are even colder.

he lifts your hand close to his lips, grinning and then presses his mouth to your knuckles. you audibly squealed, like a teenage girl. it isn’t theatrical. it isn’t exaggerated. it’s devastatingly gentle. and painstakingly tender.

"too forward?" he asks, voice low, almost amused.

your heart stutters and tutters at the tone of his voice. you shake your head. not because you mean to. but because your brain is short-circuiting and your mouth can’t form a sentence.

“we’ll…...” you clear your throat. try again. “we’ll be right back after this break.”

there was a cut signal from the crew behind the cameras stop rolling and someone drops a headset. the entire crew is buzzing. some were talking among themselves, gushing about it, some were horrified about the off script flow.

you make it to your dressing room in a daze, almost like you were lost in a limbo. there's already a dozen messages from production about how the clip is going viral, how people are losing their minds.

you stare at your reflection in the mirror for a moment. your hand still tingles where he kissed it. you tell yourself it’s just for the show, that this is just what you do. and the thing is, you almost believe it.

no less than fifteen minutes later, you heard the knock at the door. you open it without thinking. he’s standing there. calm as ever. still holding a paper bag of fries in one hand, and a second milkshake in the other.

“you forgot your food, doll.” he says, but there’s a flicker of something else in his voice. "i know you don't like it cold."

you tilt your head. cross your arms. “didn’t seem like you were done eating.”

“i wasn’t.”

silence passes between the two of you for a moment. a smug look echoees in his face as he holds the milkshake out to you. you looked at him, your brows furrowed in confusion.

“i didn’t get enough time earlier.” he says, meeting your gaze with quiet certainty. “to win you over.”

“oh, i—”

“can you let me?” his voice softens, almost shy around the edges. “give me some time.....to impress you.”

you gulp as he towers in front of you, tall and still and terrifyingly beautiful under the warm hum of dressing room lights. your pulse is deafening, wild against your ribs like it wants to escape. like it knows you’re about to say yes to something irreversible.

he sees it. he watches the way your breath stutters, the way your hand clutches the milkshake he’s still holding out. there's a grin spreading over his face, dangerous and lazy.

but underneath it…....is something else. something unspoken. something startlingly sincere. your lips part. you try to speak, but the words catch, tremble, curl back down your throat.

you don’t even know what you’re trying to say. he laughs for a moment, in a low and smooth and devastatingly fond tone. you become beet red, all too flustered at his ability to steer you in this way.

“i won’t bite, doll.” he murmurs, and then he leans just a little closer, grin darkening into something playfully threatening. “…...well, not yet.”

your knees nearly buckle. you try to scoff, to roll your eyes, to push back with something clever. but none of that comes to pass. instead, all that comes out is a breathless little sound. half-nervous, half-thrilled.

“you always this charming after filming?” you manage, voice just barely steady.

he tilts his head. “only when i mean it.”

you take the milkshake from his hand finally. your fingers brush. he doesn't pull away. neither do you. “okay, okay.” you whisper. “then…...let’s call this take two.”

his smile sharpens. “good.” he steps back, finally. but just enough. not too far. “because i don’t plan on letting you walk away without a third.”

[mrsbabysaja]

Could do a rumi x fem!reader

R and rumi are dating *she introduce rumi to her parents and this causes r to be guiltly because knowing rumi’s mom not here to see her daughter growing into the beautiful and successful woman she’s*

And made a decision to go see rumi’s mom *she already met Celine but she’s dislike the woman because she cause rumi to hate her other part of self which she love. I don’t hate the character but she reminds me the grandma from Encanto and like the generation trauma just😾*

Basically having a conversation talking to the grave and telling how rumi is and introducing herself being in a relationship with her daughter and wishing that she could see how happy rumi and hoping that she could make rumi happy

*maybe feeling the wind even though there no forecast of wind*

yall are killing me with the orphan trauma fics guys. i’m actually gonna sob. (/pos) thank you for sending this in!

Must’ve Been the Wind… Right?

pairing: rumi x f!reader

cw! angst, fluff, mentions of death, CELINE HATE CLUB, intentional lowercase

when you and rumi had started dating, you couldn’t believe you had bagged the hot shot new kpop idol on every billboard in seoul. your parents couldn’t believe it either, seeing as they didn’t even know what kpop was. but when they met her, they had loved her. she was charming, bowing politely and introducing herself, and speaking high praises of their daughter.

in the years of your relationship, rumi had grown close to your parents. you both would call them often to tell them everything and anything. and rumi loved it. she didn’t get to have that with her parents, seeing as her mother passed away when she was young and she never knew her father. she found a parental connection that she didn’t know she was lacking.

when rumi introduced you to celine, you had… mixed feelings, to say the least. rumi had confided in you with her heritage. it was a secret you promised not to share, but something you always helped her with. celine, while she tried to be maternal, was severely lacking. she constantly made remarks to downplay rumi’s demon half. manipulated rumi into thinking she wasn’t good enough. you held a heavy dislike towards her because of it.

one night, while on the phone with your mother, rumi shared her past about her mothers passing, and her unknown father, sparking a feeling of guilt in your chest. rumi didn’t notice, just happy where she was. but you couldn’t help feeling like you had never truly tried to connect with rumi’s parents. maybe her father was out there, but you never bothered to look. you had avoided asking rumi about her mother because you didn’t want to upset her. looking back, though, you could have come across as uncaring.

this feeling plagued your mind for days. the constant worry of not being connected enough, of not having her parents approval. what if they wouldn’t have liked you, if they were here to see? that sparked a whole other issue, they weren’t here to see. they never got to see rumi’s accomplishments. they weren’t there for her debut, her top hits.

one day, you’d had enough with the feeling. you packed a small bag with a blanket, grabbed some flowers from a corner store, and hiked your way up to the secluded sanctuary.

you walked the quiet rows, finding the small cement tombstone that read “mi-yeong.” you gently placed your bag on the ground, pulling out your blanket and laying it on the grass. you pulled the flowers out next, laying them one by one around the grave, and bowed gently, paying your respects.

you knelt down on the blanket and faced the tombstone. the silence held tension, though you couldn’t discern why. gently, you introduced yourself.

“my name is y/n.. im rumi’s girlfriend.”

the birds sang from the nearby trees. the environment was peaceful, quiet.

“she’s told me a lot about you. she misses you.”

a car drove by, somewhere in the distance you could hear its engine come and go.

“you would be proud of her, yknow. she’s amazing. beautiful. i’ve only seen pictures of you, but she looks just like you.”

for some reason, unknown to you, tears began to prick the corners of your eyes. your love for rumi, your guilt for her situation, the emotions began to surface.

“i just… i think i just wanted to come and introduce myself. to talk to you. rumi gets to talk to my mom all the time, but not her own. she doesn’t let it affect her, but i feel guilty, somehow.”

you were finally letting yourself rationalize the feelings in your head. finally letting your emotions out.

“her voice, its beautiful. angelic, even. she’s insanely talented, she told me she grew up wanting to make you proud. to continue your legacy. not only as an idol, but as a hunter.”

a breeze began to run through the small courtyard, pulling your hair through it. somehow, it didn’t feel like wind. it felt alive. like mi-yeong was trying to say something, whisper a secret, share something for only you to hear. your heart swelled, the tears began to roll down your cheeks, hot and fat.

“thank you. for giving me such an amazing woman to call mine. for blessing this world with a protector. you have no idea how much she means to me.”

unbeknownst to you, rumi stood at the edge of the clearing, tears streaming down her face. there sat her girlfriend, the one she loved more than anything, who had scattered flowers around her mothers grave. who had sat and spoke praises. who thanked her for the gift she had been given.

maybe she did check your location because she couldn’t find you. that’s not important right now.

what’s important is how you cared, when you thought she couldn’t see it. that guilt was eating you alive, even over a situation that didn’t phase her anymore.

what’s important is how you held her in your arms when she finally approached you, and just sat with the breeze of her mothers presence.

🩷 thank you so so much for the request! this got me in my feels im ngl, but it was sweet to write. i hope you enjoyed! 🩷

[date-everything-has-taken-over]

Can you do headcanons for Dorian , Beverly , Betty , Hector , and Shelly with a reader who’s in a band that does a lot of practices at their house

Or anything of that sort of vibe (you can change the characters if you’d like)

I got a very similar ask, so I'll consider this Part 1, then Part 2 (soon) will be the other ask

Dorian🚪

●Not a huge fan at first. Not because he doesn't support you, but because now theres strangers in the house (strangers to him at least)

●Extra on guard, watching everyone carefully, but he relaxes a bit when he realizes your bandmates aren't gonna hurt you or any of the dateables

●He enjoys watching you practice, boping his head to the music

●He's still keeping an eye on everyone, but he's relaxed a bit more relaxed

"They seem like a good bunch. I'll just keep an eye out in case anything gets dodgy"

●He supports you 100%, though. He thinks you're so talented and can't wait for you guys to get big

●Post realization, Dorian would be the bouncer at all your shows, wanting you to stay safe and uninterrupted

Beverly🍺

●She's so happy! Your bandmates coming over means new customers!

●She watches from her bar cart, cheering you on and preparing drinks for when you guys take a break

●What better way to attract customers than a live band!

●It's not all business for her, though. She's genuinely loves watching you practice and wishes she could be there to see you actually perform

●She makes a signature cocktail (or mocktail) inspired by your band. Maybe even themed shots for each member

●After her realization, your band always has a gig at the Tipsy Tumbler

Betty🛌

●Why do I feel like she'd have a thing for musicians? The right music(anything you're playing) just puts her in the mood

●No matter the genre, she's listening alone with a smile and cheering you on

●If you play bass, she 100% makes comments on how skillful your hands are

●She wants to hear all about the gigs your band work, big or small

●Post realization, Betty goes to every performance (and obv gets vip backstage access). If the band is popular, the fans are well aware of your relationship with Betty

Hector💨

●This professional yearner would think you're amazing, no matter what. He's your #1 fan

●He's at every single practice, every rehearsal, even mini jam sessions. He doesn't want to miss a moment of your transcendent performance

●Even if you guys were awful, he's acting like it's the most beautiful music he's heard in his life

●He's also writing chapters and chapters of rockstar homeowner fanfic

●He has all your merch. You don't have merch? Well, you do now, say thank you to Hector and Fantina

●Post realization, Hector is kinda scared to go to your shows, but he has every album and gushes about his favorite band to anyone who will listen

Shelley📚

●Oh hell ya, music gets her pumped up, especially if it's her gorgeous partner

●She's your hypewoman, practically screaming to everyone how awesome you are

●She kind of hopes someone needs to put their stuff on a shelf so she can be involved

●Similer to Betty and Hector, she's blown away regardless of your guys music genre

●If her babeirino needs help carrying any heavy equipment, she's more than happy to help show off

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Cool for the Summer 8

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, power dynamics, cheating, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: After finishing your degree, you return home only to find things aren’t as you left them.

Characters: Bucky Barnes

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

“Honey,” your mom calls from the first foor. 

Your heart flips again. You get up and fix your panties. You put your shorts back on and wince as the seam brushes against the wet cotton. You cringe. You should change before... 

“Hey, you ready for your date?” She’s coming up the stairs. Shoot. 

You take a breath and hurry to the door. You feel like if she comes in your room, she’ll know. You brace yourself as you open the door. You could just break into pieces. You betrayed her and you’re going to lie straight to her face. 

As you come out, she’s at the top of the stairs. You try to smile. It doesn’t bloom as Bucky comes up behind her. 

“Bucky said you found a dress. Can I see it?” 

“Oh, I just... I just put it away.” You utter. 

He steps up next to her and puts his arm across her shoulders. “You’re going to wanna get the full picture, Lauren. We’ll see it tonight once she’s all dolled up, huh?” 

“Yeah, I guess...” you mother hums in disappointment. “You know me, I just can’t wait.” 

“Trust me, I know,” he purrs. 

He squeezes her shoulders as she looks at him. He leans in and kisses her. Your stomach churns. After what he just did... You want to vomit. 

“Um, I have to... er... find some stuff for tonight,” you back up into your door. 

“Sure, honey,” your mom turns to Bucky and pets his chest. “Oh, it’s so exciting.” 

Bucky smirks at her as she brushes by him and heads back downstairs. His eyes flick up to you and he licks his lips. His cheek dimples. 

“Hey, Laur, I’ll make you that coffee,” he calls down before he follows her, visibly adjusting his waistband. 

You shake your head and back pedal through your bedroom door. You shut it and nearly fall over. You spin around and search the room. It’s not yours. None of it. He changed everything. He tainted it all. 

You go to the vanity and sit. You squeak as your shocked by the sensitivity in your pelvis. You’re all swollen and still wet. You put your elbows on the table and cradle your head. You can’t cry or you won’t be able to stop. 

💙

When you’re certain your mom and Bucky are distracted, you shower. You can’t wash away the horror or self-hatred, but you try. You get out and sneak back down the hall. You take your time in your room. Not out of any real anticipation; only reluctance. 

Your anxiety is a cluster of contradictions. You want to get out of the house, get away from Bucky, from own mistakes; yet, you’re not entirely sold on going out with a stranger. He might be closer to your age but who’s to say he’s any better than Bucky. 

This is why you avoid boys. Or men. Whatever. They always confused you. You never really caught their attention and now that you have, you want to just go back to being invisible. 

You stare into the makeup case. It’s got soft walls and a zipper. Inside are all the pencils, glosses, and palettes your mom gifted you through the years. None of them open. Brushes too. Mascara. 

You sift through it, trying to solve the riddle. No, you don’t need the shimmery pigments or the deep reds. Just simple. 

A knock at the door makes you jump. The makeup case falls off your lap. You hiss and stand up, kneeling down to gather it all up. 

“Honey?” Your mom calls through. 

You cough. You can’t speak. The door handle turns. Too late. 

“Hey, it’s uh.... getting close,” she peeks inside. “I was checking in. Thought maybe... maybe I could help you get ready.” 

You shove a handful into the case and nod. “Okay. I was just...” 

“Oh, sweetie, you don’t need much,” she crosses the room and takes the case from you. “You’re so young and pretty.” She puts it on the vanity table. “Come on. Sit.” 

You get up and sit on the stool. She searches through the case. 

“Did you moisturize at all?” She asks. You nod. “Good.” She holds up a tube. “You don’t need full cover.” She tosses the tube. “Hmm, some eyeliner. Oh, do you want shadow?” 

You shake your head. “Just liner. I don’t want too much.” 

“Alright, sweetie,” he takes out several pencils and rolls them between her fingers. “Black is classic. Oh this one has glitter.” 

“That sounds pretty,” you say weakly. 

She directs you to close your eyes and tilt your head back. She pulls your lid taut and gently begins plying the soft tip. You don’t move. 

“You’re nervous,” she says. 

“Yes,” you answer. It’s not a lie. Your nerves are rotting your guts. 

“Don’t be. Peter is so nice. He’s going to love you. Oh, you’ll have so much fun.” She preens. “Open.” You flick your lashes up and look at her. She steps back and considers you. “You have the prettiest eyes.” 

Your throat locks up. You want badly to cry. Not just for what happened. You want to cry to your mom and tell her how scared you are. You can’t. It would only hurt her. 

“A tint of blush stick. Nothing dramatic,” she caps the liner. 

“Sure,” you wisp. 

You twiddle your thumbs and watch her sort through the makeup. All you can do is let it all happen. The makeup, the date, Bucky. None of it is your choice. 

💙

“Oh sweetie,” your mother gasps as you come down the stairs, carrying the clunky platform heels. “You look... you look like a woman!” 

She puts her hands together over her chest. Bucky stands beside her. His eyes cling to you as the corner of his mouth curves. 

“Doesn’t she?” You mother nudges him. 

His voice rumbles through his chest before he speaks. “Sure does. All grown up.” 

“Wow,” your mom fans herself. “My little girl.” 

She reaches for you as you get to the bottom. She touches the scalloped edges of lace along your shoulders. 

“So sophisticated,” she praises. 

“Thanks, er.... thanks.” That’s all you can muster. 

You sway awkwardly then sidle past her. She moves so you have to go between her and Bucky. You fell his warmth swathe over you. You sit on the bench to get the shoes on. 

“I know you are going to have so much fun!” Your mother claps. “And me and Bucky will too.” 

“Uh huh,” Bucky hums. “Kid free. Can’t complain.” 

You nod. Each breath is like shards of glass. You focus on the small task of buckle the slender strap around your ankle. 

There’s a flash of headlights then a car door shutting. Ugh. You sit up in dread. You can’t move. You listen to the steps come up the front stairs. 

Bucky opens the door before they can knock. He moves his hand to grip the edge of the door higher up. He leans on it as he pulls it back. 

“You must be Peter.” He offers his other hand. 

“Hi, sir,” the younger man answers and reaches through to shake Bucky’s hand. You can’t see any more than his arm. “I think I’m here for your daughter.” 

“Ha, not my daughter,” Bucky chuckles, “come on in.” 

He nearly yanks the young man over the threshold. As he lets him go and turns, he sends you a sharp look. It’s a warning. Remember what he said; give nothing. 

You stand up. 

“Peter,” your mother chimes. “You’re right on time.” 

“Early. Made sure of it,” Peter says. His eyes skim over to you. His cheeks redden. “You must be...” 

You say your name first. “Yeah, uh...” 

“Nice to meet you,” he says as he tugs at his tie. The dark paisley compliments the purplish grey shirt beneath. His dark slacks are tailored well. “So uh... ready to go?” 

“You two, get out of here,” Bucky chortles. “I’m sure you don’t need to stick around with the old folk.” 

“Uh, yeah,” you murmur. “Sure.” 

“Great,” Peter stands back. “Come on. I got us a reservation.” 

“Alright uh...” you look around. “Bye, mom.” 

You wind the long strap of your purse around your elbow as you clunk towards the door. 

“Bye, sweetie.” Your mother sings. 

“Yeah, bye, sweetie,” Bucky drawls. 

“Bye,” you mutter without looking back. 

You step outside and the air is like ice on your roiling skin. Peter bids goodbye behind you. “I’ll have her home by midnight.” 

He shuts the door and you exhale. You stand at the edge of the porch, hugging your purse. You feel so stupid. He’s probably only doing this to be nice. 

“You don’t have to--” 

You begin. 

“Those shoes aren’t going to work,” Peter interjects. 

You look at him, stunned. “Huh?” 

“Yeah, definitely not.” He looks at your feet. “I got my gym shoes in the trunk. You can borrow them. Might be a bit big for you.” 

“What do you mean?” You frown. 

He grins. “You ever been go-karting?” He asks. 

You tilt your head then shake it. “No.” 

“Perfect,” he offers his arms. “Let’s get going.” 

💙

You’re almost relieved at the change of plans. You weren’t exactly looking forward to sitting in a fancy restaurant, cosplaying as an adult who knows anything about dating. Or anything at all. 

Peter pulls up to the track, twenty minutes past town limits, and shifts into park. You look over at him as he clicks free the seat belt. He smiles back through the shadows. 

“Excited?” He asks. 

You nod. “Kind of.” 

“Look, I know. It’s awkward as hell. Blind dates are made for cringe.” He chuckles. “So let’s just have fun.” He pulls his door handle. “See if you can keep up.” 

He gets out and hurries around to your side. He opens the door for you. You thank him. He tells you to stay. 

You sit sideways in the seat as he hurries around to the trunk. He gives you a fresh pair of gym socks and the borrowed shoes. You tie them extra tight as he takes off his tie. You peer up at him. 

“Thanks,” he says. “For coming. I know it must be strange.” He helps you out of the car by your hand. “Your mom set you up alot?” 

He swings the door shut. You shake your head. 

“Nope,” you turn to walk with him towards the track. “First time.” 

“And that guy... your step-dad?" 

“Mom’s boyfriend,” you gulp. “He’s... I just met him.” 

“Yikes,” he hisses. “That must be agony. My aunt dated this guy once and I walked in on him with no pants on. Not one of my fondest memories.” 

“Ew.” You recoil. He laughs. 

“Sorry, trauma dumping already,” he laughs. “Well, he seems like a real hard ass. I don’t envy you.” 

“Yeah... he’s... scary.” You seal your lips as the last word slips out. 

