#there are good things. there are good things in this world. there are...

[valtsv]

something i absolutely adore about spaces that allow and encourage amateur art, like fan creation (fic, art, video edits, etc.), is that they force you to develop your perspective and understanding of what makes art "good" and "worthwhile". especially if it's fanwork for less mainstream media properties that don't dominate the popular culture; by "lowering your standards" because "beggars can't be choosers" you end up noticing things that you never would have if you hadn't stepped down to give them a closer look. okay so he would not fucking say that but i'm going to be haunted by some of this prose until my dying breath. yeah this person is singing off-key and the vocal fry is distracting but these lyrics are unbelievable. these proportions don't make sense but i had no idea you could even do something like that with those colours. some of the most beautiful music in the world comes from the throats of plain dull little songbirds you wouldn't look twice at if they didn't open their beaks and sing their unremarkable looking hearts out.

[theglassofmiddleearth]

Imagine Being Isekai'ed into KPOP DEMON HUNTERS. (part 5)

This one is kind of Jinu orientated! Welcome to the debut chapter of Soda Pop! Please enjoy :3

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 6

‘Okay, what's the big deal? Also, you were eavesdropping on me?’ Y/N pointed an accusing finger at Rae, who annoyingly did not look a single bit guilty.

‘I wanted to make sure you were safe.’ 

‘I was safe. How do you think I’ve been surviving this entire time before you guys came along?’ Y/N threw up her hands in indignation. ‘In fact, the most danger I’ve been in was when you guys tried to take my soul. Remember that?’

The boys collectively winced, knowing she was right.

‘She has a demon voice. She caused damage to the Honmoon, your friend is dangerous.�� Rae walked forward, taking her arm and pulling her toward the kitchen island

‘Rumi didn’t do it on purpose, she was scared and confused. She would never hurt me.’ Y/N sat down to Rae’s ushering. ‘What, what is-?’

‘It’s some sokkoritang. (Ox Bone Soup) You haven’t eaten.’ Jinu scooped up a bowl of rice from Y/N’s barely used rice cooker. She couldn't even remember if she bought it or it came with the penthouse.

‘I made it, so eat up.’

Y/N picked up her spoon, as Jinu placed a bowl of rice in front of her.

‘Thank you…’ She stared down at the bowl, stunned at the unexpected kindness.

‘We need you to be functional so we can steal Huntr/x’s fans.’ Jinu explained hurriedly, his cheeks coloured with a pretty peach colour. Luckily for him, this went unnoticed by Y/N, who was digging into her meal.

The soup was perfectly seasoned, flavourful and balanced.

How long had it been since Y/N actually had homecooked food? At least in this world, it had been months since she was able to have any, being on a world tour with the Huntr/x girls. It was a simple luxury she had since abandoned for convenience.

‘This is… It was amazing. Thank you Jinu.’ Y/N finished, standing to put her bowl in the sink. The rest of the Saja boys were rehearsing their song in the living area.

‘It was nothing.’ Jinu breathed out, as if a weight had been lifted from him. ‘Before things got really bad… I would help my mother cook.’ Jinu took Y/N’s bowl, placing it in the sink as he turned on the tap.

‘But that was four hundred years ago.’ He finished, tone hardening.

‘The food was amazing, you’d make a wonderful house wife Jinu.’ Y/N joked, leaning against the countertop next to Jinu as he washed the bowl. She could feel the unease, radiating off Jinu’s being.

‘Yeah?’ He smirked, shaking off the excess water from his hands. ‘You gonna find me a suitable husband?’ 

‘Hmm, I don’t know anyone willing to marry a maiden with such, attitude. I’m afraid we’re the only people who can put up with it.’ Y/N gestured to herself and the Saja Boys.

‘Is that so?’ Jinu hummed, gazing at Y/N forlornly as she nodded approvingly at the boys who were nailing their choreography.

‘Jinu, I get that you’re worried I might run off or that I’ll stop writing for you. But you can’t send-’

‘They all wanted to.’

‘Jinu…’ Y/N exhaled, turning to face the man, who at least this time, looked slightly guilty. ‘I have your number. You don’t have to send someone to look after me.’

‘Okay…’ He refused to meet her eye, staring at a blank spot on the wall to his left.