“Well, forget about him,” he pats your shoulder. “We’re here for fun.” He stops at the booth at the front of the place with the prices laid out over the windows. “I win, I buy you a cheeseburger. You win, I buy you a double cheeseburger.” 

You take a moment before you giggle. He’s nice. He’s funny. And you don’t feel like you’re suffocating. 

“And fries,” you insist. 

“Full combo with a milkshake,” he proclaims as he steps up to the window to pay. 

💙

You grip the wheel tight. You don’t drive. You never have. The closest you got was one of the red and yellow fisher price toy cars when you were about five years old. That’s more of a Flinstones type deal. 

You press your foot down as the go-kart thrums and zips around. You feel powerful. In control.

You steer around the curve smoothly, veering around an aggressive driver behind you. They pass you, nearly knocking your front. 

You squeeze as the helmet dampens the noise of the motors. You search for Peter. He’s in the one with the red and blue banner. You lost him a lap ago. 

Thunk! The force nearly spins you out. You twist the wheel one way then the other to correct yourself. The driver in the cart with the white banner hollers something as they pass. Your adrenaline spikes as you get yourself going again. 

You get back up to speed. It’s fun but your fellow drivers are a bit careless. You try to stay on the outside. It puts you behind everyone else but that’s okay. Then another jarring impact sends your head forward and your helmet cracks off the top of the steering wheel. You careen out and bounce of the wall. 

You take your feet off the pedals and let the cart roll to a stop as you cling to the wheel. When you’re still, you’re facing backwards. You’re breathless but okay. 

A worker waves a flag as they emerge from behind the wall. They approach as you stay as you are. Another cart pulls over and stops behind you. A red and blue banner hangs from the top bar. 

“Stay in there,” the worker barks at both of you. “Stay where you are.” 

He comes over and bends to look into the cart. You smile sheepishly but he can’t see through the helmet. Just your eyes. 

“You okay?” He yells over the ripping motors. 

You give a thumbs up, your hand visibly shaking. 

“Woah, woah, you need to get that guy off the track,” Peter hollers as he appears. 

“Sir, I told you to stay in the cart. It’s dangerous out here--” 

“He did it on purpose. I saw it.” Peter argues. 

“Sir, get back in your cart,” the worker barks. 

“You need to get him out--” 

“You. You’re out. Ejected.” The worker snaps. “Both of you.” He turns and waves his flag, flicking it three times in a signal. 

Peter bends to see into the cart and shrugs, “I'm sorry.” 

“It’s okay!” You yell back. You laugh and shake your head. “I never been kicked out of anywhere.” You roll your shoulders. “It’s fun. I feel dangerous.” 

He laughs. “I didn’t take you for a rebel.” 

“Sir,” the work jabs his shoulder as three others appear at the edge of the track. “Let’s go.” 

[call-of-daydreams]

More of my thoughts on 18th century CoD characters

~~~~~~~~~~

Cw: talks of a “traditional” relationship given the time period, talk of pregnancy, breeding, and being a housewife.

Word count: 930

(Baby talk and slight smut under the cut)

No character is explicitly mentioned but reader is perceived to be female

18th Century CoD Character Masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~

Ok, so I imagine that all of this obviously happened in the 18th century. The 18th century is defined as the period from 1701 to 1800. This means that the years 1700 to 1799 are included in the 18th century, with the year 1700 being the last year of the 17th century. 

So maybe it was around 1776 when all you could really do to make a living was farming, being a silversmith, being a blacksmith, being a tailor, being a gunsmith, or being a teacher.

Now, I don’t think any of these men are going to be a teacher or a tailor but like I said previously I could see some as either a blacksmith, silversmith, a gunsmith, and a farmer.

I believe I might have mentioned some characters choosing the art of blacksmithing or being a silversmith for their farm, so maybe they start making horseshoes for their horses or they start doing it so they can make their own things and save money. 

I imagine that the relationship is sort of like a “traditional” relationship. The man goes out to work while the woman stays home and washes clothes, makes food, watches and tends to the kids (if there are any), tends to the house, things of that nature.

Maybe you do a little help on the farm, but I don’t see any of them letting you do anything too laborious because they would hate for their pretty girl to get hurt. They would much rather you stay inside and make them delicious food that they would get to enjoy with their pretty girl when they come in and eat at the end of the day.

Or maybe they would rather have you as a little trophy wife of some sort. They show you off to their other friends who are farmers, saying that you’re the best because you are always making them delicious food to enjoy. Or how their darling is always looking out for them and how they make sure that they have clean clothes to wear the next day and how you patch up his clothes when there’s holes.

Maybe if you have kids, they start talking about you more, bragging about how their darling makes such good babies and how you take care of his kids so well. How the babies are always on your hip while you’re cooking or lying beside you on a blanket at your side as you wash clothes. How you never let their babies go hungry and how you are always on top of things at home.

They are just boasting about you to their friends, they want the other farmers and their friends to be jealous of what he has. He wants them to be jealous that their wife isn’t as nearly good as you.

You want a new dress? You got it. New shoes? They are at your bedside the next morning. Clothesline breaks? There’s a new one up before the end of the day. Need an ingredient for a meal but don’t have it and it’s not something grown around the farm? Don’t worry about it, he’ll go down to the town and get whatever is needed from the market, bonus to that he’ll get double of whatever you needed so you have extra just in case.

If you both go into town and he notices you looking at the other women who are carrying babies or if he notices you looking at baby clothes, you best believe that when you both get home, he won’t be waiting till you make it to the bedroom.

He’ll push you up against a table or a chair, maybe a sofa as he kisses you and starts to lift up your dress. He’s roughly whispering into your ear about how he’ll breed you so well and how you’ll be a better mother than the women you saw down at the market. He’ll talk about how he’ll give you as many kids as you want and how your body will be so pretty carrying his kids and how you’ll be so pretty breast feeding his kid as he ruts into you.

After a couple of weeks, maybe even months of him coming home from farming at night and fucking you with the promise of making you a mother you finally find out you’re pregnant. Maybe it���s about the time your period comes but it doesn’t come so you start to have suspicions because you’re never late, or maybe you notice your stomach getting bigger or rounder, or maybe you start to get sick around the same time every morning like clockwork and that’s how you find out.

Maybe once you find out you go into town by yourself or maybe you have one of his farm hands come with you after you made him promise to not tell your husband that you’re pregnant. Either way, you go into town to buy a baby romper and a matching bonnet with a cure blue-green baby blanket.

When you get back home you hide the baby clothes and blanket in a basket, and you start to make dinner for him and his farm hands.

After dinner you get him alone and you hand him the basket, after he sees what’s in the basket, he’s ecstatic. He gets to have a kid, and his beautiful wife gets a baby to look after.

~~~~~~~~~~

18th Century CoD Character Masterlist

[waifuoftomonori]

As previously revealed, I do not know what Tomonori's day-to-day job involves, but it seems important and it takes up a big part of his day. I think I would just be toast.

Also, he is a publicly modest man who doesn't like showing his freak to anyone but his partners. Also also, his specific kinks (largely in my headcanon but with a healthy sprinkle of hints in canon) tend toward the dominant. Now. Because he is publicly modest, I think I could get away with revealing that all along, I had a hidden submissive side that I was scared to reveal because my partners enjoy it so much when I'm dominant, and I think Shiki might be willing to explore her own dominant side. But I don't know, I'm really just hornier for Tomo than for any of the others-- and even if it worked, then I'd feel guilty about manipulating Shiki and probably just come clean. (She would probably figure it out before it got to that point, though.)

However, one thing I will say as far as Tomo's character goes: I would be very good at the part where he buries his sadness and doubt and he calmly pretends everything's fine. I'm a natural at that.

I don't really understand what Shiki's job fully involves, either, and just because I have her body doesn't mean I have her competence with a sword. I get the vibe from how some of her sword fights are described in canon that she relies on stuff like timing and technique more than raw force, especially when going up against Akifusa, whose "strategy" is sheer impulse and who would probably defeat her far more frequently if she wasn't one step ahead of him mentally at all times.

The concealed depression and bratting, however, I think I've got those down pat. No issue with those. And maybe I could get away with a day of not working because I could pretend I had a nightmare about a certain traumatic incident from her past (although that feels dirty to exploit, I wouldn't like doing it at all, and I don't think it would endear me much to Tomonori once the jig was up and he realized I was bullshitting). ...I'd also feel a little guilty taking her place in the bedroom, if things even got that far, but I don't know how hard it would be to resist the temptation of sleeping with Tomonori. Fuck. I'm a terrible person in some ways. The fact that I'm even adding "in some ways" is probably a bad sign.

Yeah, no, I'm not getting away with disguising as Akifusa. Playing dumb would be the easy part. Expressing emotions very loudly and sincerely and vehemently-- that's something I haven't done since I was a kid. Also, playing cheerleader to my depressed friends / love interests seems difficult. Maybe if I could get a few practice runs as Akifusa, just to get comfortable with it again? But no, Akifusa's too impulsive and genuine, and I think the second I try to fake that, it comes off as very obviously fake. (He's also brave to a self-endangering level, and I am a wimp who freezes up for several minutes when I see a spider.)

I'd have many of the same problems with pretending to be Shinra. Sure, he tries to hide his emotions, but he doesn't do a very good job and ultimately that sincerity still comes across very well. I wouldn't be able to fake that. I feel like he mostly fluctuates, in canon, between super-cheerful and sweet, aggressively and confidently horny (no pun intended) yet still somehow innocent, and furiously flustered to the point of threatening violence. Also he genuinely likes spending time with kids, whereas I want to poke out their eyeballs. Also also, every time I'd try to rep the oni clan, there is a risk that something Yodanji-related would slip out and everyone would look at me funny.

Every poll on this blog is about fictional characters only. This request was sent to us and we made a poll in response to it. Send any Blorbo-related question you want to our inbox and we’ll make a poll on which people can vote with their own Blorbos in minds

[pastellaspinkparadise]

part 2 plzplzplzplz 🙏🙏

The Party and The After Party

synopsis. You got what you wanted last night, you had your best friend wrapped around your finger. You stole him from the guy he was crushing on. As you both were leaving the party you saw his crush waiting outside of the bedroom you just fucked in, with his hand down his pants. At first you were pissed, angry that he was listening through the door. But you slowly realize it's not your best friend he's after, it's you. pairing. Bottom! Male Character x Top! Gender Neutral Reader x Bottom! Male Character! °❀.ೃ࿔* Threesome, penetration/pegging, reader has a cock/strap degradation, dacryphilia, dirty talk, praise kink, voyeurism, riding, masturbation, edging, orgasm denial, reader is a menace, characters love it though. A.N Pt.2 to the Life of the Party fic, here's Pt.1

Imagine yours favs hehe!!

"Well well well, look who it is." Your eyes burn holes into his skull. You laugh in disbelief, his former crush listening to the two of you fuck from outside of the room like a desperate fucking slut. "Did you not get the memo earlier?"

The memo from when you kissed your best friend in front of him and a bunch of other people without a care in the world.

"I-... umm..." His face burns red and his lips quiver. A much better look than the cocky smile he usually wears.

"Or maybe you did." You look down to at his unzipped fly and smirk. "And you liked it. Does it turn you on? Seeing someone take what you thought was yours?" You get closer, your intimidating essence pouring into his personal space.

"Except he was never yours to begin with."

He doesn't respond, you think maybe he's too afraid but no that's not it.

He wants to be yours instead.

"y/n let's just go." Your best friend grabs your hand, bringing you back to reality.

You leave the party, and your best friend drives you both home. As you watch out of the window you think about why his crush was really there listening.

Maybe he's a cuck or maybe he was plotting something. You say in your head. Your mind should be focused on what you just did to your roommate, your best friend, his sounds and sighs, the faces he was making but you're not. No, instead you're too busy pondering over that pathetic look his crush had on his face. Like he was begging you to do something to him.

"This is all too confusing." You groan. That encounter made you sober up a little.

"You're telling me..." Your roommate says. "Hey y/n... I'm sorry for ya know... being kind of a dick unknowingly."

"It's fine, I was a little harsh on ya wasn't I?" Your left hand caresses his thigh. To hell with trying to figure the other guy out, you have yours right here. "I can make it up to ya." You take his right hand off the wheel and place it on your thigh. You can tell he's flustered even in the moonlight.

"Fuck... you want me to crash?" He laughs nervously.

"You can drive with one hand can't you?"

"I'm not saying I can't."

"Then shut up, and let me make you feel good." Your fingers graze against his half hard cock through his clothes and he sighs.

"Shit... what am I gonna do with you?" He whines.

"Anything you want."

You have many more night just like that, taking turns having sex in each other's bedrooms. The two of you became inseparable to everyone. Word got around to not mess with you and especially not your boyfriend. You haven't seen his old crush in days, before he was every where you'd turn. Now he's no where to be seen.

It's just you and your best friend, who's basically your boyfriend.

But, sometimes it feels like there's someone else. Someone watching you as kiss each other goodbye before class. Someone watching you hold each other's hands as you walk on campus. Someone watching as you make out with him in the pool after hours.

It was beginning to make your skin crawl.

Realistically it could be anyone, but you know who it is. And when you see him again, you confront him about it. You noticed mr. popular in the dining hall and dragged him away to the bathroom when no one was looking.

"It's you isn't it?" You say angrily after slamming him against the wall. Your hands bunch up into his shirt.

"What are you talking about?" His answers grabbing your wrists as if it's going to do anything.

"Fucking stalking us you creep. I know it's you." For some reason he still makes you so angry. So irritated in all of the wrong ways.

"I-I'm not... it's not what you think..." He blushes.

"Fuck is that supposed to mean?" Now you're confused.

"Wherever I go it's like you're following me. Like you're fucking haunting me. I get it, I lost but I'm getting tired of seeing him with you." He says.

"Huh? You're the one following us around. Don't flip this onto us." You yell. "You're so goddamn annoying, prancing around like you own the fucking school. Like you can't do any wrong. Just admit you're jealous of me and move the fuck on."

"I....I'm not jealous of you..." He says, that grip on tour wrist starts to feel tighter.

"Yes you are."

"I'm not..." He looks down at the ground embarrassed. His cheeks burning red and his eyes wet with soon to be tears.

He's so pathetically pretty.

"I'm jealous... of him..." He whispers. His eyes come back up to your face but not to meet your eyes instead staring directly at your lips.

"What?" You let go of his shirt slightly, his confession catching you off guard.

"Everyone's so fake to me... only wanting to be around me because of my parent's money... but not you."

"I hate you." You say bluntly.

"At least to my face...besides... you don't know the real me." He whispers, his breath mingling with yours. You lean down towards his ear.

"I know you get off on watching us fuck. Are you really that lonely in that big ass house of yours? You come listen to us fuck instead of playing along in your little party."

"It wasn't like that! I just..." He whines. As angry as you were you had to admit it was such a power trip hearing him like this. That snarky smile and indifferent eyes replaced with something so desperate. Something so submissive.

It was driving you crazy.

"Admit it, you wanted it to be you I was sucking off huh?" You whisper in his ear. You don't know what's come over you, just a second ago you wanted to punch the guy and now you're flirting with him. "Have you pushed up against a wall just like this, rip your clothes off and take that pathetic little dick of yours and suck you dry."

"F-fuck...." He groans in your ear with his eyes screwed shut, afraid that if he looks at you anymore he'll do something he'll regret. Instead he imagines it in his head. He always liked how mean you are to him, to everyone. Your refusal to speak to anyone gave off so much confidence in his eyes. Confidence he wished he had. Confidence he wished you'd use to dominate him. "Yes!"

"Well...that's too fucking bad." You let him go and he looks like you just broke his heart for a second time. You leave the bathroom without another word. Leaving him all alone.

You hoped that was enough to get the message across, to leave you alone. But when you had told your roommate about it you realize it may have only made things worse.

"Nah, you def made it worse." He says laying half naked on top of your chest.

"How?"

"It seems like he likes it when you're mean to him. You just gave him the ultimate jerk off material." He laughs.

Why is he laughing?

"This isn't funny, it's annoying." You say.

"Oh no it's definitely funny. Ya know for such a hot head, you can be real oblivious sometimes."

"Whatever, I didn't ask for the prick to like me."

"Why is him liking you a bad thing?" He chuckles.

"Why would it be a good thing? You should hate him more than me if anything. You liked him after all."

"It was a puppy crush, I wasn't in love with him or anything." He shrugs. "Besides I have you." He kisses you on the cheek.

"Then what is it? Don't tell me you're thinking of doing some twisted threesome or something." You tried to sound as disgusted as you could. Knowing deep down inside you weren't completely turned off to the idea.

"Hey you said it not me." He smiles. "I think...that would be pretty fun now that you said it."

"What?!"

"Yeah, just think about it." He slithers his way to laying next to you on your bed, his lips right up against your ear. "Us under you, you can fuck me all night and make him watch, it's what he does best right?"

"I guess...." You start to think about what it would be like, having them both at the same time.

"Or you can fuck him I don't really care, just give me more attention."

"Such an attention whore."

"You know it."

You eventually say yes to the whole threesome idea. Maybe giving him what he wants will steer him away? Let the two of you live in peace.

You couldn't have been more wrong. Because how are you supposed to forget the sound of their moans mixing together as you jerk them off at the same time. The faces they make as they take turns taking you inside of them, riding you like there's no tomorrow.

You like it more than you'd admit. Their differences making the sex even more fun. Your roommate is a certified attention whore, while being willing to share he wants your everything. Your lips, your touch, your cock, he wants it all, all the time. And whines when doesn't get it.

"Please y/n don't stop! F-fuck..." He was riding you but when you could tell he was getting tired you got impatient and started thrusting up inside of him. His angry hard cock leaking with precum slapping against his tummy as you make him bounce of your cock.

"C'mon baby, cum for me so I can fuck the voyeur over here." You grunt. Said voyeur was laying right next to you, languid hand stroking himself but not to cum, he's been edging himself since you started. One hand slowly stroking himself and the other with three fingers in his ass. He hasn't complained not once about the lack of attention. He loves watching you dominate over your roommate, loves falling into the fantasy of that soon being him.

"It looks like it feels so good." He moans with tears in his eyes, he looks so pretty like this. You turn and lick one of the salty tears running down his cheek making him shiver.

"Just wait until it's you, save some of these tears for then." You don't know what it was about seeing him cry, but it was turning you on so bad.

You then flip you both over and push your roommates knees up, spreading his legs further apart and fucking him so deep he can't even speak. His eyes roll back and his tongue falls out of his mouth as you pound into him.

"You're such a slut aren't you? Begging for my dick as if you're the only one here." The sound of moans and skin slapping skin fills the room. The voyeur looks at you two mesmerized, so lost in the picture and slow build of pleasure. Seeing your roommate cum almost made him cum himself, soft but loud whimper leaving his lips when your roommate covers himself in his own cum. "About damn time."

You pull out and lay down next to him, patting the bed.

"Hey, it's your turn. Come show me how much of a slut you really are." He does what he's told, straddling you and lining himself up above you. He shaking from how nervous he is, he's dreamt of this happening a hundred times and now that it's really happening he almost can't believe it. "Don't be scared, it's only gonna hurt for a bit."

He nods and slowly sinks himself down on you, working through the pain. Once he bottoms out you both moan, he feels so full and it feels so good. He could cock warm you for hours, even just you being inside of him can make him cum.

"Fuck are you waiting for? Start moving or else, I'll flip you over and fuck you with no mercy like how I fucked him." You nod over to your roommate who's coming down from his high. His eyes stuck on where your length is getting swallowed.

The boy riding you finally lifts himself up and back down, crying in pleasure as he rolls his hips up and down on you. It's like nothing else he's ever felt before. When you randomly ram your hips up just because that's when a tear falls.

"Yeah that's it, cry on my cock baby, it feels too good doesn't it?" You say with such a devilish smirk on your face. "Can't handle it can you? Is my cock too big for you?"

He shakes his head. "No, I can take it, I can...ahh... I can...fuck!" He grinds himself down on you, hitting his prostate in the process. All he can see is white and all he can feel is you.

"It's okay baby, just admit it, you want to be fucked face down in the sheets don't you? So helpless and desperate for me, I'll take you higher, make what you've been fantasizing a reality." Your roommate stares at you in awe as you say such dirty words. His hand grasping his cock again, who knew watching you fuck someone else could be this hot?

"Yes please, fuck me! Please...please I can't..." He pulls off of you and you immediately switch positions. His face in the sheets with his ass up in the air waiting for you to fill it again. When you do it's such a different angle from the one before, touching spots he couldn't reach. He can feel himself stretch as you sink into his hole and it hurts but it feels amazing at the same time.

And yet that's nothing compared to when you really fuck him. Your hands bruising his hips and cock splitting him in half as you say the dirtiest things in his ears.

"Look at you, going from watching me fuck someone else to getting fucked by me. You really are a slut huh? So obsessed with me, so obsessed with my dick and how I treat you like shit. I should just fuck you until I cum and then leave you to finish yourself off. You'd like that wouldn't you?" You bite his earlobe.

"I-!" You cut him off by shoving two fingers in his mouth for him to suck on.

"Doesn't matter, you're so sick you'd like whatever I'd do to you. That's what makes this so much fun." You pull all the way out just to slam your hips forward.

He screams out in pleasure, tears flowing down his cheeks.

"Please I'm so close." He whines. You thrust into him again, and again, and again and when he's on the brink of bliss you pull out.

"Fuck....why...." He cries.

"Because you want to cum like this don't you." You crawl back over to your roommate, who at first doesn't understand but does when you line yourself up behind him. You push into him once again and smile when the voyeur's hand instantly flies to his hole to fill the empty space. With every thrust you do he does to himself, still face down in the sheets moaning so shamelessly. It was like you denying him turned him on even more. "Yeah, get off just like that. Like how you were supposed to at the party. Don't be shy, this is just our after party."

When you finally cum so does he.

Only you could ever give him such a mind blowing orgasm without touching him. Without giving him the attention. Because the real hates the attention.

In the end he likes it just like this.

Wow. That's all I really have to say lol. There's a plethora of character's this could pertain too but I don't feel like typing all that out.

[vampshxde]

"Shut Up Mom!"

How jjk husbands react to the "Shut up Mom" prank

Characters: Suguru Geto and Satoru Gojo

Other parts: None So Far!

@𝙼𝚞𝚍𝚞𝚋𝚞00 on X

The white haired man was sitting on your couch, blindfold lazily on one eye, slanted halfway up his head so one eye could freely watch TV. Wearing a black tanktop and tight jeans. His ivory hair was a ruffled mess.

You were bent over in the kitchen, unloading your dishwasher. A grin just a little too big, a little too mischievous played on your lips. Your husband, was too far off in his own world. But his brain snaps back into place at the sound of your yelling voice.

"S/N, did you clean your room?" You yelled from the kitchen to your son who is upstairs. A grumble was heard before—

"Shut up Mom! God you're so annoying!"

He blinked. Once. Twice. Then he got up, glanced at you. Raising a brow. "Did that child just yell at my wife?" You slowly nodded. Watching him. Waiting for the reaction. His face stayed remotely calm, until a dark grin spread on his lips.

"S/N!–"

You rushed over and covered his mouth. Giggling. He glanced down at his pretty wife, smiling and laughing like she had just played him. And it clicked. "You just pranked me didn't you?" He mumbled beneath your hand. His mouth turned down into a pout under your palm.

"Damn right I did, 'toru!" You were a laughing mess, hand to his mouth. Well.. until he licked your hand. You shrieked and pulled away, he was the one laughing then as you pouted.

"Not nice sweetheart! Gonna have to punish you." He blinked. Grabbing you, smirking too wide. Tossing you on the couch, he began poking your sides and mumbling about fairness. You couldn't register the words as you kicked and laughed too much.

(Couldn't find creds)

Suguru had all his hair in a large messy bun, a white sweater slightly too large, and red pajama pants with little white hearts that you picked out. He was half asleep on the couch, tired from cult meetings all day. His three favorite girls were at home and now he was finally with them. Well, two of them.

You were curled into one side of his body, Mimiko on the other. He was slightly confused. Glancing at you as Mimiko watched TV. "Pretty, where is Nanako?" He whispered under his breath so he wouldn't distract Mimiko.

"Oh, she's in her room. Said she'd come downstairs when she wants to." You hummed. Looking at the stairs. Deciding that its been too long, you got up from the couch. Walking to the bottom of the stairs.

"Nanako!"

You didn't get a response until you started to repeat her name. Back turned to the couch with a smirk. You guys had pondered this plan all day. "Na!-"

"Shut up Mom!"

Suguru coughed. Then he straightened his sitting position. Slowly. He was composed. Standing up carefully and fixing Mimiko's position so she wouldn't be uncomfortable. Clearing his throat too loudly.

"Nanako." He didn't yell, but it wasn't calm. It was loud, commanding, and stable. It caused even you to stiffen up as Nanako stumbled down the stairs a little too fast. She had 'abort mission' eyes, like it was all going to shit—to be fair, it was—and you had the same.

"Sugu, honey.. It's a prank! Haha!" You laughed awkwardly. Poking his side. He turned to you. Eyes softening, he shook his head. Then he pinched your cheek, and you smiled. "Silly girls, cmon let's what TV."

Your two daughters curled together, and your husband kissed your cheek, whispering, "So lucky I love your mischievous ass."

[an-abysma1-0bserver]

When the World Comes Down

Prologue

Pairing: Bob Reynolds/Sentry/Void x New Avengers F!Reader

Summary: They all said the mission would be easy. They were wrong.

Warning: Post-Thunderbolts*. Language (probably). Fear and anxiety. Reassurance. Mission gone wrong. Hostage situation. Vague mission is vague. Suspicious mission is suspicious. Whatever else I failed to mention.

Author’s Note: I don’t own the MCU or Marvel Comics in any capacity. The franchise and its characters belong to their rightful owners. Similarly, I don’t own any of the gifs or pictures I use for my fics. All I own are the fic ideas.

Word Count: 3,895

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

Next Chapter ->

You gently knocked on Bob’s door, biting the nails of your other hand while you waited. It was almost time to leave, and he was still locked away in his room. You couldn’t blame him—not really. This was his first mission. He’d only just been cleared for a trial run, a test to see how well he’d handle himself in the field. Val thought he’d gained enough control to warrant it—at least this once.

You were tagging along as an extra pair of hands.

And support.

After everything with the Void, things between you and Bob had settled into a quiet understanding. You didn’t walk on eggshells around him. You didn’t try to weaponize his powers for attention or convenience. You treated him like anyone else. And in a world where alien invasions were practically routine and half the population had once vanished with the snap of someone’s fingers, you figured it was best not to dwell too much.

Not entirely, at least.

You still carried your own fears. Anxieties that clawed at the back of your mind. That someday, someone like Thanos could resurface and the fragile normalcy you were piecing together would fall apart all over again. And yeah, maybe your past wasn’t squeaky clean. But redemption had to count for something, right? The Thunderbolts—because, honestly, the idea of being an Avenger still felt too big, too bright—hadn’t exactly been your dream team, but it was a start.

When Bob didn’t answer, you let out a quiet sigh and knocked again.

“Hey, Bob? You okay?” Your voice was soft, coaxing.

“Uh…yeah,” came the muffled reply. “I—I’ll be out in a minute.”

“We’ve gotta go soon. Bucky’s gonna be on our asses if we’re late.”

“Right. Just…just give me a minute.” His voice wavered, thick with nerves.

You stepped back, resuming your quiet chewing on a thumbnail. A bad habit you never quite kicked—one that showed up when your thoughts spiraled. You still weren’t sure what kind of mission this was. All you’d been told was that it was “simple.” Nothing to worry about. But with Bob coming along, you had to wonder if it was chosen to boost his confidence. Something low-stakes so he could walk away feeling accomplished.

It rubbed you a little wrong, but at the same time…you got it. Throwing him into the deep end would’ve been reckless. He needed something manageable. A first step.

The door finally opened.

Bob stood in his Sentry suit, hair messily slicked back, a sheen of nervous energy clinging to him. His eyes darted to you and then away again, restless and unsure, like he was already bracing for something to go wrong.

He looked amazing.

You smiled gently. “How’re you feeling?” you asked.

Bob gave a quiet, humorless laugh as he stepped into the hallway, falling into step beside you. “Nervous,” he admitted. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

“You won’t,” you said, glancing over at him. “I’ll be there every step of the way.”

He nodded, small and stiff.

“From what I heard, it’s supposed to be an easy mission.” You peered up at him again. The anxiety still lingered, sitting heavy on his shoulders. It tightened his jaw, curled his fingers into uneasy fists. It made your chest ache. Nudging him gently with your elbow, you offered a small smile. “You’ll be fine. Don’t overthink it. Once you’ve got a few of these under your belt, it’ll start feeling natural.”

“I—I just don’t want to let anyone down,” he stammered. “I’m finally starting to feel like I’ve got some control, like I’m not constantly fighting myself. I’m in a good space right now and…the last thing I want is to lose that. Or to screw something up.”

You stopped just outside the elevator and gently reached for his hand. Bob looked at you, startled at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to accept the comfort. But there was curiosity there too—hesitation, not resistance.

You gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

“You’d never mess this up.”

Your voice was soft, reassuring—gentle in that way that made Bob’s heart flutter and his cheeks heat. His eyes flicked away, bashful under the weight of your kindness. You made him feel warm and steady, like the panic clawing at the edge of his thoughts couldn’t quite reach him when you were around. You were patient, kind—and somehow, you made him feel like he could do anything.

“I’ll be with you till the very end,” you promised, giving his hand another squeeze. “Then we can come back and…maybe watch a movie or something.”

You smiled, just a little—sweet and easy. There was a soft flush to your cheeks, and it made Bob’s breath catch for half a second.

He couldn't help the small smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. Hesitantly, he curled his fingers around yours, hand warm and solid as it gently wrapped around your own. There was something grounding in the contact—something that made you feel light, and made him feel… safe.

“I’d like that,” he murmured.

For a brief moment, the two of you stood there, hands still clasped, a quiet stretch of stillness settling between you—until—

“You’re late.”

Bucky’s voice cut through the moment like a blade. Bob startled, flinching at the sudden sound. His grip tightened on your hand for a split second before it fell, his posture stiffening as he turned toward the voice.

You sighed, annoyed but not entirely surprised. Bucky had a knack for unfortunate timing. You threw a half-hearted glare his way.

He didn’t even blink.

“We were coming,” you muttered, arms crossing.

“Not fast enough.” Bucky’s tone was as dry as sandpaper. He looked Bob over with a narrowed gaze. “You good?”

Bob nodded quickly, though his voice still caught a little. “Y-yeah. I’m okay.”

Bucky looked to you for confirmation. You gave him a subtle nod. That was enough.

“Good,” he said. “Now can we talk about the mission?”

You both nodded. For a flicker of a second, relief passed through Bucky’s features before it vanished behind his usual stoicism. He led the way into the elevator, the three of you riding it up in tense silence.

Once you reached the floor, Bucky motioned for you and Bob to follow him into a secure conference room. He shut the door behind you with a soft but firm click, locking it. When he turned to face you both, he was all squared shoulders and business.

He grabbed two manila folders from the table and handed them to you and Bob as he started his briefing.

“This is a retrieval mission,” he said, his voice clipped but steady. “According to Val, some highly classified intel fell into the wrong hands. You two—” his eyes flicked between you and Bob, “—are going to break into a secluded, heavily guarded facility and get it back.”

You opened the folder, skimming through the contents. Your brows knit together as you flipped a few pages. “Nearly all of this is redacted,” you muttered, more to yourself than anyone.

You glanced over at Bob’s file. Same deal. Big black lines slashed through entire paragraphs.

Bob was gripping the folder tightly, his knuckles paling around the edges. His thumb rubbed anxiously against the spine like he was trying to wear it down. His eyes flicked between the papers without really reading them, and his jaw was clenched in quiet tension.

You nudged him lightly with your elbow and offered a faint smile. Just enough to catch his eye. Just enough to say you’re not alone.

Bucky let out a long, quiet exhale. “Yeah. I know. It’s…above our clearance level. Apparently. She said it was need-to-know only. But you’re good with tech and retrievals, and Bob’s…well, indestructible.” He shrugged, though the motion looked more tired than casual.

You bit down on the inside of your cheek, not liking the vagueness. “I don’t know,” you said under your breath. “I like to know what I’m retrieving before I go charging in.”

“If I knew, I’d tell you.”

You looked at Bob again. He was still pale, still holding that folder like it might float away if he let go. His eyes had that far-off look, like his mind was already running through worst-case scenarios. You leaned in just a little, shoulder brushing his, grounding him back to the room.

“You’ve got this,” you said quietly, just for him. “And I’ve got you.”

He blinked, then looked at you—uncertain, but grateful. That same soft warmth passed between you again. Fragile, maybe, but real.

Bucky stifled a groan. “Before you get all soft and sentimental—here.”

He reached into his jacket and handed you two USB drives.

You flushed, clearing your throat as you quickly snatched the devices from his hand, shooting him a half-hearted glare. “Thanks,” you muttered, though your tone leaned more embarrassed than grateful.

Bucky pointed to the black-colored USB. “Once you find the intel, download it onto this one.”

Then he tapped the blue drive. “This one’s carrying a virus. Nasty thing—fast-moving, brutal. Val says it’ll tear through their systems like a chainsaw once you upload it. Total data wipe.”

“Get the intel, drop the virus. Got it.” You slipped both drives into your jacket pocket. “Anything else?”

Bucky gave a single nod, no humor in his voice. “Don’t die.”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t argue. Typical Bucky.

Beside you, Bob shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His brows were slightly drawn, his grip still tight on the folder, like he was trying to memorize everything before it slipped away. The USBs hadn’t made things any better—if anything, he looked more tense now, his shoulders wound tight beneath the suit.

You turned slightly toward him, your voice low. “Hey,” you said gently, catching his eye. “We’ll be in and out, yeah? Nothing fancy. Just stick close to me, and we’ll handle it together.”

Bob gave a tight nod, but it took a second for his jaw to unclench. His gaze flicked to where your hand had gone into your pocket, then back up to you. “You make it sound easy.”

You smiled faintly. “It’ll be easier with you there.”

A flicker of something softened his features—just a little. He looked like he wanted to say more, but held back, anxiety still threading through his posture.

You leaned just a bit closer, your shoulder brushing his again. “We’ll be fine,” you whispered. “And when it’s over, movie night still stands.”

That finally earned a small smile from him. A quiet one. A flustered one, soft and warm. But real.

And enough—for now.

* * *

Once you’d secured your gear and double-checked your weapons, you and Bob made your way to the quinjet. Bucky handed over the coordinates once you were both strapped in—your hands settling instinctively on the controls as you took the pilot seat.

“Comms working?” Bucky asked, holding out an earpiece.

You took it and slipped it into your ear. He called your name to test the line, and you gave a nod of confirmation. Bob did the same as Bucky ran through his.

“If anything goes sideways,” Bucky said, glancing between you both, “you let us know immediately.”

“Who else knows about the mission?” you asked.

“Yelena,” Bucky replied. His eyes flicked toward Bob, and something softened briefly in his expression. It wasn’t a secret—Yelena and Bob had a friendship that was borderline legendary on the team. Platonic soulmates, someone had once joked. You’d found it kind of sweet. Comforting, even, how close they were. How easily they understood each other.

“She and I are on standby in case things go south,” Bucky added. “You call, we’ll be there.”

“What about the others?” Bob asked, his voice calm but tight around the edges.

You chimed in with a nod. “Yeah. Ava’s powers could come in handy.”

Bucky raised a brow. “And you trust Alexei not to blow the whole thing wide open?”

You smirked. “He’s funny, at least.”

“Debatable,” Bob muttered under his breath.

“John’s the one who can’t shut up,” you said, rolling your eyes. “A complete menace.”

Bucky let out a dry chuckle. “A real ray of sunshine, that one.” But the humor faded quickly, replaced with something more grounded. “Seriously, though. If things feel off—even a little—you contact me or Yelena. Got it?”

You nodded. Beside you, Bob gave a quiet, “Yeah,” as he adjusted his gloves.

Bucky placed a hand on your shoulder, firm and steady. You turned slightly toward him as he gave it a small, reassuring squeeze.

“Keep her safe, Bob,” he said, his tone shifting to something quieter, almost protective. “You’re the muscle in this operation.”

“Right. Yeah.” Bob nodded, the nervous energy behind his eyes briefly replaced with focus. “I won’t let anything happen.”

You felt warmth rise in your cheeks at that. He meant it—every word. And something about the way he looked when he said it, the way his voice steadied...it settled something in you.

You missed the flicker of a grin that passed over Bucky’s face.

“I’ll see you guys when you get back,” he said, stepping back. “Be safe. Stay together. Remember—this mission’s supposed to be a piece of cake. You’ll be back before dinner.”

“Damn right,” you said with a smile, fingers flexing slightly on the controls.

Bob gave a small smile of his own as he looked over at you. And though neither of you said anything more, the quiet moment between you was enough.

As Bucky disappeared down the ramp, you moved to close the quinjet doors behind him. The hydraulic hiss of the seal locking into place echoed faintly through the cabin. You took a breath—steady, even—and turned your focus to the controls.

“Bob, you buckled in?” you called over your shoulder.

“I am,” came his reply. His voice was calm, but there was a tightness to it—something sitting just beneath the surface.

You glanced back at him for a beat. He was already in his seat, straps pulled snug across his chest, fingers resting against his thighs like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. There was a tension in his posture that hadn’t eased, not entirely, even with the pre-mission banter.

With a firm nod, you turned back to the console and eased the quinjet off the ground.

The engines hummed to life, smooth and familiar, the runway quickly falling away beneath you as you guided the jet into the open sky. Clouds stretched across the horizon in calm, lazy layers—blue skies painted with soft streaks of white. A good day to fly. A good day for a mission. You hoped, at least.

Easy in, easy out. That’s what Bucky said.

But even with the confidence in Bucky’s voice, even with the simplicity of the plan laid out in front of you, there was something in the air that clung a little too tightly. Something quiet, like a shadow just out of reach. You couldn’t name it—couldn’t even be sure it was real—but it made your grip tighten just slightly on the controls.

You weren’t the only one who felt it, either.

The USBs were tucked safely inside your pocket, small and innocuous, but they felt heavier than they had any right to. They weren’t made of much—plastic and metal—but the weight of what they carried pressed against you like a reminder. One was a lifeline. The other, a weapon.

Your fingers brushed against the outside of the pocket, a subtle motion, like you needed to make sure they were still there. Still real. Still yours to control.

Simple mission, you reminded yourself. In and out. No complications.

But that uneasy feeling in the back of your mind hadn’t left—it was quiet, coiled low in your gut, like a storm you couldn’t see but could feel all the same. It didn’t make sense. There was no logical reason to think this mission would spiral. And yet…

You didn’t say anything—just reached up and adjusted the comms in your ear.

The quinjet sailed smoothly through the clouds, but the quiet between you and Bob was heavier than before. Not uncomfortable—just…aware.

You exhaled softly and flicked a few switches, settling the jet into cruise. You shifted in your seat, eyes flicking across the horizon, then down—just for a moment—to the pocket of your jacket.

“Almost there,” you murmured, mostly to yourself.

Almost there.

And whatever waited ahead.

* * *

You landed the quinjet a few miles out, far enough to avoid detection but close enough to make the trek manageable. The engines powered down with a low hum, fading into silence as you flicked the last switch off.

Unbuckling yourself, you sat up and glanced over. Bob was already on his feet, standing stiffly as he swallowed hard. His shoulders were squared, but the tension in his frame hadn’t eased—not really.

“Remember,” you said softly, reaching for his hand. “Piece of cake.”

Your fingers closed gently around his, grounding the both of you. Bob nodded, his hand tightening around yours in a quiet squeeze—steady, but not without nerves.

“You ready?” you asked.

“As I’ll ever be,” he said, voice low. Honest.

You nodded once. “Good enough.”

A breath escaped you—one of those slow, quiet exhales meant to shake off the weight you weren’t quite ready to carry.

“Wanna go over the plan?”

Bob nodded.

You gave a quick nod in return, shifting into mission mode. “First, we scout the area. Take out any guards only if absolutely necessary. Quiet and clean.”