‘Although, I don’t mind the tiger. It’s so cute.’ Y/N gave him a forbearing smile. 

‘Yeah?’ Jinu grinned, face lighting up. ‘Did you see it’s-’

‘Tiny hat? Did you make it for the tiger?’ 

‘Yeah, but my bird keeps taking it.’ Jinu summoned the tiger with a flick of his hand, said creature appearing out of her floor.

‘Oh my goodness, hello there sweetheart!’ Y/N cried out, kneeling in front of the curious tiger.

‘Who is she calling sweetheart?’ A voice replied from the living space, sounding irate.

‘Oh, it’s the tiger.’ Another voice answered, footsteps shuffling toward the kitchen.

‘Oh, you precious little thing.’ Y/N splayed her hand, palm side up. The tiger gave a pleasant growl, rumbling as it butted its head against Y/N’s hand.

‘It’s cute but not that cute.’ Beom pouted, crossing his arms.

‘What do you mean?’ Y/N pouted in return. This baby is the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen, arent’cha?’ Y/N gave the blue tiger scratches underneath its chin.

‘Alright, you’ve got to sleep. Our debut is tomorrow and you need to be there.’ Jinu, waved his hand, causing the tiger to begin to sink back into the ground. The creature let out a downcast rumble in protest.

‘Aw..’ Y/N protested, waving goodbye to the equally disappointed creature. ‘Wait, why do I have to be there?’ 

‘So I have someone to focus on. You don’t want me to get stage fright, do you?’ Rae smirked, leaning toward Y/N’s face.

‘Hey, hey, what did I say about fake flirting.’ Y/N laughed, pushing away Rae’s face with a guiding hand.

‘Who said it was fake.’ Rae grumbled quietly under his breath, retreating toward a spinning chair.

‘Anyways, I will go to sleep. But only because I wanna go grocery shopping tomorrow. There’s this new snack I’ve been wanting to try.’

‘Oh, you mean this one?’ Rae held up a bag of the very snack that Y/N had been craving.

‘What, how?’ She spluttered, reaching towards the packet.

‘I saw you look at it twice when you were buying Kimbap with the demon hunter.’ Rae dangled the packet above her head, keeping it just out of reach.

‘Hey! I thought you bought it for me!’ Y/N jumped, swiping at the bag.

‘I did, but you gotta promise you’ll come to our performance tomorrow.’ Rae smirked, waving around the snack bag teasingly.

‘Ugh, Jinu, make him give it to me.’ Y/N pouted, pointing at Rae angrily.

‘You gotta promise.’ Jinu laughed, a tender heat spreading through his chest as he watched Y/N swipe at Rae. The way his friends got along with their new writer didn’t go unnoticed by him. To be honest, it was actually endearing to some degree. Like he and his friends had gotten a new pet.

‘Fine.. FINE I’ll be there so lemme-’ Y/N leapt, finally snatching the bag out of Rae’s hand, falling back into Mystery’s arms, almost collapsing on the floor.

‘Oops, sorry Mystery.’ Y/N stood, with the purplehaired man’s help.

‘Just Min, is fine.’ The soft spoken man replied, seemingly checking for any injury as he spun her around slowly. 

‘Alrighty, Y/N you go to bed. The rest of us will continue our rehearsal. We’ll be quiet, we promise.’ Abel placed his hands on Y/N’s shoulders, guiding her to her room as the rest of the boys stood up, beginning their stretching routine.

‘Goodnight everyone!’ Y/N called out, looking behind her.

‘Night Y/N!’ ‘Sleep well!’ ‘Sweet dreams Y/N!’ ‘Night.’ The boys chorused, while Abel walked her to her room.

‘Are you guys ready?’ Y/N opened her bedroom door, walking into her room.

‘Yeah, pretty much. We just need to make everything a little sharper. Otherwise, we’re pretty much perfect.

‘Thats great! Y/N smiled, pulling out pajamas from her closet.

‘Here, gimmie that.’ Abel tugged Y/N’s snack bag. ‘What are you gonna do, eat it in your sleep?’

‘Hey, I so could!’ Y/N laughed, releasing her hold on the food. ‘Now turn around or get out. I need to change.’

‘I have a question.’ Abel turned to face the bedroom door, closing his eyes for good measure.