“Makes sense,” he said, his brows pinching slightly in focus.

“When we’re close enough to the perimeter, I’ll need you to fly up. Scope the building from above—look for entry points, patrol patterns, anything that seems useful.”

“Got it,” he murmured, already tensing like he was rehearsing it in his head. His jaw was tight, his lips pressed into a thin line of determination.

“We’ll stay connected through comms,” you continued. “Once we’re in, we keep a low profile. I’ll handle the data transfer and the virus. You just make sure I’ve got the time to do it.”

Bob gave a short, shaky breath that might’ve been a laugh. “I—I guess that sounds easy enough when you say it.”

You offered him a crooked smile. “It always sounds easy when you say it out loud.”

There was a beat of quiet between you. The forest around the quinjet rustled softly, the wind weaving through the trees like it knew something you didn’t. The building you were heading for was out there—silent, fortified, waiting.

“I’ll lead on foot,” you said, voice dropping into something a little more serious. “Let’s move.”

And just like that, the stillness cracked, the mission starting to take shape around you—one step at a time.

* * *

The trek through the woods was…easy.

Unsettlingly so.

You’d expected guards. Maybe some hired mercs—someone paid to keep eyes on the perimeter. Hell, even a motion sensor would’ve made sense. But the path was quiet. Too quiet. No patrols. No movement. Just trees and silence and a building up ahead that might as well have been waiting.

Fifteen minutes in, you and Bob came to a stop.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” you muttered, kneeling behind the cover of a thick tree. Your fingers tightened around the bark like it might anchor your rising unease.

Bob dropped beside you, his brows drawn tight in concern. “There hasn’t been anyone.”

“I know.” Your voice was sharper than you intended—frustration bleeding through.

Was this another one of Val’s clean-up jobs? A quiet way to tie up loose ends? She knew what kind of dirt you and the others had on her. Yet she’d paraded your team around like you were the next generation of Avengers.

So…why just send you and Bob?

Why did this feel so wrong?

You swallowed your doubts and turned toward him. “Bob, I need you to get up high—get a full sweep of the area.”

His eyes widened. “Are you sure? You’ll be—”

“Just scan,” you interrupted gently. “I can handle myself.”

Bob hesitated. You could see the way he wanted to argue. The way his lips parted like a protest was on its way—but it never came. He just nodded, even though his jaw was clenched tight.

“Keep your comms open,” you added. “Tell me what you see. Even what you don’t see, okay?”

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

He lingered for just a moment longer, looking at you like he was trying to memorize your face. You nodded, offering a small smile—just enough to calm the rising storm in his chest.

That did it.

With a deep breath, Bob launched himself into the air, slicing the air as he disappeared above the tree line.

You exhaled and stood slowly, eyes sweeping the treeline ahead.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Let’s do this.”

• • •

From above, Bob kept his gaze locked on the ground. Yelena and Bucky’s training echoed in the back of his mind—look for patterns, watch the trees, trust your gut. Every shadow, every unmoving object, he cataloged it all. You were counting on him. He couldn’t afford to screw it up.

“How we lookin’, Bob?” your voice crackled over comms, low and steady.

“I’m not seeing anything,” he said, frowning. “I’ll keep looking.”

“Okay, just be—”

Your voice cut out.

Sharp. Sudden. Final.

Bob froze in mid-air, his body jolting like he’d been struck. “Hello?” he called, panic already bleeding into his tone. He called your name. “Can you hear me?

Nothing.

His thoughts scattered. No, no, no—

He dove downward, back toward where he’d last seen you, heart pounding against his ribs. His landing was rough, uneven, branches snapping as he hit the ground. But it didn’t matter.

You weren’t there.

Not even a trace.

He called your name, twisting around. “Where are you?!”

He launched himself back into the sky, faster this time—his eyes scanning every inch of the forest. Every tree. Every shadow. But still—no sign of you. His stomach twisted. This couldn’t be happening. Not this fast. Not this soon.

His hand pressed hard against his earpiece. “Come on, answer me. Please—say something—”

“Stay where you’re at,” a sharp voice broke through the static in his ear.

Bob spun mid-air and caught sight of the speaker—an older man, standing atop a rocky ledge, a gun leveled at him with casual cruelty.

“Where is she?” Bob snapped, descending slowly, every muscle in his body wound tight. “What did you do?”

The man smirked, tilting his head. “The girl? You want to see her again, you’re going to do exactly what I say.”

Bob’s fists clenched, trembling with restraint. “And if I don’t?”

The man’s grin deepened. “Then what happens to her? That’s on you.”

Bob felt it all at once—fear, rage, helplessness—like floodwaters crashing through him. His hands were shaking. He couldn’t see you, couldn’t hear you. He had no idea where they’d taken you or what condition you were in. All he had was this bastard with a gun and a threat.

You’re the muscle in this operation. Bucky’s words echoed distantly.

Right now, he felt like nothing.

He didn’t move, didn’t speak—just raised his hands slowly in surrender, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.

“I swear,” he whispered, voice shaking, “if you hurt her—”

Pain exploded through him before he could finish.

Everything went black.

Series Taglist:

@naushtheaspiringauthor, @rue963, @sunshinegirlie2001, @raini-sanchez, @coutureisart

[jollyhunter]

Aight, let's get down to this. *cracks knuckles* (not in the riot starting kinda way).

Okay, I'm ready for the Angst.

Have you ever noticed that closing your eyes and counting to ten does little when you're talking to the most odious person alive?

Your intros always take me off guard in the most hilarious way 🤣 Just like this;

2. You brought a tuna fish sandwich from home and he could somehow smell it two floors down.

I mean. I can almost understand how that one can be annoying. But I don't want to agree with the Warden and therefore I'll let it slip 😂

At least on paper, the things you'd done in your head were a little more PG-13 than the Warden needed to know about. Hell, you still were trying your best not to let your mind go to those places.

LOL I love this reader so much. She's got that Golden Retriever / Sunshine personality but in her head she's just as naughty as all of us 🤭 ... Good thing the Warden can't read minds. The things he'd see there 😂

You briefly wonder if he's always been like this or if he's having marital problems that he projects on everyone else.

Bahaha - definitely the latter. My old highschool teacher was the same. Absolute ass. The day his wife dropped by, we all knew why 🤣 (didn't justify it though and neither did we feel sorry for him lol)

Looks like somebody has been talking to my mother.

LMAO - not me instantly imagining her mother and the Warden meeting up every Wednesday for a cuppa afternoon tea to gossip about her daughter

'the douchebag professor who thinks that he knows everything, but really just stares down your blouse and likes keeping you quiet and submissive.'

What an accurate way to describe a pose we all immediately recognize 😂 (and has us recoil and clench our jaws). You always manage to describe things in such unique ways which are either beautiful or have me crack up LOL!

This is much worse than someone stealing my chocolate, and that's saying something.

This reader is growing on me. She's got her priorities set right 😂 and her heart is in the right place 💗 She really is the perfect opposites-attract puzzle piece to Mark isn't she?

"I'm sure Walker will have a lot of fun getting his hands on a pretty little thing like you, with no one to stop him and no one to hear you scream. And for men like him," Something dark flickers in his eyes sending a shudder down your spine as he leans down towards you. "Hearing those screams makes them feel alive."

Okay I just wanted to throttle the Warden at this point. The fact that he says these things even though he knows that Walker's not a real criminal, just makes this ten times more disgusting. I hope he gets kicked in the family jewels in a riot or somebody knocks him over with his car!

Walker's eyes have gone dark, the playful gleam you'd grown to love vanishing, his mischievous smirk morphed into an angry scowl as he throws his fist into the other inmate's face. Blood flecks over his cheeks and across his knuckles, and despite the guards that try to pull him off the other man, Walker fights back hard.

HERE COMES THE MISUNDERSTANDIG - OH NO.

Also, very clever how you played with the canon scene here! I love how we all try to integrate those and give them a different twist or perspective 😄 (I've got something planned with that one as well 🤭)

Like when you switched to Mark's perspective and played the entire scene once more. Genius move!! And so effective!!

She wears crazy socks for fucks sake! A woman like her should be working in one of the top hospitals in the country, not here!

EXACTLY. And that's why she fits you so well, Mark! You're like a pair of mismatched socks! (I LOVE his internal monologues so much, overall his entire perspective was so intriguing and well done - I don't know about you but I felt like you nailed his character!!)

Because where could this go? He finally gets out of prison only to tell you that he's on death row? A dead man walking? Might as well just throw him right back in the fucking clink, he was already waiting out a death sentence and as long as he was making some kind of difference who cares?

NO - MARK STAHP IT. His final thoughts on this and with the misunderstanding on top?? Oh man, the next chapter is going to hit hard, I can already smell the angst. Why are you doing this to us! 😭 (jk, you know I love it)

He hated the days that he let another inmate land a punch only to find the buffoon with the duct taped Nikes waiting for him in the infirmary. Talk about disappointing.

Sorry but this had me snort, poor Mark! 🤣

What an awesome second chapter to this storyline, Lee! 🥰 It started out comedic and took an angsty turn real fast. I am kinda scared of the next one now lol! But I also want to know what's going to happen next. Will the misunderstanding lead to even more misunderstandings?? Will we get introduced to the duct taped Nikes buffoon? Will she be scared of Mark / Walker now and the Warden's going to be all like "Told you so." ? 😭

I Want To Be The One To Light Up The Dark In You

Pairing: Mark Meachum x f!reader, Reader POV, Mark Meachum POV

Summary: As much as you hate to admit it, the Warden might be right. This is the second fic in my Jailhouse Rock Series!

Tropes: Slow Burn, Forbidden Love, A Smidge Of Touch Her And Die Trope, Mutual Pining.

Word Count: 4.4K

Warnings: Manspreading 😒, Mentions of Sex/ Sexual Innuendo, Mentions of Blood and Prison Fights, Cursing, Angst, Inmate Says A Few *ahem* Unpleasant Things, Warden Also Says A Few Unpleasant Things, Reader trying not to be in love with a hot man in prison? Mark might be a little bit OOC.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is no use of y/n! I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite! I'm just starting to write for Mark, so please be gentle.

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

Listen While You Read 🚨: Light Up The Dark By Gabrielle Aplin title of fic is taken from this song!

Jailhouse Rock Playlist 🚨

Main Masterlist

Jailhouse Rock Masterlist

A/N: Oh my goodness, thank you so much everyone for all the reblogs and the wonderful feedback on part one of this fic series! I'm so happy that so many of you have decided to strap in to this angsty ride! 😊

Reader POV

Have you ever noticed that closing your eyes and counting to ten does little when you're talking to the most odious person alive?

That by some miracle, closing your eyes and pretending that they aren't there standing in front of you, breathing the same air, chattering on and on in the most annoying and condescending voice about something that makes your teeth grind down together and your insides suddenly want to be your outsides will help you find some way to maintain your composure?

Right now you wished it did.

Black coffee steamed from the ancient chipped mug sitting on the tanker desk in front of you, curling and twisting in the mid-day sun that floated through the barred windows of the Warden's office.

It did little to obscure the man scowling at you from under his mustache, but you wished that by some miracle the steam would grow into a cloud to hide you from the judgmental gaze of your employer.

What you'd done, you had no idea, but you noticed that the warden was often pulling you into his office to discuss things that seemed trivial in the grand scheme of things.

Things like:

You forgot to clean off your desk before you went home.

You brought a tuna fish sandwich from home and he could somehow smell it two floors down.

Your socks were distracting and therefore counterproductive to the work environment.

Basically, the warden was the mean cheerleader who dated all the jocks and never grew up.

Lovely.

So when he called you into his office you knew you were in for another tongue lashing that would later make you roll your eyes so hard that they'd get stuck in the back of your head.

He sits across from you, hands entwined on the top of his desk, beady eyes skating across you as if he can sense your internal monologue.

"I hear that you had to patch up Walker again yesterday." He says it like an accusation, as if it isn't your job to take care of the inmates, to patch them up when things get a little too fight club for your taste.

No disrespect to Brad Pitt and Ed Norton of course.

"Yes sir."

You'd learned by now to call him anything other than Warden or Sir would earn you a taste of the famous anger (re temper tantrums) the Warden had.

You'd been on the receiving end of them far too many times and despite not caring if he was mad at you or not, you didn't have time to sit here in his office and wait around, not when you were trying to leave early because your sister Margo and you had your weekly book club meeting tonight at your apartment.

The Warden takes a sip of his coffee, mustache rippling over the curve of the chipped cup, not breaking eye contact with you as he does.

There's an odd energy in the room, something oppressive and faintly masculine. It's cloying presence pulls at your limbs, shifts over the dark wood cabinet behind the desk, and drags over the concrete slab floor that ran the length of the prison. It was the same kind of energy that you'd only found in your physics professor's office, the one who told you that you'd never be able to pass his course with your academic record and you then spent the semester proving him wrong.

The walls of his office are painted in the same dreary gray that ghosted along the infirmary. You supposed that it was to make the room look bigger, but it only made it feel small, choking.

Instead of closing your eyes and counting to ten, you busy yourself with reading the titles of the books that line the dark wooden cabinet behind the Warden's head.

Anything is better than looking into those creepy beady eyes.

Especially not when you knew that the Warden was fishing for something to hold over you. Even though the only thing you'd done with Walker was your job. At least on paper, the things you'd done in your head were a little more PG-13 than the Warden needed to know about. Hell, you still were trying your best not to let your mind go to those places.

The Warden's gaze shifts over your body again. It worms beneath your skin, oppressive, squirmy. It was the same look that he gave the rest of the inmates within the walls of the prison to keep them in submission. You briefly wonder if he's always been like this or if he's having marital problems that he projects on everyone else.

"I also hear that you've been-" He clears his throat, beady eyes on you. "a little more friendly with him." His lip curls up in distaste at the word "friendly."

Oh so that's what this is about.

You choose to let your face remain impassive, not giving the man across from you eyeing you like a predatory bird the satisfaction.

"Sir?"

The Warden stands from his desk. "Do you know what the most dangerous thing in our profession is?"

"Shanks?"

The word came out before you could stop it, slipping out with the ghost of a smile on your lips.

His frown deepens. "Now isn't the time for your exhaustive wit."

Looks like somebody has been talking to my mother.

He comes around the desk, every step measured, before finally he's leaning against the front in the ultimate form of man-spreading, the highest level, also known as 'the douchebag professor who thinks that he knows everything, but really just stares down your blouse and likes keeping you quiet and submissive.'

"It's getting comfortable, believing that they can be your friends, not seeing them for what they really are-"

"What they really are?"

"Inconveniences, nuisances, trash, rubbish- the undesirables." The Warden shrugs. "But what they can never be is your friends."

Your jaw tightens.

The truth was, you had heard all of this before from your mother, usually when she was trying to talk you out of keeping your job at the prison.  She'd told you countless times how all of the inmates didn't deserve you as a doctor and therefore you should move on, but you couldn't. You took an oath to help people, to heal, to care, and you felt like you were where you needed to be.

The bigger problem, was hearing this kind of talk from someone who not only was supposed to oversee and run the prison, but also see the worth of his job, of seeing the positives as well as the negatives. He was not supposed to look down on the inmates.

Who does he think he is? The President of the United States?! He has no right to judge these men that way. Not when he's supposed to be the voice of reason, the leader, the one person in this damn prison who actually gives a fuck.

"Sir-" Anger flares in your chest, beating against your ribcage like the wings of a bird.

"Come on." He stands from the desk and walks to his office door behind him.

"What?"

"I want to show you something."

The Warden doesn't wait for you, in fact he continues to walk down the maze of hallways with you running to catch up with him. You had no idea why he couldn't just chew you out in his office for something that you didn't deserve to be chewed out for.

For actually giving a shit about his inmates... well maybe caring a little bit too much.

Your thoughts immediately shift to Walker as they always did whenever all went quiet in your mind and you couldn't think of anyone else.

There was a little part of you that you didn't want to heed, the rational part of your brain that said that Walker was playing you like a fiddle, that he didn't care about you and all he wanted was to charm you so it would be easier for him to use you.

That part usually warred with the other part, the part that kept letting the green-eyed man slip into your thoughts when you felt discouraged and disappointed by the other men in your life that never quite seemed to get you.

The Warden opens a door at the end of the hallway, the brilliant sunlight blinding you for a moment, before you realize that the two of you are standing in the inner gate looking out onto the yard.

Inmates mill around in groups while others move in a grayish blue blur through the crowds with the sun baking from above. Some play a game of basketball in the far corner while others lift weights.

Dust kicks up in twisted clouds around their feet with the wind that blows from the East, wicking the sweat that gathers on the back of your neck. Grass pushes up through the coarse earth in sporadic patches only to be stomped into submission by the white canvas prison regulation tennis shoes the inmates wore. The murmur of the prisoners, the heavy clink of weights, and bounce of a basketball against pavement is lost on the wind.

You find Walker almost immediately. It’s a compulsion, like magnets, as if you can’t help but look for the scruffy green-eyed man who’s entered your subconscious despite all the times you’ve told yourself that it can’t happen. Your mind automatically seeking him out for some relief, a bad habit you can't seem to break.

He's sitting on top of one of the concrete picnic tables on the far end of the yard, talking to a younger guy with hair so black it's almost the color of charcoal.

The breeze rustles through Walker's hair that blazes a honeyed chestnut in the mid-day sun, the same sun that paints his body in a golden glow. You know that if you were standing beside him you’d be able to see the flecks of gold like falling stars around his eyes, that crinkle with his boisterous laugh.

Walker laughs at something the dark-haired inmate says, his warm chuckle somehow finding the curve of your ear as if he's standing right next to you and even though you haven’t been able to hear anything else it comes across clear as day.

An alarm bell goes off in your head, because you know this is crazy. You knew better than to start thinking about an inmate the way you thought about Walker. Even if he was incredibly charming, funny, and had eyes that seemed to see through everything you were.

Damn it.

There was only one place that this could head, and it was already circling the drain, you just needed to pull the plug before you were in too deep.

Feels like it might be too late for that.

Walker's gaze flicks up from his companion to you, finding your eyes within seconds of you finding him, as if he sensed it. You hold his gaze, a smile twitching at the end of his mouth just for a moment, before he looks back at the man beside him. If you’d blinked you would have missed it.

Unfortunately, the Warden didn't miss it either.

"That's exactly what I'm talking about." He says.

"What?"

"You give them too much leash."

"They're not dogs." You grumble under your breath.

"You're right. They're not. They're wolves." The Warden spits, eyes narrowed as he turns to look at you. He takes a step in your direction, backing you up against the chain link fence. "You can't tame them and the second you turn your back, they'll rip your throat out."

His eyes are two blackened pits, the sunlight no longer a soft glow, but a striking white that blinds you momentarily as you look up into his face. The planes of his face are sharpened in the dark shadow of his gray cowboy hat. He looks every bit the Warden role he'd chosen to play.

"You don't know that. Just because they're prisoners does not make them any less human than you and me!" You snap back.

Anger flared red hot beneath your skin, bubbling up from the pit of your stomach like a volcano ready to erupt. You hated the way that he spoke about the inmates, haughty, prideful, arrogant, as if they were below him somehow when all they were was just men. Men who maybe had made a few mistakes, but you were willing to believe that with the bad came the good, that not all of them could be psychos that were locked up for the "betterment of society."

"Yes I do. I've been here a hell of a lot longer than you. See this happen time and time again." He snarls taking another step towards you. The chain link cuts through the back of you scrubs, harsh and unyielding, meant to keep the inmates in but somehow now feel like it's trying to keep you out. "Let me guess, you think that life has been unkind to them. That not one of them deserves to be within these walls."

"That's not what I'm-"

"Did I say that I was done?" He barks.

Your jaw tenses so tightly together that you're sure you'll get TMJ.

He spoke to you like you were a little girl who'd done something wrong and was sent to the principal's office as if you were living in some imaginary world filled with rainbows and unicorns or still believed in Santa.

There were only a few moments in your life that you admitted to absolutely hating someone, and this would go right on the list as number five. Number one was Sally Caruthers in second grade who took your pudding cup at snack time.

This is much worse than someone stealing my chocolate, and that's saying something.

But worse still was that he was assuming you only saw the good in the world, but he was wrong. Your father had told you enough stories from his job growing up, things that were said to you in warning to prepare you for when you struck out on your own. You weren't naïve, far from it, but you didn't believe that everyone was rotten to the core, you wanted to believe that everyone had some good hidden somewhere.

It was that way with Walker. You'd seen his file, knew what he did, but there was a part of you that wanted to believe that he wasn't all bad.

The thought stutters to a halt.

Do I really believe that? Or do I think that just because of the way he's always nice to me… Only when he needs something.

You glance over your shoulder to look at where Walker is sitting with the other inmate, but instead of being locked in conversation, Walker's entire body has gone rigid.

He's staring at where the Warden has you cornered against the chain length fence, eyes dark, with his hand curled against the concrete slab that serves as the top of the table pulled so tight that his knuckles look white. Something dark dances in his eyes that sends a shiver down your spine.

You’d never seen him like that before. Easy smiles, windswept hair, green eyes so bright they seemed to dance yes. But this? Seeing Walker with something akin to murder in his eyes, never.

It made your throat tighten.

"You think they hate being in here? That it’s some dark twist of fate that they’re imprisoned here?” The Warden asks with a sneer. "They aren’t. In here they think they're kings, gods, who assert their power however they see fit. Because out there they are nothing,  but in here they think they're untouchable, and Walker is the worst of them all."

"You don't know that-" Your voice comes out in a whisper, heart sinking.

"I do." The Warden towers over you, placing one of his hands against the unyielding metal of the chain-length fence. His fingers curl into the space to cage you in. The warmth of his breath wafts across your face, bringing the distinct smell of coffee.

It made your stomach feel like it was flopping around, a fish out of water.

"He doesn't give a shit about you, none of the prisoners do. It might be all smiles and jokes now, but the second the status quo changes, the exact moment there aren't any guards looking, no one to stop him, well-" The Warden smiles cruelly. "I'm sure Walker will have a lot of fun getting his hands on a pretty little thing like you, with no one to stop him and no one to hear you scream. And for men like him," Something dark flickers in his eyes sending a shudder down your spine as he leans down towards you. "Hearing those screams makes them feel alive."

The sunlight soaking into your bones has suddenly gone cold, fear tracing along the curve of your spine with a chilled fingertip.

Memories of the stories your father told you from years in this world come whispering against your ear, stories that used to keep your sister up at night and made her the kind of woman that had a bright pink keychain loaded with every self-defense tool known to man.

When you'd taken this job your father had issued the same warning, told you about the dangers of desperate men who had nothing to lose.

"They're wrong," He'd said one night while the two of you watched an episode of the Walking Dead, sighing at the screen. "Men like that don't come around when everything falls apart. They already exist and the dangerous ones aren't the ones that wear it proudly on their sleeves. The dangerous ones are the men who hide in plain sight with easy smiles and gentle touches, because when they flip the switch, you don't see it coming."

On some level you knew that the Warden was right, men like that existed everywhere, but you didn't want to believe that Walker was one of them. Just as you didn't want to believe that everyone was out to get you all the time, that would lead to a very lonely existence, a sad and somewhat dark existence.

A flash of Walker's dark eyes comes roaring back through your subconscious before you can stop it. In his gaze you hadn't seen the Walker you knew, you'd seen someone else. And the longer you thought about it, the more it snagged in your chest that maybe Walker wasn't as charming as he let on and maybe he was getting you exactly where he wanted before the façade dropped.

An alarm sounds from across the yard, shattering through the sounds of mid-day and sending the crows that gathered on the top of the barbed wire fences flocking across the sun.

"Look at him." The Warden grabs your shoulder and turns you around so fast that you feel dizzy for a moment. "You think that man is a puppy? He's a damn wolf in sheep's clothing sweetheart and the second you turn your back they'll be nothing you can do."

Your gaze focuses on Walker, who sits atop another inmate splayed out beneath him on the ground. Walker's eyes have gone dark, the playful gleam you'd grown to love vanishing, his mischievous smirk morphed into an angry scowl as he throws his fist into the other inmate's face. Blood flecks over his cheeks and across his knuckles, and despite the guards that try to pull him off the other man, Walker fights back hard.

His eyes flicker across the yard once again finding you, but this time it doesn't bring the same warmth that it usually does, all it does is bring the chill scuttling down the length of your spine. Because the man staring back at you, has not one shred of the Walker you know, and it brings the doubt surging back up to swallow you whole.

Mark POV

*Five Minutes Ago*

It was moments like this that Mark hated being undercover.

He wasn't one to complain, and truthfully he liked a lot of things about being undercover: the improv as he slipped into character, the bravado he exuded, the rush of adrenaline that snapped and crackled through his veins when things were going his way and also the same lightning bolt that energized him when things weren't…

But not right now.

Especially not now.

It wasn't the sun that baked against his freckled skin, it wasn't the inmates that whispered death threats under their breath whenever they passed or the ones that actually had the balls to act on, it wasn't the chill that came in the dead of night creeping beneath the metal doors and seeped through the cinderblock when he tried to tug the hole riddled blanket up over his body, and it wasn't the headache that pinched between his eyebrows, the same headaches that came at the most inopportune times and reminded him of the thing he was trying to forget.

The axe that hung over the chopping block, the ticking time bomb in his head with a nuclear level countdown sequence that no one could stop.

But he wasn't thinking about any of that, all he was thinking about was you.

Mark knew the second you appeared on the edge of the chain length fence enclosing the yard following after the Warden something was wrong.

Because you weren't smiling.

There was never one moment that Mark had seen you with a frown on your face, not when each time you smiled he felt something deep down inside of him break open and flood the cavity in his chest with warmth. Which only made him feel a hell of a lot of guilt. He was undercover for fucks sake, he needed to focus on what he was doing not get distracted by someone like you…

But he was.

You were so unlike any person he'd ever met, someone who shouldn't exist somewhere like this. Not with your sincere smiles, warm personality, and genuine caring attitude that you carried with you through the dismal halls of the prison. It was almost like there was this one bright light that flickered and shone despite the thick mortar and cinderblock that enclosed the rest of the inmates, a light that could so easily be blown out at a moment's notice.

She wears crazy socks for fucks sake! A woman like her should be working in one of the top hospitals in the country, not here!

And Mark knew that he shouldn't care about you as much as he did, not when he was undercover and especially not because his days were numbered.

Because where could this go? He finally gets out of prison only to tell you that he's on death row? A dead man walking? Might as well just throw him right back in the fucking clink, he was already waiting out a death sentence and as long as he was making some kind of difference who cares?

What was the point if he couldn't give you what you deserved?

But that did nothing to stop you from slipping into his subconscious. The sound of your laugh a soothing melody, the brief glimpse of your smile like a star falling from heaven, and the gentle touch of your fingers over his skin a calming balm whenever you patched him up.

Mark had to keep reminding himself that you were nothing but a distraction, not to mention a complication that he never saw coming, blindsided by your kindness and gentle demeanor.

I'm a fucking professional not some cockeyed rookie. I've done this multiple times why is she different!? Why now?

Mark tried his hardest not to think about you, not when he was supposed to be focused on the job, but he couldn't help it, he worried about you constantly.

Worried that some other inmate or even one of the guards here would catch you alone unaware. Worried that you wouldn't pick up on the signals until it was too late and there was nowhere for you to go and Mark couldn't get to you in time.

Anything could happen in this prison, hell, Mark had seen quite a few things happen already and he couldn't bear the thought of you being involved in any of them.

Mark saw the way the others watched you when they noticed you walking down the hallways, saw the way that even the guards gazes lingered on your form whenever they brought Mark to the infirmary.

And as much as it hurt to get into fights, it was the only way that Mark could ensure seeing that you were okay, that you were still here. He hated the days that he let another inmate land a punch only to find the buffoon with the duct taped Nikes waiting for him in the infirmary.

Talk about disappointing.

Mark also tried not to think too hard that the other reason he went to see you was that it felt so damn good, that he couldn't go without seeing you at least once per week. He felt like an addict of the worst kind, but if this was an addiction he wasn't sure he ever wanted to quit, not when seeing you smile made Mark forget everything wrong in his fucked up life.

The sun kissed your skin giving it a brilliant glow and framing the curves of your body so well that Mark was sure if he closed his eyes the imprint would be stamped across the inside of his eyelids, the wind rustled through the strands of your hair pulling it freely into your face, and Mark dropped his eyes to your ankles barely catching a glimpse of the cactus socks hidden in your pair of signature converse, but still you don't smile.

An ugly feeling swarmed in the pit of Mark's stomach when his gaze drifted to the Warden. He was standing a little too close for Mark's comfort, towering over you, and Mark didn't like the way you seemed to curl slightly in on yourself, folding beneath the Warden's gaze.

He couldn't hear what you two were talking about, but he could sure as hell guess.

Mark's hand curls around the concrete table top of the picnic table when the Warden takes another step in your direction, pressing you further against the fence.

White hot rage begins to flood through his body, the urge to protect you breaking through the little voice inside that was telling him to let you go, let it go, that he's about to blow his cover for all the wrong reasons.

Fuck.

Mark hated the Warden, knew how much of an asshole he was the second Mark met with him before he went undercover, and Mark hated the way you looked.

You looked small.

Mark had never seen you look anything but happy, your laugh always making something inside of Mark feel like he was slowly sliding into a sun soaked beach chair on a remote island.

But not now. Now Mark wanted to stride over there, throw it all away, and nail the Warden once in face for saying whatever the hell it was that he was saying to you, because Mark knew that it wasn't good. It couldn't be, not when the look on your face was something between anger and hurt.

"Yo Walker!" An inmate cat-calls, but Mark ignores him.

Mark is in too deep and he knows it, but he can't look away from you. He's too busy trying to read the Warden's lips to care what someone else says to him.

"Looks like the Warden's got his eye on your little bitch." The inmate continues.

Mark's head snaps in the direction of said inmate, Luis, the man that had come to see you after him yesterday. He was at least three times Mark's size, his mouth splitting in a wide toothless smile on his goon-like face, the snake tattoo that curves up over his left eye flashing in the sunlight, offsetting the black and blue marks around his nose that mirrored the black eye on Mark's face.

"Fuck off."

"Ooo, touchy." Luis continues, rubbing one hand over his bald, sweaty forehead. Mark watches his gaze flick back in your direction, raking over your body without your knowledge. You were far too focused on the Warden who had cornered you against the chain-length fence like you were some kind of animal. "I'll say this, she's cute. Got that kind of body I wouldn't mind having all to myself. Bet she'd moan my name real pretty."

Mark's teeth grit together so hard he can hear the grinding in his ears, but he doesn't give in.

Don't play his game. Don't blow this because of her-

Chen looks from Mark to Luis, eyes wide. He had just started to trust Mark, and Mark didn't want to throw that all away so he ignores the man egging him on and instead watches where you are with the Warden.

"Fuck, I got a semi the other day when she was patching me up." Luis continues, taking another step towards Mark with two of his goons flanking him. "Her hands are so soft, I can't imagine what it'd feel like if she put those hands all over my co-"

The rest of his sentence is lost in the haze of red that washes over Mark's mind. He doesn't remember rising from the picnic table, doesn’t remember tackling Luis to the ground, and doesn't remember the first punch he throws into his face or the second or the third.

All he knows is that the moment the guards pull him off of Luis, whose nose is now broken for the second time, and his eyes find yours across the yard, and he sees the look of horror that crosses your face is that he messed up. Because Mark can lie to himself all day long, tell himself that he doesn't care about you, but seeing you look at him like that makes him want to throw all of this away.

And that's what scares him the most, because he can't, not when this is all he is and ever can be and you're everything else.

A/N: Just a tinsy bit of angst, a sprinkle if you will... Yes I know canonically that the Warden knows that Mark is undercover, I just wanted to make the Warden an even bigger jerk for warning her about Mark.

Taglist:

@jollyhunter @zepskies @waynes-multiverse @roseblue373 @angrydragon90

@kmc1989 @lunaleah @megara0224 @globetrotter98 @ladykitana90

@youroldfashioned @wonderland2022 @hellsbratonthet @moosewithabackstory @wvffles

@beakaleak32 @caroline-brooks @agentorange9595 @spxideyver

@hobby27 @anna-reid23 @britt217 @ralilda @lori19 @iamasimpingh0e

[zaynessbeloved]

At my mercy

Synopsis: You’ve had him at your mercy before, but tonight you want more—want Rafayel bound, blindfolded, and utterly yours. With teasing touches and slow, deliberate control, you take him apart piece by piece, claiming him in every way you crave. And he lets you—more than that, he revels in it—giving himself over entirely, only to turn the game back on you when you finally set him free.

Content warnings: Explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, mutual obsession, teasing dominance, sexually charged banter, verbal teasing, orgasm denial/control, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, possessiveness, praise kink, marking (biting/hickeys), blindfold use, bondage/restraints (consensual), power play (consensual), begging, grinding, riding, breath play (light), deep penetration, g-spot stimulation, rough sex, hair pulling, scratching, creampie, excessive wetness/fluid play, dirty talk, clit stimulation, sensory overload, aftercare implied.

Pairings: Rafayel x reader

Word count: 8.6k

A/n: a friend told me about a random horny thought of rafayelmc and shibari...and I thought, why not something a little more vanilla, but still freaky enough. alsooo, another friend of mine put the idea of raf slowly going blind...I will shut up now (enjoy, hehe)

It began with nothing more than an easy, harmless conversation—or at least, that’s how it started. You were curled on the couch, a book resting across your lap, bare legs stretched over a scatter of cushions, toes brushing against the edge of the armrest. Your attention was fixed on the pages, teeth lightly worrying at the pad of your pointer finger as your eyes devoured each line. The story had taken a turn toward the intimate—not rushed or frantic, but slow, deliberate, reverent. The main character’s hands moved over her lover with a featherlight touch, mapping him as though every inch was a secret to be learned. The scene was tender yet charged, drawing goosebumps along your arms with each word you swallowed down.

You didn’t notice the way your breathing slowed, how your posture shifted unconsciously as your mind’s eye painted the scene in aching detail. Your imagination never failed you; it could bring color and shadow to every whispered breath between those fictional lovers. So absorbed were you in the moment that you didn’t catch the way Rafayel’s gaze slid from his canvas to you, his brush hovering mid-stroke. That familiar, crooked smirk tugged at his mouth—a quiet tell of his amusement—before he returned to his work with a lazy flourish, though the drag of his brush had noticeably slowed.

You both loved these pockets of time together—you with your book, he with his art—sharing the same air while wandering different worlds, only to inevitably drift back into each other’s orbit. Rafayel had a habit of drawing you in without warning, leaning over to drape himself across your side or pressing a kiss against your cheek until you gave in and tangled your fingers in his hair. You’d laugh, he’d pretend he was only there to annoy you, and the two of you would dissolve into playful affection.

You only noticed he’d stopped painting when the faint drag of his brush across canvas fell silent. That quiet was followed by his voice—low, lilting, carrying a thread of amusement that curled at the edges of each word. “What’s got you so focused there, cutie? You almost look like you’re blushing.”

It was teasing, not an accusation, but still threaded with curiosity. You turned your head toward him slowly, finding his gaze already fixed on you, his hand poised in midair with the brush angled like an afterthought.

You knew better than to try fooling him—and truthfully, you had no desire to. Rafayel had always been too good at reading you, and sometimes you liked letting him. Especially when your reading wandered into more dangerous territory, the kind that planted small, vivid seeds in your mind… ideas you’d sometimes try later in bed, knowing he’d meet them with that infuriatingly pleased grin and a voice that practically purred in approval.

Realizing your teeth had been worrying your finger, you let it drop and instead tipped him a faint smile, tilting your head in feigned nonchalance. “Oh, nothing. Just… an interesting scene between the main couple.”

He hummed softly, a sound that was almost a laugh but too restrained to be one, keeping his gaze on you a beat longer than necessary. Then he returned to his painting, though the slight lift at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. You could already imagine the remark he’d make later—that knowing smirk and the casual way he’d slide into your space like it had always belonged to him.

But as the quiet settled again, your attention drifted from the page, an idea pulling at you. Without lifting your eyes from the book, you let your voice slip into the space between you, gentle but pointed. “Rafayel… do you trust me?”

Through the edge of your vision, you caught the turn of his head, the subtle pause before he answered. His brow arched, curiosity flaring like a match. “Well, that came out of nowhere.”

You finally looked at him, letting your eyes go wide, open, soft—the perfect balance of innocence and mischief. “Is that a no?”

His chuckle was quiet, deep, the kind that warmed the air between you. He shook his head slowly, tilting it as though to examine you from a better angle. “It’s not a no. But now…” he glanced meaningfully at your book, his gaze tracing its spine before returning to your face. “I’m curious what's this about. Very curious.”

Biting back your smile, you let your gaze drop briefly to the page again, your voice smooth and unhurried. “Nothing in particular. I just… want to try something.”

“Oh?” the way he leaned back slightly in his chair, brush now resting against the palette, told you he’d decided to indulge you. His eyes softened, glimmering with a quiet invitation. “And what exactly is this… something?”

Rather than answer, you closed the book carefully and set it face-down on the couch. You rose, crossing the small space between you without rush, each step a deliberate choice. His eyes followed you the entire way, that familiar flicker of interest building in them.

You stopped before him, lifting a hand to graze the line of his jaw. Your fingers skimmed the fine edge of stubble there, sliding up to cradle his cheek with a tenderness that made his lashes lower, his lips part slightly. Your smile curved slow and lazy, your voice a soft murmur. “Let me show you?”

And that was how you ended up here.

The quiet hum of the evening wrapped around your bedroom like a secret, the warm lamplight spilling gold across the bed where Rafayel now sat—or rather, where you had coaxed him to sit, step by step, until you had him exactly where you wanted him. You stood above him, a little breathless, a flush rising to your cheeks that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with anticipation curling low in your belly.

It hadn’t taken much to convince him—a question, a tilt of your head, the kind of look that told him you were already imagining it—whatever this was. He’d grinned like the trouble he was, leaned back with a careless sprawl that only made you want him more, and let you take control. Even as you gently urged him down onto the mattress, his eyes followed you, unblinking, sharp as a hawk’s.

By the time your hands began to peel away the layers from his body, his smirk had softened into something quieter, hotter. You caught the faint flush along the curve of his cheekbones, the tips of his ears warm and pink, the slow drag of his tongue over his lower lip as his gaze roamed over your face. You offered him nothing more than a small, sheepish smile before pressing him back into the bed.

You didn’t rush. You let each piece of clothing fall away in its own time, until he was bare beneath your touch, stretched out in lazy surrender. Then you slipped away to the drawer at your bedside, the familiar rasp of wood against wood making him shift faintly in curiosity. You pulled out a length of soft, dark fabric and returned to him, holding it up just long enough for his mouth to quirk in knowing amusement.

And then the world went dark for him.

He lay there blindfolded, the lamplight forgotten, his body thrumming with the tension of anticipation. You could feel it in the way his breathing had deepened, in the faint lift of his chest as he searched for you with his ears. His fingers flexed against the sheets, resisting the urge to reach for you—though you knew he would, the moment you gave him a chance.

You leaned down until your lips hovered just beside his ear, your voice a warm murmur against his skin. “I know you trust me, Rafayel… but if you want me to stop, all you have to do is say so. Okay?”

His chuckle was low and languid, as though he found the idea absurd. He tilted his head subtly toward you, brushing close enough for your hair to tickle his cheek. “Cutie, that’s not going to happen. So go on… do whatever you want.”

He had always been able to sound both dangerous and comforting at the same time, and the combination sent a delicious shiver through you. You pressed a slow kiss to the line of his jaw, catching the soft inhale he couldn’t quite hide, and let yourself smile against his skin before pulling away.

When you returned, it was with the true prize — ropes, smooth beneath your fingers as you trailed them lightly over his arm before guiding his wrists together. His smirk deepened as the first loop tightened, the blindfold turning his every movement into instinct. You worked deliberately, binding him in a way you knew would hold him still, his arms stretched above his head, helpless to do more than feel.

By the time you were done, his breathing had changed. Still steady, but edged with a quicker rhythm. Your gaze wandered lower, and the sight that greeted you was enough to make your own pulse stumble—he was already hard for you, almost fully, the effect of your slow game written plainly across his body.