‘Yeah?’

‘Has what happened to me, happened with any of the other boys?’ 

‘You mean that weird light that made your patterns shine?’ Y/N pulled her pants up, letting the elastic snap around her waist. ‘Yeah, actually when you guys went to go get me breakfast this morning, Beom and I had a chat.’

‘And?’

‘Well, I made this pattern shine, I touched his shoulder when we were talking about the deal he made with Gwi-ma.’ Y/N recounted, sliding herself into bed.

‘Huh, y’know he doesn’t really talk about it much?’ Abel twitched, wanting to face Y/N. 

‘You can turn around now. But, no I didn’t. I guess, at that moment I just felt so…’ Y/N trailed off, trying to recount her emotions and convey them into words.

‘I wanted to help. I didn’t want Beom to let Gwi-ma take credit for his talent.’ 

‘So it can just be anywhere.’ Abel hummed, leaning on Y/N’s doorframe. ‘I see.’

‘I mean, I still don’t know how to control it. I touched Rae’s hand today but nothing happened.’ Y/N shook her head, pulling the comforter to her chest.

‘Mm, sounds like there needs to be intent behind those touches.We can talk more about it tomorrow. For now, just sleep.’ Abel nodded, stepping back and beginning to close the bedroom door. ‘Sleep tight.’

‘Night Abel.’ Y/N closed her eyes as the demon switched off the lights, easing the bedroom door shut.

–

‘You’re sure she was part demon?’ Jinu inquired, as Abel walked back into the living space.

‘Positive.’ Rae nodded, the group sitting in a circle formation not unlike a formal meeting. ‘If her patterns weren't enough, she had a demon voice.’

‘That shockwave was caused by her?’ Mystery leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

‘Yes.’

‘She weakened the Honmoon.’

‘Is Y/N safe hanging around them?’ Beom picked at a loose thread on his sweater. 

‘We’ll keep an eye on her. I’ll send Derpy and Sussie to check on her.’ Jinu finalised, nodding his head.

‘You just had to show her you were following her, didn’t you Rae?’ Abel snickered, nudging the taller man with a playful elbow.

‘She was shivering. What was I meant to do? Let her freeze?’ He rolled his eyes, face slightly flushing a pretty pink.

‘Alright, let’s get back to work. Don’t forget, we’re here to steal Huntr/x’s fans.’ Jinu clapped his hands, breaking up the playful banter. He seemed troubled, his eyes were unfocused. Jinu was stuck between a rock and a hard place and seemingly with no other alternative.

As Y/N slipped into the realm of the unconscious, the Saja Boys continued their practice well into the early morning. They had finished around five am, deciding that they were ready to perform. All the boys made a brisk trip back to their neighboring apartment building to change.

Jinu however, stayed behind.

His reasoning?

‘I need to make breakfast for her so she doesn’t have an excuse not to come see the performance.’ Jinu shrugged, putting on an apron and rummaging through the fridge.

‘We’ll bring back your performance clothes so you can change after.’ Mystery nodded, patting his friend on the back. 

Jinu nodded, pulling out two eggs from the fridge, placing them into a bowl. 

Yeah, that was the reason he was making her breakfast. Why else would he do something like that? 

‘I need her so she can write more songs. So I can get Gwi-ma those souls, so I can forget.’ Jinu muttered, cracking the eggs into the bowl with one hand. He had already taken out a pan and set it on the stove, now pouring some oil into it.

‘That’s all. That's all it is.’ He shook his head, ‘She means nothing. I don’t care.’ Jinu mumbled, sliding the egg mixture into the pan, watching the edges bubble in the hot oil. A protesting groan, from the metal spatula, being dented from Jinu’s grip.

‘Mm, what smells good?’ A drowsy voice filled the incessant whispering in Jinu’s head, effectively drowning out the unwelcomed voices in his head in an instant.

‘Just some eggs. Sit down, I’m almost done.’ Jinu relinquished his hardened grip on the spatula, using it to separate the eggs from the bottom of the pan. ‘Grab a plate and some bread.’ 

Y/N rubbed her eyes, stumbling half blindly to the cupboard containing all her dinnerware. She pulled out a plate before returning to the table, letting the plate clink against the marble top. 