You didn’t touch him yet. You simply sat beside him, letting the air between you thicken, your presence a lure just out of reach.

Leaning in again, your lips found his ear, your voice a silk-thread whisper laced with heat. “I’ll be right back… don’t squirm too much.”

A short, raspy breath slipped from him, chased by a quiet chuckle. He inclined his head toward your voice, as if he could catch you that way, and you could almost see the smile curling on his lips. “No promises.”

You slip quietly from the room, leaving him to steep in anticipation, your absence another layer in the game. 

Each step toward the kitchen feels deliciously purposeful, a secret you’re carrying down the hall. The cool air greets you as you open the refrigerator, the faint hum of it filling the stillness. Your fingers close around a handful of ice cubes, their cold bite sparking a shiver up your arms. 

Already, your body hums at the thought of how Rafayel will react—how his lips will part, how his breath will catch when the chill grazes his skin. He never disappoints. Every time you touch him, his reactions feed you—stoking desire until it flares hotter, brighter.

On the way back, you pass the table where his clean brushes are laid out in neat disarray, the tools of his art waiting for his hand. You gather a few, curling them carefully in your fingers before returning to the bedroom.

He is exactly as you left him—bound and bare, blindfolded and stretched across your bed like temptation incarnate. The lamplight plays over him in soft gold, tracing the planes of his body, lingering in the hollows between his ribs and the cut of his hipbones. He tilts his head slightly when you enter, as though his body knows your presence before his mind does.

You set the ice on the nightstand and settle onto the bed beside him, your gaze drinking in the sight of him like a guilty pleasure. Picking up one of the brushes, you dip its bristles into the meltwater beading at the bottom of the glass until they glisten.

His breathing remains steady, but the tension is there—the quiet coil of desire in the line of his jaw, the subtle tightening of his abdomen as he waits. His voice comes low and velvety, threaded with that impossible mix of curiosity and mischief. “Should I be daring enough,” he drawls, “to suggest this is what had you blushing over that book this afternoon?”

Your laugh is soft, unhurried. You don’t touch him yet, though the brush hovers close enough for him to sense it. “It’s not,” you murmur, letting the damp bristles finally sweep along the slope of his neck and over his collarbone. “But… I won’t deny it’s what prompted this.”

The sigh that slips from him is subtle but telling. His body shifts, a quiet squirm beneath your gaze. You angle closer, brushing the delicate edge of his ear with your breath. “Now,” you whisper, “relax… let me enjoy this.”

He chuckles, though it’s softer now, more air than sound. His chest rises beneath your hand as you guide the brush down to trace slow circles over one nipple. His breath hitches—the smallest, sweetest catch—and you wet your lips, filing away the sound. He’s always been sensitive to touch, but now you wonder just how much.

You drift lower, the brush tracing a barely-there path down his abdomen. It’s maddening in its restraint, and you know it—the kind of teasing that doesn’t give his nerves the satisfaction of pressure, only the ghost of it. He squirms again, and you know his mind is already imagining your hands, your mouth, replacing the brush.

Color warms his skin, dusting his cheeks and the tips of his ears. His lips part on a faint groan before you pull the brush away entirely. He lets out a sound that’s almost a whine, playful but laced with impatience. “Using my own brushes against me,” he says, the smile audible in his voice. “How cruel, cutie.”

You only hum in response, moving to straddle him without letting your body touch his. Leaning in, your mouth finds the angle of his jaw, your voice dipping into the tone you know unravels him. “We both know I don’t play fair when I want something.”

Your fingers find the ice, holding it delicately before letting it trail a languid path down the curve of his chest. He flinches at the chill, muscles flexing instinctively. You drag it over one nipple, watching him jerk faintly, then glide it down the ladder of his abs. “And right now,” you murmur, deceptively sweet, “I want you at my mercy. So behave, hmm?”

The moan that slips from him is low, unguarded, his body shifting restlessly against the restraints. He’s beautiful like this—straining under you, already pliant yet still trying to keep some semblance of control.

“Ahh… f–fuck…” the curse is broken on his breath, a sharp exhale riding its tail. You circle the ice again, tracing the same path, slower this time, savoring the tremor in his voice. He squirms again, the ropes holding him exactly where you want him.

“It’s cruel,” he says, though there’s more heat than protest in his tone. “Playing with me like this.” then, quieter, teasing, the edges softened by his ragged breathing, “You must love how I look like this… under you, completely yours.”

You hum in quiet acknowledgment—the only sound he can cling to in the darkness of his blindfold. Shifting your weight, you slide lower on the bed until you’re settled just above his thighs. His body reacts instinctively to your nearness—a subtle squirm, the faint flex of his arms against the restraints, a tightening in his chest as though bracing for whatever you might do next.

The ice between your fingers is nearly half-melted now, trailing a cool, teasing line over the sharp ridge of his hipbone, skimming the hollow just above his groin without venturing further. His breath hitches. Beneath your gaze, his cock twitches, eager and aching for more than you’ve given.

You take your time, eyes lingering on him—every detail, every little tremor. His lips are parted, breath slipping out in uneven grunts and soft whines that make heat coil deep in your stomach.

Your voice is a lazy drawl when you finally speak, warm and dripping with sin. “Do you want to know how you look right now, Rafayel?”

He shifts slightly, as if leaning toward the sound of your voice. 

You let the pause stretch before continuing, savoring the way his breathing catches. “Hot and flushed under me… twitching at the slightest touch…” you lower the ice, dragging it in a slow, merciless path from the tip of his cock down to the base. “…already hard and dripping.”

The sound he makes is beautiful—a low, sinful moan that spills from his mouth unguarded. You lean closer, the words brushing his ear like a kiss. “You’re beautiful, my love. And so sensitive, aren’t you?”

You drag the melting cube along him again, unhurried, until it’s gone entirely—nothing left but the wet trail it leaves behind and the shudder that runs through him. He’s panting now, restrained in more ways than one, but you don’t give him the satisfaction of your touch. Instead, you reach for another cube, letting the silence stretch just long enough for him to chase it with his voice.

“Touch me.” 

It’s ragged, nearly pleading, but still stubborn enough to make you smirk. You lift an eyebrow he can’t see and set the ice against the side of his neck—far from where he wants you. “But I am touching you, aren’t I?”

The innocence in your tone is deliberate, the heat beneath it unmistakable. You let the ice wander up his jaw until it hovers at his lips. Instinct takes over—his tongue slips out, slow and searching, tracing the chill in deliberate strokes. His moan rumbles low in his chest, and you feel the answering ache pulse between your thighs.

You press the cube gently to his mouth until his lips part, allowing it in, and then you follow—your mouth claiming his in a slow, wet kiss. Your tongue slides against his, playing with the melting shard between you, tasting the faint bite of cold and the heat rising from him all at once.

He moans into you again, the sound heavier this time, and you know it well—the sound of him unraveling, desperate and wanting, even without the touch he’s begging for. And it pleases you, the way he squirms and strains beneath you, the way every breath and shiver says you already have him exactly where you want him.

You keep your mouth just out of reach when the kiss breaks, watching the faint twitch of his lips as he chases you with a soft, frustrated grunt. The sound is low, almost a whimper, threaded with impatience. “Don’t stop kissing me, cutie… I need to touch you…”

His voice trembles with want, the edges softened by that velvety warmth he always carries. You smirk, letting him feel the heat of your breath without granting him the taste of your lips again. Instead, you press featherlight kisses to the sharp line of his jaw, working slowly downward. Each kiss is a whisper against his heated skin, fleeting enough to leave him leaning toward you.

You trail lower to the curve of his neck, barely brushing him, savoring the subtle shiver that runs through his body. Your hand slides over the mark that binds you—the faint, luminous trace glowing against the steady thrum of his heart. His moan is immediate, rough, and his body jerks faintly under your touch.

“How badly do you want to kiss me?” your voice is honeyed heat against his skin, your lips moving to claim the hollow of his throat in a slow, deliberate suck. The sound that escapes him is pure pleasure, laced with need—and you know, without looking, that his cock must be twitching at the contact.

You’ve learned every nuance of him—every shiver, every catch of breath, every point along his body that unravels him. With the blindfold and restraints, his senses must be sharpened to a fine edge, every touch magnified. You mean to make the most of it.

Your mouth ghosts over the line of his collarbone before dipping lower. You let your tongue draw a slow path over his bond mark, savoring the way his chest rises sharply beneath you. The sound that follows—a desperate, broken grunt—makes satisfaction curl deep in your belly. 

“Such pretty sounds,” you murmur, your tone rich with sinful amusement. “Are you desperate already, Rafayel?”

His breath spills out on a laugh that’s half a groan. “Hah… I know what you want to hear, cutie.” his hips shift restlessly beneath you, a shallow buck born of pure frustration, seeking contact you won’t give. His arms pull against the restraints, the movement drawing a flex of muscle that looks maddeningly good from where you sit.

You can’t help but remember the way those arms usually handle you—so easily, so greedily—pulling you close, holding you still while his hands roam with absolute ownership. The thought alone sends a sharp ache through you, heat pooling low as you clench around nothing. But you keep your mask in place, wearing your smirk like armor and your voice composed, refusing to give away just how badly you want him too.

“Is it so wrong,” you murmur, your voice low and coaxing, “to want to hear how desperate you really are for me?”

Your lips hover just above the mark over his heart, letting your breath warm his skin before pressing a kiss there, slow and lingering. His chest rises beneath you, a shiver rippling through him. 

“We both know what you want,” you continue, letting your tone dip into something silkier. “So why don’t you say it? Beg me, Rafayel… and maybe—” your mouth brushes him again, “just maybe—I’ll take pity on you.”

You trail downward, tongue tracing the lines of his abdomen where the ice had melted earlier, following the faint, cooled path until your mouth reaches the dip of his navel. He groans, shifting restlessly under you, the sound rougher now, weighted with urgency.

Your chuckle vibrates against his skin, your teeth grazing the curve of his hip before you close your mouth over it, sucking until a faint mark blooms beneath your lips.

“O-Oh—fuck…” his voice trembles into a breathless whine, the kind that curls heat in your stomach. “You’re so cruel… and teasing…” the protest breaks into a moan as your teeth scrape lightly against his hipbone, so dangerously close to the heat you’ve been denying him. “Can’t you see how hard I am for you, cutie? I need to feel you… please?”

You smile against his skin, a quiet satisfaction curling through you. Your hands slide up the strong line of his thighs, feeling them tighten under your touch. His breathing is harsh now, each inhale short and shallow. His cock is flushed a deep, aching pink, swollen and leaking, the trail of arousal glistening faintly along his abdomen.

You lean closer until your breath ghosts over him, watching the twitch that runs through his length at the first hint of warmth. The groan that follows is delicious—low, frayed, hungry.

“Y-yes… please…” his voice breaks softly, toeing the line between playful submission and raw need. You know it for what it is—his way of sinking into the game you’ve spun around him, and also the truth of his desire, laid bare and shameless. He’s already on edge, teetering, and he loves it—loves the way you hold him here, bound and waiting, loves how easily you can strip away his composure until he’s just this for you: needy, pliant, undone.

“Yeah?” your voice dips as you lean in, your lips almost brushing him. “You want it?”

The muscle in his thigh jumps beneath your palm as you whisper against the flushed head of his cock, your breath curling hot around him. “So swollen and pretty, Raf… Bet you’re not even going to last long once I give it to you, hm?”

You let your tongue flick across him, a soft, teasing lick to the tip that gathers the taste of him on your tongue. His reaction is immediate—a guttural, unrestrained moan as his hips buck up toward your mouth. You hold him down easily, giving him only a few kitten-soft licks, tasting the bead of precum and letting the flavor bloom over your tongue.

“Mmm…” your voice hums low, deliberate. “Tastes so good…”

Above you, he groans again, head tilting back against the pillows as his arms strain against the bindings. His abs flex, muscles tightening beneath his skin as he trembles in restraint. 

“O-oh my god… hah…” his voice is raw now, stripped of any pretense. “Just—please… let me feel your lips around me, yes? I’ll be good… just don’t make me wait anymore…”

“My pretty, desperate boy…” the words spill from you in a low murmur, curling warmly around the air between you. Your lips hover just above him, your breath skimming the flushed length before you press another languid lick along his cock. The sound you make is a soft, indulgent hum, the kind born from sheer satisfaction at the way he shivers for you. 

“So eager,” you murmur, voice sultry and coaxing. “Let me hear how good I make you feel, hm?”

You don’t give him a chance to answer. Instead, your lips part, your tongue circling the sensitive head in slow, deliberate swirls before you take him in—inch by inch, drawing him down your throat with maddening unhurriedness until the thick tip nudges the back of your throat.

His reaction is immediate, uncontrollable. His hips jolt hard, a guttural moan tearing from his throat as if he can’t hold it back. The sound vibrates through you, rich and raw, and it only makes you close your lips tighter around him.

You feel his muscles tense beneath your hands, the restrained push of his hips trying to meet you, the tremor that runs the length of him as you begin to suck in slow, deep pulls, your tongue curling around him exactly the way you know he likes.

“F-fuck, yes… yes… oh—” the words stumble from him in breathless fragments, fraying at the edges with need. His body is trembling now, each breath caught between a pant and a moan. His head tips back, lips parted, chest rising and falling with the urgency of each inhale. “I love your mouth… you’re so warm, so good… ahh…”

Your eyes flick up to him, drinking in the sight—the flush across his cheekbones, the strain in his jaw as he loses himself in the sensation. You moan around him, the sound low and unrestrained, letting him feel the vibration against his length. His praise slides over you like molten heat, sinking into every part of you. It always does this—makes your body tighten, your pulse race, your core ache with a deeper need. And he knows it.

He’s close. You can feel it in the twitch of his cock against your tongue, in the way his stomach flexes, in the subtle stutter of his breathing. You take him deeper, swallowing him with eager devotion, your lips sealing tight around him as you pull him closer to the edge.

Above you, his voice finds you again, breaking through a panting moan—quieter now, almost reverent, as though confessing a secret meant only for you.

“A-ahh… I’m close, don’t—” his voice catches, pleasure fracturing the words before he can finish them.

You feel the tension coil through him, the taut pull of muscle under your hands, the subtle stutter in his breathing as the edge nears. You know exactly what he’s about to say, the plea hovering on the tip of his tongue—don’t stop.

And that’s when you do.

You pull off him with a wet, deliberate pop, the sudden absence making his whole body seize in place. The force of it hits him hard—denial sharp and sudden, locking every nerve in place before spilling into restless tremors.

“F-fuck, cutie…” his voice breaks into a groan, deep and ragged. “was so close…” 

The words tumble out with a soft whine, and then he grunts, the frustration spilling through every twitch of his hips as they move helplessly against the air.

You chuckle low in your throat, sitting back on your heels so you can take him in—the sight of him undone and bound, the glossy flush along his skin, the way his chest rises and falls in ragged, shallow breaths. He’s beautiful like this, sweat dampening the strands of hair clinging to his temple, every line of him radiating want.

Your fingers toy absently with the hem of your shirt before you peel it off, the cool air catching against the already stiff peaks of your nipples. Your panties cling to your skin, soaked through, and you slip them down slowly, watching his head turn fractionally toward the faint rustle of movement. He can’t see you, but you know he’s trying to—his lips parting on a faint, curious pant, his breathing shifting subtly with the sound.

Climbing back over him, you straddle his hips without letting your skin touch his. The mattress dips beneath your knees, and he squirms faintly at the sensation, searching for contact he’s not yet allowed.

You hover close enough that your breath brushes his lips. Your voice drops to a low, sultry whine—one that threads with the heat pooling low in your belly.

“I know… I know…” you murmur, brushing your mouth against his in a fleeting kiss that barely tastes of him. You don’t deepen it, not yet.

“It’s just…” your tone softens further, dripping with confession as you trail a slow finger along the line of his throat. “Doing all these things to you—having you laid out naked beneath me, unable to do anything but take whatever I give you…” you lean in until your lips are almost touching his, your breath mingling with his ragged exhales. “…it made me so wet, Rafayel.”

The words melt into a low moan against his mouth, your hips hovering just high enough to deny him any friction. Your finger continues its slow path, tracing over the hollow of his collarbone before skimming down toward his chest.

“Don’t you want to feel it?” you whisper, the question curling with heat and the faintest hint of a dare. “How wet I am for you…”

His groan is low and feral, the kind of sound that coils heat deep in your belly. His lips part, desperate to claim yours, but before he can, you sink down onto him in one smooth, relentless motion. The stretch steals your breath, the slow, molten slide of him filling you until you’re seated fully against his hips.

A moan spills from you unbidden, your palms braced against his chest to steady yourself. Beneath you, his heartbeat pounds against your hands, strong and erratic. Inside you, he twitches, the shudder of it matched by the rough, unrestrained groan that rips from his throat. His curses tumble under his breath, ragged and heated, his arms straining against the restraints until the skin around his wrists blooms red from the struggle.

“Mhmm yes…” your voice is a sultry purr as you roll your hips slowly, letting him feel the molten heat of you wrapped around every inch of him. “Feel how wet I am for you… how good I take you… claiming you just the way you want it…” your voice is thick with desire and possessiveness. “You’re all mine, Rafayel.”

You rise, slow and deliberate, before sinking back down, the friction sending a shock of pleasure through you that has your breath catching. You know he can feel it—the slick slide, the way you drip down over him with every movement—and it’s driving him wild. His hips try to thrust upward, an instinctive push to meet you, but you press him down firmly with a gasp that’s equal parts warning and pleasure.

“Let me ride you, baby…” you lean forward, the whisper curling against his lips. “Just sit back and enjoy, yeah? Be a good boy and listen to me.”

Before he can answer, you claim his mouth, kissing him with the same hunger you’ve been stoking in him all night. His moan vibrates into you, and you feel the delicious twitch inside as his body answers every kiss, every grind of your hips. Your teeth graze his lower lip, and he bites back just enough to draw another sharp sound from you.

You start to move in earnest now, riding him in a rhythm that makes your breath come fast, each downward push angled until you find that perfect spot deep inside. The one that makes your vision flash white for a heartbeat.

Rafayel groans against your neck when you lean over him, your hair brushing over his skin as you work yourself on him. His hips flex in tiny, frustrated jolts, unable to thrust fully, unable to touch you, his arms bound above his head. All he can do is take it—take you—while you use him exactly as you want, the soft rasp of your gasps and the wet slap of your bodies the only sounds between his moans.

At some point, he finds his opening. You’re leaning over him, hair spilling forward, when his head lifts just enough for his mouth to close over one of your nipples.

The groan that rumbles in his chest is unrestrained—pure, hungry satisfaction that he’s finally gotten to taste you, to claim a part of you with his mouth even while bound.

“My girl…” the words are husky against your skin, vibrating into the soft curve of your breast as he sucks. “You’re doing so good… riding me so well—f-fuck…” his voice breaks into a moan, his breath catching as you clench down around him at the praise.

“Yes…” he gasps, his mouth sealing over you again before giving a sharp, deliberate bite to your nipple. You cry out, your hips stuttering for a moment before you press harder into him. “Do it just like that… I can feel how close you are, cutie.” he pulls you deeper against his mouth, sucking again until heat licks down your spine. “Take me… just like that… ohhh, fuck…”

“R-Raf…” his name falls from your lips in a drawn-out moan, your voice trembling as you move faster, harder, your nails digging crescent marks into his chest. His groan deepens at the sting, the sound vibrating in his throat like he wants to devour you whole.

“I’m… c-close, gonna—” the words splinter into a high, breathless sound as your body seizes around him. You clench hard, your eyes rolling back as a wave of heat bursts through you. The world narrows to the drag of him inside you, the slick heat spreading between your thighs, the sharp pleasure shattering into pulses that leave your whole body trembling.

But you don’t stop. Even as your orgasm tips into overstimulation, you keep moving, riding him with determined, shuddering thrusts. The wet sound of your bodies meeting fills the air, mingling with his groans and your own ragged gasps.

He’s not far behind. You can feel the change—the way his cock hardens further, the twitch against your inner walls, the stutter in his breathing.