‘I didn’t buy any bread this month.’ Y/N whined, smushing her face into the tabletop.

‘Yeah, I bought some for you yesterday.’ Jinu turned around, pausing to take in Y/N’s groggy appearance. Her hair was unbrushed, eyes still crusted with rheum on the edges. She was still in her pajamas.

And yet…

Jinu’s chest ached, a mellow pang rushing through his chest, radiating through every fiber of his being.

This.

This homeliness. This domestication. It was something he had since long forgotten, left behind when he abandoned his family to live a cushy life in the palace. Even then he had never felt this much…

Joy. 

‘Heh, nice apron Jinu.’ Y/N giggled, using a fork to cut her eggs in half. ‘Pink suits you.’

Jinu glanced down, realising he still had Y/N’s apron on. 

‘All colours suit me.’ He sniffed haughtily, before pointing at Y/N, ‘And you can’t talk! Look at your pajamas!’

‘HEY I bought these because they're cute.’ She protested, taking a bite of her breakfast.

‘Childish.’

‘Nuh uh!’

The pair dissolved into a fit of giggles, as the elevator doors dinged open, revealing the rest of the boys.

‘Wow, my PJ’s and you apron does not compare to Abel’s crappy Hawaiian print shirt.’ Y/N howled with laughter, leaning back in her chair. Luckily for her, Jinu had caught her again, casually with his arm.

‘It was this, or palm trees…’ Abel sighed, looking down at his shirt. ‘Rae said that I couldn’t wear a plaid one.’

‘Plaid is an abomination. We want them to like us, not judge us for our fashion choices.’ Rae crossed his arms, his yellow chiffon top ruffling.

‘Huh, what will you be wearing Jinu?’ Y/N lifted her head to look at the man still holding on to her waist.

‘Hm, not sure, whatever Rae decided to give me.’

‘Yeah, I have your clothes right here. Unless you wanna debut in a pink frilly apron that's fine by me too.’

‘I’d rather not thank you.’ Jinu picked up the clothes from Rae’s hands and wandered off to Y/N’s bathroom.

‘You better not go through my drawers.’ Y/N called out.

‘I’m looking through 'em right now, I’m rummaging!’ Jinu called back, closing the door behind him

‘So, you guys ready? Excited?’ Y/N stood up, walking towards her bedroom. ‘Lemme get changed, I'll be right back.’

The boys nodded, watching Y/N disappear behind her door.

‘Did you see her pajamas?’ Beom sighed, a tiny smile on his face.

‘Is it weird that I think she’s cute?’ Min hummed, staring at Y/N’s closed bedroom door.

‘I’d think you were weird if you didn’t find her cute.’ Rae remarked, his chin resting on his fist.

They each felt an inexplicable pull towards the girl. As if she was anchoring them to the earth. These were feelings they hadn’t felt in centuries, locked away in a box, buried beneath their shame and fears. They had almost forgotten what it felt like to feel happy. Abel and Beom had forgotten what it was like to be able to have their own thoughts, unpolluted by the soiled words of Gwi-ma.

‘Alright, whose idea was it to put me in pink.’ Jinu raised an eyebrow, as the boys all collectively pointed at Beom.

The youngest let out an unholy screech as Jinu chased him around, chuckling darkly. Y/N opened her door, met with the whining of Beom and teasing of Jinu.

‘Say you’re sorry!’ Jinu laughed, giving a particularly painful noogie to the blue harried boy. They were both on the floor, Jinu had wrapped his legs around Beom's waist, holding him snug.

‘I’M SORRY.’ Beom whined, writhing in Jinu’s grip.

‘Will you ever do it again?’ Jinu held fast, driving his knuckles into Beom’s skull.

‘NOOOOOOO.’ Beom complained. ‘HELP ME Y/N!’ 

Y/N giggled, watching the scene unfold in front of her.

‘You guys are like brothers huh?’ Y/N sat down on her gaming chair, pulling her shoes on.

‘Yeah pretty much.’ Min nodded next to her. ‘Jinu brought us all together, years ago when he found beom.’

‘We don’t have to get into that now.’ Jinu brushed himself off, standing and straightening his clothing.

‘Aw, but I wanna hear the story.’ Y/N slumped down in her chair in protest.

‘Yeah but we have a debut to get to. Here, if our debut goes well, I’ll tell you who's the oldest.’

‘Is it not you?’ Y/N blinked, miffed. ‘You’re four hundred. Beom-ie is two hundred.-’ 

‘Give or take.’ Beom interrupted

‘Yeah, Beom is our youngest.’ Jinu gazed at the blue haired boy with pride, ruffling his hair. ‘He’s our pride and joy.’

‘Hey! I’m gonna have to wear a hat to cover this mess up now.’ Beom sighed, raking his fingers through his hair. Rae handed Beom a yellow beret, seemingly materialised out of thin air.

The group continued their conversation as they packed into the elevator. Y/N continued to guess at everyone’s age but none of the men would confirm her guesses. They found it funny that Y/N was unable to guess their age order correctly.

They reached the plaza as Y/N gave up, stalking behind the boys as they chattered to each other, occasionally teasing the pouting girl.

‘Y/N?’ A deep feminine voice called out. 

‘Huh?’ Y/N turned around, spotting a trio of girls walking out of a bathhouse. ‘Mira, Rumi and Zoey?’ 

‘Hey! You didn’t answer your phone.’ Rumi ran over to Y/N, giving her a hug. ‘I called but you didn't pick up, so I left a message asking if you wanted to come to the bathhouse with us!’ Rumi dragged Y/N toward Mira and Zoey. 

Y/N patted her pockets, searching for her phone.

Damn. She had left it at home.

Each of the girls were wearing somewhat of a disguise.  Zoey was wearing a yellow fuzzy bucket hat, obscuring her face, Rumi was wearing her pink hoodie, the hood covering her signature purple hair. Mira was wearing a black baseball cap, her face adorned by golden circular framed glasses. 

‘Yeah, are you free today?’ Mira gave an amused smile, leaning down to look at Y/N’s face closely. ‘Looks like you slept well last night. That’s good.’

‘Yeah! Wanna hang out with us? We’re taking today off!’ Zoey looped her arm around Y/N’s walking towards the plaza.

Y/N blinked, looking behind her, realising that the men had since disappeared.

'Yeah, we hear a new boy band is having a debut stage today and we wanna go judge them. What was their name. It was something stupid, to do with animals.' Mira chuckled, linking her arm around Rumi's.

'The Saja Boys. Honestly, sounds kinda corny.' Rumi laughed, the four walking toward a familiar beat filling the air.

'Huh, must be here. Look, there's pink mist.' Zoey pointed, leading Y/N and the erst of the girls to stand in the forming crowd.

The familiar beat of Soa Pop began to fill the air, as the pink mist revealed the Saja Boys.

'Don't want you, need you Yeah, I need you to fill me up.' Jinu began singing, spotting Y/N immediately, winking at her.

'Ew.' Rumi gagged, 'These guys are so cliché that it hurts.'

'Did he just wink at you?' Mira smirked, glancing between the boys performing and Y/N.

'Uh... maybe?'

'Oh, he was definently winking at her. They're all looking at her.' Zoey squealed, shaking Y/N excitedly.

'Wow, their song is annoyingly catchy though. It matches their vibe really well.' Mira brought her fingers to her chin, tapping her index finger thoughtfully.

'Huh, the writing style reminds me of you Y/N.' Rumi raised an eyebrow, as the boys continued to sing, blowing heart's out of thin air.

'Uh...'

'Wait, look!' Zoey gasped, pointing at the group. 'They have patterns! Look, you can see them.'

'Demons.' Rumi glowered, seeing under their human visage.

'What do we do?' Mira grumbled, looking at the huntr/x girls.

'They're demons, we just do what we always do. We kill them.' Rumi stalked forward, hands itching to grasp her sword. 'Besides, that one winked at our Y/N and I don't share.'

'Wait Rumi, it's too public.' Mira tugged Rumi back quickly, looking at the decent sized crowed.

'But look, they're coming after the fans. That must be why they're posing as this cringey boyband.' Rumi gestured widely to the boys, who were on a rising platform, decorated as a soda can. The Saja Boys had reached the climax of their song.

'I know, but we have to wait. Otherwise we'll have a swarm of fans questioning us. I don't think even Bobby would be able to cover that up for us.' Zoey mused with narrowed eyes, pulling Y/N behind her shielding Y/N with her body.