“Don’t stop…” his voice is strained, desperate in a way that makes your pulse quicken. “I’m so close, cutie… please… let me—”

You clench again and it unravels him. He spills into you with a guttural moan, his entire body shuddering hard beneath yours. The ropes strain against his wrists as his muscles tighten, his hips jerking in small, helpless thrusts.

“F-fuck… yes…” his voice is wrecked, breathless. “Kiss me.”

You lean down without hesitation, your lips crashing into his in a desperate, consuming kiss. His mouth parts instantly, pulling you into the kind of kiss that’s all heat and release, all teeth and tongue and unspoken want. You tremble together, still moving faintly against each other, caught between the fading pulses of your orgasms and the sharp edge of overstimulation.

You moan into his mouth, the sound tangled with the dizzy edge of overstimulation and the deeper, hungrier ache to stay pressed against him. Beneath you, his body trembles, his groan vibrating against your lips. Every inch of him feels alive and raw—too sensitive, yet unwilling to let go of you.

You keep moving against him, refusing to ease the connection, even as his arms flex against the rope in an instinctive urge to touch you. The bindings hold firm, the red marks at his wrists a visible echo of how desperately he’s fought for that contact. His blindfold is still perfectly in place, but you don’t need to see his eyes to know what they’d hold right now—dark amethyst, heavy with hunger, with devotion, with that particular shade of desire that is his alone.

You trail kisses along his jaw, down the warm line of his throat, until your lips hover just beside his ear. Your breath brushes over him in a whisper, and you feel the subtle twitch inside you when it lands. He’s still catching his breath, the hard edge of his release fading into something softer, his cock settling half-hard within you.

Your lips curve into a quiet smile against his skin as you tighten around him deliberately—a playful squeeze that makes him whine low in his throat. “Think you can get hard again, baby?” 

Your voice is light but edged in heat, your teeth finding his neck as you begin to mark him in slow, deliberate bites. You’ve learned every place he likes it—the ones that make him sigh, the ones that make him groan, the ones that make him gasp and buck. He wears them all proudly, never caring who sees, as if each one is a reminder he belongs to you.

His answering chuckle is warm but shaky, cut through with a hissed breath as you drag your mouth along the curve of his throat. “Don’t insult me like that, cutie…” his voice dips lower, wrapping around you like silk. “I’m always hard for you, and you know that.”

Even in the roughness of his breathing, that unshakable confidence bleeds through—every word threaded with devotion that burns just as brightly as the hunger. And as if to prove himself, you feel him begin to swell inside you again, the slow, inevitable build sending a curl of heat back into your core.

You claim his mouth again, the taste of him still lingering—swollen lips, heat, and the faint desperation of a man who’s been starved for your touch. Your hips shift in a slow, deliberate grind, drawing a groan from deep in his chest that he swallows into the kiss.

One of your hands finds its way to the bindings above his head, your fingers brushing over the taut rope. You toy with the knots idly, feeling the subtle tension in his arms as he flexes against them, a restrained twitch of muscle that betrays just how badly he wants to be free.

“You’re tense…” the words are a low purr as you roll your hips again, earning another pair of gasps—one from him, one from you. “Should I untie you…” your mouth grazes his, your breath curling over him like a secret, “…or keep you at my mercy a little longer, until you can’t take it anymore?”

The tease is sultry, but your own voice is thick with need. You’re just as far gone—filled with the urge to take him, to mark him, to make him yours in every way you know how.

His hands flex again above his head, his breathing harsh and uneven. You feel the twitch inside you with every slow ride of your hips, the heat building between you in a slow burn. He’s flushed to the point of glowing, sweat dampening the strands of hair clinging to his temple, his mouth parted and impossibly inviting.

And yet his voice, when it comes, is still that low, wrecked rumble—steady enough to carry the warning laced within it, and just teasing enough to pull another shiver from you.

“You know what’ll happen if you untie me right now…” his lips curl faintly, even as he groans. “Are you sure you can handle it, cutie?”

The question coils in your stomach like a spark. You moan against his mouth, kissing him again, both of you breaking into soft whines between breaths. When you part, you hover close enough that your lips still brush his as you speak.

“You know I can handle you just fine,” you whisper, your fingers finally working at the knots. The rope gives slowly, your hands trembling more from anticipation than the effort. “So do whatever you want to me…”

The last knot loosens, and the change is immediate. His hands break free in a sharp flex of muscle, and before you can even take another breath, the world tilts.

You find yourself on your back, the mattress dipping beneath you as his weight presses you down. His mouth crashes into yours in a bruising kiss that leaves no space for air, only for the heat between you. You feel his fingers fumble briefly at the blindfold before it’s ripped away, and then his eyes are on you—dark amethyst, intense enough to steal the breath from your chest.

The first thing they do is drink you in. The second is devour you.

His hands roam instantly, gripping you hard enough to leave their mark. You arch into the pressure, your moan muffled against his lips as your legs lock around his hips. Your own hands find his hair, wet from sweat, tangling in the deep purple strands as you pull him closer, needing him like you need air.

He doesn’t move inside you at first. The stillness is maddening, your body aching to feel him, your muscles clenching instinctively around him in an unspoken plea. His mouth, however, is merciless—trailing over your neck, teeth grazing, lips sucking deep marks into your skin in a fevered need to claim. Each press of his mouth is hot and wet, leaving behind the kind of marks he knows you’ll wear for days.

His hands grip your hips like he owns them, fingers digging into the curve of your waist as a deep, guttural groan rumbles in his chest. His breath is ragged when he finally speaks, his words a heated promise against your throat. “I’m gonna fuck you so good,” he murmurs, low enough to vibrate against your skin, “you’re gonna beg me not to stop.”

He doesn’t give you time to answer. His mouth dips lower, catching your breast in his teeth, biting just enough to make you gasp. His tongue circles your nipple slowly, drawing a shiver from you as you arch against him. You clench around his cock again, and this time his groan is sharp, drawn from deep in his chest. “But first…” his lips brush against you in a fleeting kiss before his teeth find you again. “…let me have my little fun, yeah?”

His bite tightens briefly around your nipple, just as his other hand slides between your bodies. His thumb finds your swollen clit, pressing and circling with deliberate pressure until you shiver hard, your walls fluttering around him. “Be a good girl,” he murmurs, the grin audible in his voice, “it’s my turn now.”

And then he moves.

The first thrust is brutal in its depth, driving into you hard enough that your back arches high off the bed. Stars burst across your vision, and the moan that rips from you is almost choked, your fingers tangling desperately in his damp hair. He groans into your skin, his voice low and coarse as he swears, shifting his grip to hook one of your legs over his shoulder. The new angle steals your breath, forcing him deeper, pressing into you in a way that makes your lungs stutter for air.

You gasp, eyes rolling halfway back. “T-there… god—yes, right there…”

Your voice fractures into a moan as his lips skim down to your ankle, his teeth catching lightly on the smooth skin of your calf. His hips slam forward again, harder this time, and you feel the tremor in his body—not from fatigue, but from the sheer force of his own arousal. He’s breathless, sweaty, trembling with the need to bury himself deep, to make you feel just how perfectly he fits inside you.

He smirks through the haze of his own groans and whines, shamelessly vocal with every thrust. His thumb returns to your clit, drawing rough, fast circles that make you cry out, your voice breaking into sobbed moans. You’re both already oversensitive, every nerve frayed and raw, which makes each snap of his hips feel like fire licking through your veins.

“There?” his voice is tight, wavering between teasing and worship as he feels your body tighten around him again. “I can feel you clench hard—fuck… you like it that much, huh?”

You can’t answer—only moan, desperate and unrestrained, clinging to his arm and twisting the sheets in your fist as he drives into you again and again, relentless and utterly devoted to breaking you apart on him.

His grip on your hip is unrelenting, fingers digging into you like he’s anchoring himself there, holding you exactly where he wants you. His thumb never falters, moving over your clit in the same maddening rhythm—steady, deliberate, devastating. Each circle sends a tremor through you, your gasps breaking into choked moans, your body arching under the onslaught.

His thrusts are deep and punishing, hitting that place inside you that makes your vision stutter and your breath catch. Every movement knocks a sound from you, and he swallows some of them in heated kisses, groaning low in his throat when you clench around him.

You’re so close it’s dizzying—your eyes threatening to roll back completely, your body tensing as you hover right on the edge. He shifts, bending your leg higher against him, the change in angle stealing the air from your lungs as he buries himself even deeper. His free hand comes up to your jaw, curling around your neck with a gentle but firm hold—just the way he knows you crave.

“I’m… oh—Raf, I’m gonna—” the words tumble from you in ragged gasps, barely coherent.

His chuckle is breathless, warm against your skin. “Mm… good.” His voice dips lower, the sound melting into a moan as his thumb works faster, the tighter circles sending your entire body into shuddering spasms. Your thighs shake violently, your chest rising and falling in frantic rhythm.

He’s driving so deep now you see stars, your head tipping back as your mouth parts on a desperate gasp. “T-there, please… wanna come…”

“So beautiful, cutie.” his voice is hoarse, the teasing edge gone, replaced with something reverent, almost pleading. “Wanna see you come this time… c’mon, my love…” his hips grind harder into you, a broken grunt catching in his throat when your walls squeeze him tight.

Your vision blurs, the room melting away as you shatter around him, a high, breathless moan spilling from your lips. Your spine arches off the bed, every muscle in your body locking in pure bliss. His groan is low and guttural, his pace only quickening as you come undone, chasing the high he’s pulling from you.

But he doesn’t stop. His thumb keeps circling your swollen clit, his thrusts still deep and demanding, pushing you higher when you think you can’t take more.

“C-can’t… ohhh, god, Raf…” the words are torn from you as another wave crashes through your already sensitive body. You’re trembling, your chest heaving, your skin flushed and damp with sweat. It’s too much and not enough all at once—pain and pleasure blurring until you’re gasping through tears, the sensation bordering on overwhelming.

Your body locks again before you can prepare for it, the release tearing through you so violently you almost lose consciousness for a heartbeat. Heat floods between you, soaking him, soaking the sheets beneath you. Somewhere in the haze, you feel him jerk inside you, the raw, guttural groan spilling against your throat as he releases.

“Y-yes… yes, just like that, cutie…” his voice breaks on the words, hips driving in shallow, trembling thrusts as his cum fills you. “Doing so good… I love you—ah, love you… mine… mine…”

You both stay there, tangled together, chasing the ragged edges of your breath. Your limbs feel heavy, slack against the bed, every muscle spent from the storm you’ve just ridden out. Above you, Rafayel’s chest rises and falls in the same uneven rhythm, his damp hair brushing your forehead as he leans down to claim your mouth again. The kiss is rough, melting into something warmer as your lips mold together, neither of you in any rush to break it.

Your body trembles faintly from oversensitivity, and you can’t help the tired little chuckle that slips against his lips. You shift, slow and careful, until you’re nestled more comfortably beneath him, his body still joined with yours. Your face finds the warm hollow of his neck, your voice soft and laced with weary amusement. “This was not supposed to end with me almost broken in half,” you huff against his skin.

He laughs, the sound low and warm, his fingers idly tracing the curve of your side. “Mmh… I think it was exactly what you wanted, wasn’t it?” his voice is still husky from exertion, but the teasing is unmistakable. He pulls you in closer, his nose brushing your hair as if he can’t quite get enough of your scent.

You press a gentle kiss to the side of his neck, smiling faintly when he hums in quiet approval. “Yeah…” you murmur, letting the word melt into his skin.

You stay like that for a while, the minutes stretching softly around you, until the inevitable comes. He finally slips out of you, and the loss draws a quiet, involuntary whine from both your throats. The warmth between you lingers, though, carrying you through the slow walk to the bath.

The hot water cradles you both, easing the ache from your limbs. You soak together for what must be an hour, trading lazy kisses and tender touches, fingers brushing over each other in slow, affectionate sweeps as you wash away the night’s evidence. He kisses your shoulder when you rinse his hair, his hands gliding down your spine with absent reverence.

Later, clean and warm, you collapse into the freshly changed sheets he’s prepared, the softness swallowing you whole. You curl instinctively into him, your cheek pillowed against his chest, his arm snug around your waist. His voice, when it comes, is quieter now—still carrying that playful lilt, but softened with tenderness that’s reserved just for you.

 “So…” he drawls, thumb brushing lazy circles over your hip. “I’m guessing you got… pretty inspired by your little book this time.”

You chuckle, nuzzling deeper into his neck, a flicker of shyness in the curve of your smile. “I didn’t go too far, did I?” you already know the answer, but you like to hear it from him—you always do. For you, it’s important that he’s as lost in it as you are, that he’s with you every step of the way.

He laughs quietly, tilting his head so he can nudge your face from his neck, coaxing you to meet his gaze. His amethyst eyes are soft and unguarded now, a gentle light in them that never fails to undo you.

 “You know how much I love when you claim me as yours,” he murmurs, the words almost a secret. He leans in to kiss you, slow and unhurried, smiling faintly against your lips. “Plus…” he adds between kisses, “…I wouldn’t mind another round of you doing that.”

A quiet laugh escapes you, and his fingers tighten at your waist before he trails his lips along your jaw. “Or more,” he whispers against your skin, the promise warm and lingering.

© zaynessbeloved 2025

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST HERE AND ON MY AO3.

.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!

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[mistyshane30]

You Were Never Mine to Lose (Chapter 28)

Synopsis: A heavy heart stirs beneath a calm surface. As time moves gently forward, the weight of unspoken things begins to shift, quietly and inevitably.

Word count: 4.1K

Warnings: Angst, Unresolved emotions, Mentions of alcohol consumption

You sat on the couch, a soft throw blanket draped across your lap, the movie playing in front of you already halfway through. The kids were nestled beside you, one leaning against your arm, the other curled up at the far end of the couch with a pillow. They were completely absorbed—laughing when the animated characters did something silly, gasping when the plot thickened.

But you weren’t watching.

Your eyes were on the screen, but your mind wasn’t there. Your fingers fidgeted with the edge of the blanket, barely noticing the way your thumb had been rubbing against the same seam for the past ten minutes.

Ralph’s words kept echoing. His voice, low and calm like he knew he had the upper hand. His threat wasn’t loud. But it was loud enough.

And now you didn’t know what to do.

Would telling Agatha put her in more danger? Would it ruin everything she's built? Her career, her reputation—her children? But keeping this from her… was that any better?

You didn’t hear the door open at first—not until one of the kids perked up and gasped, “Mommy’s home!”

They jumped up, scrambling toward the foyer. You blinked, startled out of your spiraling thoughts, and followed behind them, quickly rising to your feet.

Agatha stood in the doorway, McDonald’s takeout in hand, her coat still on, her face tired but lit up at the sight of her children.

“Hey, babies,” she smiled, stooping slightly to hug them both at once.

You gave her your best smile—soft, quiet, a little shaky around the edges—but hopefully not enough to raise alarms.

“Smells like fries,” one of the kids beamed.

“Go ahead, you two. Eat at the table,” Agatha said, handing them the bag.

They didn’t need to be told twice. They scutter to the dining area, already arguing over who got the last nugget.

You reached for Agatha’s coat. “Let me.”

She let you help her out of it, and you took her bag from her arm. Your hands lingered on her elbow just a second longer than needed.

And then, without thinking too hard about it—you leaned in and kissed her. Slow. Careful. A little too gentle. Like your lips were memorizing the feel of her, just in case.

Your eyes stung, and for a second you thought you were going to cry. But nothing fell. You blinked it back, swallowing tightly.

Agatha pulled away, eyebrows knitting. “Hey… what’s wrong?”

You shook your head, barely mustering the strength to whisper, “I just missed you.”

She exhaled softly and brushed your cheek with her lips. “I missed you too,” she murmured, pulling you into a hug. You buried your face in her shoulder for a few extra seconds.

When she pulled back, she smiled at you like she hadn’t noticed the way your body had gone just a little stiff. “C’mon. Let’s go eat.”

You nodded.

The rest of the night passed in the soft glow of domesticity.

You all sat around the table, the kids chatting about their day. Agatha stole fries off their trays, teased them about their ketchup-stained cheeks. She reached over sometimes to touch your hand, or tuck a piece of hair behind your ear.

You smiled when she did.

You laughed when appropriate.

You were present. But you weren’t really there.

Later, when the kids were asleep—finally quiet after two bedtime stories and one trip to the bathroom—you joined Agatha in bed.

She was already under the covers, scrolling through something on her phone when you slid in beside her. The sheets were cool. Her warmth welcomed you in an instant.

She put the phone down. “Tired?”

“A little,” you said softly, wrapping an arm around her waist and letting her pull you closer.

Your head rested against her chest. Her hand came up, running fingers through your hair with a rhythm so familiar it made your throat tighten.

“I was thinking we could take the kids somewhere this weekend,” she said quietly. “You’ve both been cooped up so much lately. Maybe the botanical gardens, or the beach?”

“Mhmm. Sounds good,” you murmured.

She paused. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nodded against her. “Yeah.” A breath. “I’m just… tired. That’s all.”

She kissed your forehead. “Then rest.”

And you did. Or at least, you pretended to. Your eyes closed. You listened to her breathing even out, waited until her arms loosened just slightly. And then you just… lay there.

Staring at nothing.

From that night on, something in you began to shift.

You still helped with the kids’ homework. Still played Uno with them on the living room floor, still let them fall asleep on your chest during movie nights. You still reached for Agatha’s hand under the table. Still kissed her before bed.

But not for too long. Not as slow. Not with your whole soul, the way you used to.

You started staying up later, telling her you had meetings to approve. Deals to finalize. “There’s an investor flying in from Zurich tomorrow. I just need to finish the deck,” you’d murmur, already opening your laptop at the far end of the dining table. She’d nod, lingering for a second, as if debating whether to say something—but she never did.

You found excuses to take solo errands. “I’ll go get the wine,” you’d offer, already slipping your shoes on. “I need some quiet time to review these reports.” “Just need to be alone for a bit.”

You weren’t sleeping much. You’d lie awake, staring at the ceiling, playing Ralph’s words over and over again in your head.

If she loses her career… her family… everything she’s built—That’s on you.

The fear wrapped around your chest like a vine, creeping slowly every night, squeezing tighter with each breath you took beside her. You’d turn your head to look at her sleeping face—peaceful, soft, unguarded—and you’d feel your throat close.

You started crying in the shower. At the edge of the bed while brushing your hair, eyes fixed on your reflection in the mirror.

You hated yourself for it. You hated how you were slowly pulling away without meaning to. But you couldn’t stop. Because the more you looked at her, the more terrified you became of being the reason she lost it all.

Agatha noticed.

Of course she did.

One night, as you were packing up your laptop from the table—well past midnight—she appeared at the doorway, arms crossed, robe loosely tied around her waist.

“You’re working late again,” she said softly.

You didn’t look up. “Yeah. There’s an emergency in the supply chain—New York team flagged it.”

A pause.

“You said that yesterday.”

You forced a small smile, still not meeting her eyes. “Well. It's been that kind of week.”

She studied you for a moment. You felt her gaze like heat on your skin, waiting to be burned by it. But she didn’t say more.

“Don’t stay up too late,” she murmured. And just like that, she turned and left.

When you were sure she was gone, you slumped in your seat. Covered your mouth with your palm. Swallowed back the sob that cracked in your chest.

Every day after that, you lingered in silence more often than you used to.

You were unraveling.

Your thoughts started turning dark.

Should I leave?

Would it be better… if I just walked away now?

Maybe this is the only way to protect her.

If I leave, she keeps her name. Her career. Her family.

One afternoon, as you were folding laundry on the couch, Agatha sat beside you, wordless.

You didn’t look at her, just kept folding one of Nicky’s shirts.

“Is it me?” she asked.

Your hands froze mid-fold.

She tried to keep her voice calm, but you could hear the tremble. “Is there someone else?”

Your heart splintered.

You shook your head slowly, tears instantly burning behind your eyes. “No. God, no.”

“Then what is it?”

You turned away, blinked fast. “I’m just… overwhelmed with work.”

She reached out and placed a hand on your arm.

“Y/N, I’m not stupid. You’ve been somewhere else lately. You barely look at me anymore.”

You finally looked at her.

And it hurt. It hurt so much—because you still loved her so deeply, and it was killing you to pretend that loving her didn’t feel dangerous now.

“I just…” your voice cracked open, “I need to breathe.”

Agatha looked like you’d taken the air from her lungs. But she didn’t argue. Didn’t ask you to explain further. She just nodded.

Slowly. Silently.

You thought she’d walk away. You almost wanted her to. Because it would’ve been easier, wouldn’t it? If she got tired. If she gave up first. If she didn’t make it harder to lie—to pretend you weren’t breaking.

But she stayed.

She leaned back on the couch, close but not touching, and folded the rest of Nicky’s laundry with you like nothing had cracked between you two.

You didn’t say anything after that. You just stayed beside her, every second hurting more than the last.

And when your fingers started trembling, she passed you the next shirt without a word.

Maybe she knew.

Maybe she could feel the war inside you—the way you were trying to hold it all in, to protect her from truths you hadn’t figured out how to speak. Like how Ralph cornered you that day. Like how he made it clear what would happen to her if you didn’t back off. Like how fear had become a chain around your ribs ever since.

But Agatha didn’t ask. She didn’t press.

And when your hands dropped the last of the laundry in your lap, when you couldn’t keep the mask on anymore and your throat burned from the weight of everything unspoken—she reached for you.

No words. No questions. Just warm arms around your shoulders, pulling you into the softest hold like she’d been waiting your whole life to catch you.

And maybe that was the cruelest kindness of all. Because in that moment, you needed her more than you could admit. And she was still there. Quiet. Steady. Unmoving.

Like she always had been.

Like she always would be.

Later that night, the silence followed you both into the bedroom. It didn’t feel suffocating anymore—it felt like a soft cocoon, a space where you didn’t need to pretend.

You sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on your knees, head bowed low. You hadn’t said much all evening, and Agatha hadn’t pushed—not out of disinterest, but out of knowing when to give you space.

She lingered by the door for a second, then quietly crossed the room.

“I’m here,” she said softly, not asking anything of you. Just offering.

You didn’t look up right away, but she waited. When you finally glanced at her, your eyes didn’t need to explain anything. She already understood.

Agatha leaned in, pressing a light kiss to the top of your head before stepping away only to change into one of your shirts. Familiar and soft, like habit.

When she climbed into bed beside you, she didn’t say anything else. She just pulled the blanket over the both of you, let her arm slip around your waist, and held you—firm but gentle. Like a promise.

You lay there for a moment—still, staring at the ceiling. Thinking. Drowning. Your pulse wouldn’t slow down. You felt like your body didn’t belong to you, like your mind was spiraling.

Then you shifted. You turned onto your side, your back to her. And without needing to be told, she moved closer, careful and patient.

Her arm slipped around your waist. Not tight. Not claiming. Just enough to feel her. Just enough to let the warmth of her presence ground you.

She spooned you gently, like she knew you were fragile tonight. And you let her. God, you let her.

No walls. No cold shoulder. No practiced distance.

Just… you, needing her. And her, giving herself—quietly, fully, without question.

Your eyes burned as you stared into the dark. The thoughts wouldn't stop—Ralph’s threats, the danger, the guilt, the aching need to protect her. You wanted to tell her. You wanted to scream. But your throat wouldn’t let you.

So instead, you reached down and held her hand. Brought it to your chest. Clutched it like a lifeline.

Agatha didn’t say a word. She just pressed her forehead against the back of your neck, her breath warm and steady, anchoring you. Letting you fall apart without falling away.

And slowly, despite the storm inside you, sleep took you. Not because you were okay. But because she made you feel safe enough to fall.

The next day, when you wake up, Agatha was already gone for work. You stirred under the weight of the blankets, the quiet hum of the house making her absence more obvious. The sheets still smelled faintly of her perfume, warm and woodsy, grounding—but not enough.

You woke up late. The sun was high, casting dappled light through the curtains, soft against your face. But your head throbbed—not from lack of sleep, but from the heaviness of everything pressing down on you.

You forced yourself to move. One slow limb at a time, peeling away from the warmth of the bed that still carried her shape. You went through the motions—brushing your teeth, washing your face, making breakfast, though you barely touched it.

Then you sat down in front of your laptop and buried yourself in emails, virtual meetings, quick calls. Anything to keep your brain moving, focused, detached. If you stayed still too long, you knew your thoughts would creep back in. So you didn’t let them.

After hours of pretending everything was normal, you finally took a break. You walked into the kitchen, brewed a fresh cup of coffee, and settled at the dining table. You picked up your phone, absently scrolling through your feed. Cute dog videos. A trending hashtag. None of it stuck.

And then—a knock at the door.

You froze.

You weren’t expecting anyone. Agatha hadn’t mentioned a visitor. The knock was soft, but your body stiffened anyway. Your heart dropped into your stomach, and your mind jumped to the worst. Him.

You set your coffee and phone down on the table, slowly rising. Each step to the door felt heavier than the last. Your hand hovered over the doorknob for a second too long before you finally turned it.

The door creaked open.

Your eyes widened.

“Wanda?” you said, startled.

Before you could say anything else, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around you. A tight, grounding hug that knocked the breath out of you—not from force, but from the emotion behind it. She held you there, squeezing like she meant to anchor you to something real. And for a second, you let yourself lean into her. You hadn’t realized how much you needed to be held.

When she pulled back, you stared at her, confused. “What are you doing here?”

She gave a soft smile. “Agatha invited me over yesterday. Said I should visit.”

Your heart clenched. Of course. She knew. She must’ve seen it—how distant you’ve been, how lost. And she called Wanda. Not to fix you. Just to make sure someone could reach you if she couldn’t.

You stepped aside. “Come in.”

Wanda walked in with her suitcase, and you led her toward the guest room. She looked around as you walked, as if assessing the energy of the house. Like she could feel the tension still clinging to the walls.

“Let me help,” you offered, taking one end of her luggage.

“Thanks,” she said. “Still hitting the gym?”

You smirked. “Nah, just carrying the weight of poor decisions.”

After dropping her things off, the two of you went downstairs again. The silence was a little awkward, but not in a bad way—just two people trying to figure out what to say next.

“Want coffee?” you asked, heading toward the kitchen.

“Red wine, actually,” she half-joked, raising an eyebrow.

You nodded, and walked to the wine rack. You poured her a glass, handed it over, then poured a small amount for yourself too—not enough to get tipsy, just enough to feel like you were doing something.

She took a sip and leaned against the counter. “You look tired.”

“I am,” you said truthfully, sitting across from her at the dining table.

Wanda tilted her head. “You know… she didn’t tell me anything specific. Just said you’ve been… quieter than usual. That she’s worried.”

You looked down at your wine, swirling it absently in the glass. “Yeah… she’s not wrong.”

“I didn’t come to pry,” Wanda said softly. “I just… I know what it’s like to carry too much on your own.”

You blinked hard and looked away.

Wanda didn’t push. She just sat there, letting you breathe. That’s all either of them ever did—just… stay.

“She’s really patient with you,” Wanda said after a pause. “It’s kind of impressive. I mean, the old Agatha I knew? She’d be storming around, demanding answers, saying something snarky.”

You smiled faintly. “She’s softer with me.”

Wanda smiled too. “Yeah. And she loves you. You know that, right?”

You didn’t answer.

But Wanda didn’t need you to. Not yet.

She just sipped her wine, settled into the quiet, and stayed with you.

Like Agatha did.

Like they both would.

You changed the subject—gently, but on purpose. " “So… how are you?” you asked Wanda, absentmindedly tracing your thumb along the rim of your coffee mug. “I mean, really. It’s been three months since I left New York. You miss me?”

She gave you a mock glare. "I always miss you. But lately? You’ve been ignoring half of my Reels."

You laughed, a soft snort. "I’m busy with life, okay?"

Wanda tilted her head knowingly. "Life? Or love life?"

You chuckled again, the sound falling somewhere between amusement and ache. "Maybe both."

The moment warmed again. She told you about someone she’s been seeing—someone she met at a library, of all places. You listened, asked questions, smiled where you should smile, even laughed genuinely a couple times. You told her you were happy for her, and you meant it.

And then…

You stopped fiddling with your mug. Let it settle between your hands as you stared down into the dark swirl of coffee, like it might have the answer you didn’t. Wanda noticed.

“…Y/N?” she said softly.

You inhaled deeply. “I need to tell you something. But you can’t—please—you can’t tell Agatha.”

Wanda frowned, immediately serious. “Okay.”

You didn’t look at her as you spoke. “Ralph came over. A couple of weeks ago.”

Wanda blinked. “Wait. Here?”

You nodded. “I thought it was about Agatha. Or the kids, maybe. But it wasn’t. He made that clear.”

You didn’t realize your hands were trembling until you felt your glass wobble. Wanda reached over and quietly took it from your grip.

“He knows,” you whispered.

Wanda’s breath caught. “Knows what?”

“About me and Agatha. He’s been paying someone to watch us. Spying on us.” Your voice broke, just slightly. “He showed me pictures. Told me… if she goes through with the divorce, he’ll leak everything. Use it to get full custody.”

Wanda cursed under her breath, barely audible. “That—what the fuck.”

You shook your head, trying to compose yourself, but a tear slipped down anyway. “I didn’t know what to do, Wands. I still don’t.”

There was a scraping of chair legs. Wanda stood and came to you without hesitation, wrapping her arms around you. You let yourself fall into it—this rare, quiet comfort. Her warmth. Her protection.

She pulled back slightly and cupped your jaw. “What did your attorney say about this?”

You blinked. Then blinked again.

Wanda narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t talk to your attorney?”

You shook your head slowly, ashamed. “Not yet…”

She slapped your arm lightly. “Ow! What the hell—”

“You’re a useless lesbian, Y/N.”

“Wow.”

“No, seriously. You are a billionaire. You can hire lawyers who could eat Ralph alive for breakfast! And instead of doing that, you just—what? Isolated yourself? Avoided Agatha?” She sighed, dropping her hands. “That’s not just sad, babe. That’s a big mistake.”

You opened your mouth to defend yourself, but she kept going.

“You and Agatha didn’t cheat. You got together after she left Ralph. He’s got nothing if you fight back. And him showing up to threaten you? That’s a whole other legal line he crossed.”

You looked at her, guilt blooming thick in your chest.

“You’re right.”

“I know I’m right.”

“I’ll call my attorney.”

“Now.”

She raised a single eyebrow.

You groaned, pulling out your phone. “Fine. Don’t look at me like that.”

Wanda crossed her arms and tilted her head at you, waiting. You sighed and scrolled through your contacts. You hovered over his name for a beat, and then tapped.

It rang twice before you heard the familiar calm voice.

“Matt Murdock speaking.”

“Hey,” you say the moment the line connects. “Are you free to talk for a few minutes?”

“Yeah. What’s going on?” Matt’s voice is calm, but alert. He can tell from your tone that this isn’t just a casual check-in.

You glance at Wanda, who gives you an encouraging nod. “It’s… something I should’ve called about sooner, honestly. But a couple weeks ago, Ralph—Agatha’s ex-husband—he came over.”

Matt is quiet for a moment. “To your place?”

“No. I’m in Washington right now. I’ve been staying at Agatha’s place. He came here.”

You hear a faint rustle on the other end of the line, maybe papers being moved. “Okay. And what did he want?”

“He confronted me. Told me he knows about me and Agatha,” you say. Your voice catches just slightly, but you keep going. “He hired someone to follow us. Take photos. He showed me some.”

“Do you have copies?”

“No. He brought them physically and took them with him when he left.”

“Did he threaten you?” Matt’s voice is sharper now. “Or Agatha?”

You lean back in your chair, swallowing hard. “Yes. He said if Agatha moves forward with the divorce, he’ll release the photos and use them against her to get custody of the kids.”

There’s a long pause. You can hear Matt exhale slowly.

“Do you have security cameras on the property?”

You blink. “I—I don’t know. This is Agatha’s house. She lived here before, with Ralph. It’s not mine.”

“You’ll need to check if there are cameras in the area. If any of them caught the exchange, we might have something solid," Matt says calmly. "What he did sounds like blackmail. That alone is serious. If he paid someone to follow you or Agatha, that's surveillance. Depending on how that was done, it could be illegal too.”

“Do you think I should tell Agatha?” you ask quietly. “She doesn’t know.”

Matt doesn’t answer right away. “That depends. Do you think she’d want to know?”

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “She’s already dealing with so much. And it’s… it’s her ex-husband.”

“I get it,” Matt says gently. “But if he’s threatening custody, she’s going to have to be involved eventually. The sooner she knows, the better your legal options will be.”

You don’t respond for a moment. You feel Wanda’s hand on your arm, grounding you.

“You definitely need to document this. I’ll start pulling together a legal strategy. In the meantime, I’ll send you a secure form—write down everything you remember from that day. Exact wording if you can. Date, time, how long he stayed.”

“Okay.”

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“Stay where you are for now. Don’t reach out to him. And if he contacts you again, record it.”

“Got it.”

He pauses, then adds, “And next time something like this happens, call me that same day, alright?”

You manage a breath of a laugh. “I will. I promise.”

You hang up, placing the phone gently on the table. Wanda’s already watching you, lips pursed like she’s trying not to say I told you so, but her eyes are soft.

“Well,” she finally says. “That’s a start.”

You nod.

“Now,” she says, standing and walking to the small counter, “I’m pouring you a glass of red wine, and then we’re going to figure out how you’re telling Agatha. Because you are telling her.”

You close your eyes, trying to steady the rising fear in your chest. “Yeah… yeah, I will.”

Wanda squeezes your shoulder. “Good. Because if you don’t, I will.”

You open your eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

She grins. “Try me.”

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Follow-up: feedback from a film student/cinematographer on the unique purpose of the Will/Mike van shot

I showed in my last post why this shot is unique and filmed differently from all the rest within that sequence. The purpose of all the other shots is to show the characters' reactions to what's going on outside the van (the destruction in Hawkins).

But this shot is different, it’s not meant to show you their reaction to whatever’s going on outside the van. So, if every shot has a storytelling purpose, what does this one serve? Why this separate focus on them? If they’re not reacting to the destruction of Hawkins, then what could be running through their heads? Are they still thinking about Hawkins, or about something more internal, or the events leading up to their arrival? What's the purpose of the rack focus from Will to Mike, and what is that transition conveying? And why are Will and Mike the only characters to get a shot inside the van like this?

Consider this… Why didn’t they choose to do this kind of shot with Mike and El after they just had such an emotional scene together?

I got a really cool and incredibly insightful anonymous ask that digs a little deeper on this and I wanted to share their perspective!:

hi! i am a film student and cinematographer and i also wanted to input my thoughts on that Mike & Will shot, because i think it gets misinterpreted a lot. i agree with you that it is different from the other shots but, here is where we differ: Mike isn’t looking at Will. they’re both looking directly ahead of themselves and seemingly very distraught, but the point of the shot isn’t about where they’re looking. it’s telling the audience that their reactions are not motivated by what they’re looking at (hence why there’s no eyeline match). often times, this is used to show an internal conflict, or ruminating emotions from a previous scene, not what is currently happening in front of them. Will is (still) upset because of Mike’s love confession. which makes sense: he sacrificed his own happiness and desires for someone else’s and he is experiencing heartbreak. but… why is Mike upset? they’re being mirrored here, they have similar expressions, but mike confessed to the love of his life? he said The Thing! so why is he acting just like Will? he didn’t sacrifice his own happiness and desires. in fact, he got everything he wanted… right?

this is a close up shot on Will and as it dollys away from him, it pulls closer to Mike to maintain the same up close and personal framing, despite him being in the backseat, farther from the camera’s initial position. this gives both Mike and Will’s feelings equal weight in the shot. it’s to break the fourth wall, to reveal their inner feelings. they’re staring through US, the audience. they’re baring their hearts to us i have a very similar sentiment i shared on another blog about the last scene between Mike and Will on the couch in Hopper’s cabin. a lot of people think it is Mike’s POV and down to show that he sees Will as light. but, that shot is 2-subject. the point of Mike being in the shadows and reaching out to Will who is cascaded with light is to contrast their internal states after concluding their arcs for the season. Mike is in the shadows because he is hiding something from himself. his conclusion was unfulfilling; something is wrong. but this something is an internal conflict. meanwhile, Will has finally reached clarity and acceptance. he no longer is hiding from himself. Mike reaching into the light is to show that he wants to uncover the truth and is ready to step out of the metaphorical shadow. sorry for yapping, i love talking about shot composition. also want to note that i am not a shipper and these are objective shot analyses that someone who has not seen ST or even knows the context would tell you. however, when factoring in the context of their s4 arcs, it is objectively pointing towards the resolution that Mike and Will end up together. but a lot of people view these kinds of shots solely in the context of each other, which is the shipping lens. it’s about themselves first and foremost and their coming of age. i view the natural plot that exists within ST as a queer coming of age of someone who is visibly queer and someone who is invisibly queer, not a queer love story. while the resolution may be the same, the focus is on the internal journey. and the cinematography reflects that :]

Beautifully said and I completely agree :) Whatever it is that Mike and Will are looking at is irrelevant--for the first time in this sequence, that's not the emphasis here. It's not a "reaction" shot of Hawkins anymore (that would be redundant, since we already get one of Mike looking at the library on fire later on); it instead points to the characters' internal conflict, thoughts, or emotions.

In my opinion, the fact that we only get this kind of "internal" shot for Mike and Will and not any of the other characters goes further to suggest that Mike and Will specifically are ruminating about something that the other characters are not, something outside of the context of the Hawkins destruction that everyone else is reacting to. And the rack focus from Will to Mike suggests to me that Mike's rumination is related to Will in some way. Just my interpretation!

Additional insights about cinematography and shot composition that are relevant to this scene:

but yeah, it’s about how the camera lingers on their faces and emotions, and how the shot is the only one from inside of the car. it makes it appear like they’re in their head and detached from what exists outside of the car. the “world” of the shot doesn’t contain the outside. so it is a bit tricky the world of a shot exists in its frame, which is what makes cinema so cool, because you can shape the story of a film by changing what is visible in that little rectangular box. it’s the same in photography and painting, so that concept is probably familiar to you. in this scene, the van exists within hawkins. the emphasis is on the damage. so the camera is outside of the van, looking inward to show the frame of the “world” being shown. when it’s the opposite, the world becomes the van. what they see outside only exists in the frame of the car window, which detaches them from what is happening outside (also for continuity purposes, either both the CU and POV are done from within the van or outside of it). all of the POV shots so far in that scene were done from outside, so when it switches, they are trying to isolate the characters from the surroundings. kind of like when someone in an action shot gets tinnitus and all of a sudden everything is muffled and their ears start ringing and all of a sudden the action feels very far even though they’re still right in the middle of it so to me that shot was done to purposefully contrast the rest. they also each already got a shot of them reacting to the damage, so there isn’t a need for them to have another. the shot has to reveal something different. and because it’s a close up, it’s framed within the van, and it shifts focus from one subject to another without allowing for both of them to exist in the same frame, it makes me believe there is some sort of inner turmoil or conflict; a metaphorical “tinnitus”. but also art is subjective and everyone has their own vision so i could be wrong. but i do these kind of shots (close up on the protagonists face at the beginning of a scene while they exhibit some complex emotion, not because of a reaction to something happening in that current moment, but to reflect some inner turmoil from the previous scene) all the time so i may be bias because it is a stylistic choice that i use and then, from a storytelling perspective which is why the shot exists in the first place: all scenes experience some value or tonal shift. and that value has to go from -/+ or +/-. if it doesn’t change, the scene is redundant and should be tossed out. so the shot bridges the previous scene and establishes the starting value for the current scene

i think there is a very particular lens you have to look at cinematography and composition from that is less about the story as a whole and more about the story that exists in that frame like it’s an isolated snapshot in time which a lot of people gloss over because of how abstract it is. but when you analyze a shot like you’re analyzing art instead of a literary work, you uncover a lot more, because film intertwines art and narrative to tell story. but yeah! i so agree. there’s a reason for racking to mike after will, there’s a reason for the shot feeling so personal. even just watching that scene in passing, the shot just carries a weight to it that is noticeable, even if you can’t find the words or explain why. and it is trying to emphasize that defeat and internal conflict and some kind of muddiness