As the girls contemplated what to do, The Saja Boys finished their performance, sending one last flying kiss in Y/N's direction.

Rumi growled, watching the interaction.

'That's it for now! See you tonight, on everyone's favourite variety show! The Saja Boys love you!' Jinu flashed a charming smile, before giving Y/N a knowing smile.

The boys disappeared in a puff of pink smoke.

'We are so going to kill those dudes.' Rumi snarled, fixing her hoodie as the group walked back to the Huntr/x tower. 'Y/N do you wanna stay in the tower? We gotta get battle ready.'

'Uh, I actually have to go do the demo for What It Sounds Like remember? Y/N rubbed a hand on her neck nervously.

'Right...' Rumi sighed, smoothing back her braid. 'Okay well call us if anything happens. Actually, call us even if nothing happens okay?' Rumi babbled, swiping her key card at the front opening doors.

'She's right. Those boys seemed to be looking at you. They might try something so call us if you feel anything funny okay?' Mira placed a reassuring hand on Y/N's shoulder while Zoey gave her a hug.

'We'll text you when we send those demons back to where they belong! Maybe we can even record the song today!'

'Alright girls! Stay safe!' Y/N smiled, as the Huntr/x girls walked into the elevator.

'Bye Y/N/N!' The girls chorused, as the elevator doors shut.

Y/N released her breath, 'Oh damn. This is not good.'

Y/N hurried back to her apartment, checking her phone repeatedly.

'So, they wanna kill us tonight huh?' Abel smirked as Y/N rushed past the elevator doors.

'Yeah, I think the purple haired one has a crush on you.' Jinu raised an eyebrow, his face plastered with an unamused smile.

'What?' Y/N blinked.

'How come they get to call you Y/N/N.' Beom pointed at Y/N with his pastel yellow beret.

'YOU GUYS WERE FOLLOWING ME AGAIN?'

Part 6

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[barnesonly]

Yearning

bucky barnes x reader

summary: you and bucky have been together for a while now, but haven’t had sex yet—he’s insecure, afraid he forgot how. but one night, things finally happen…

word count: 5,6k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. fluff to smut, insecure!bucky, established relationship, curse words, age difference, dirty talk, praise, oral (f receiving), PiV, unprotected sex.

Bucky Barnes is a man out of time, and you’re reminded of it every single day.

Sometimes it’s the obvious things—like how he still squints at his phone as if the apps might leap off the screen and bite him, or how he physically recoils every time you say the word “TikTok.” Sometimes it’s subtler—like the way he insists on walking on the outside of the sidewalk, or how he always opens doors for you without thinking, like muscle memory trained from another era.

And then there are the flowers.

Almost every day, without fail, a small, lovingly picked bouquet appears on your kitchen counter. Sometimes they’re store-bought, sometimes hand-picked from wherever he was that day. Always with a little handwritten note tucked beneath the stems. He never says much about it—just a casual “these made me think of you” and a kiss to your temple. But the habit is so consistent it’s become its own kind of love language.

You’re dating Bucky fucking Barnes and that still feels unreal sometimes.

He’s grumpy. He’s anxious. He has whole decades of trauma stacked inside him like old, worn-out newspapers.

But he also loves you. Deeply. Devotedly. You can see it in the smallest things—the way his hand always finds yours under the table, or how he tenses any time someone looks at you the wrong way. He still doesn’t sleep through the night, but when he does sleep, it’s usually best when you’re wrapped around him.

You’ve been together for a while now. Long enough to fall into a rhythm. Long enough to know what makes him tick, what makes him laugh. Long enough to feel the unspoken ache between you both.

Because there’s one thing you haven’t done yet.

Sex.

You’ve talked about it—briefly, carefully—but Bucky always brushes it off. Not with rejection, but hesitation. You know he wants to… you can feel that he does. But he’s scared. Scared he’s forgotten how. Scared he won’t be good at it anymore. Scared of what might surface, or what might go wrong.

You’d never pressure him. Never.

But god, you want him. Not just the sex—though, yeah, definitely that—but him. His body, his trust, his pleasure. You want him to feel good. You want him to feel wanted.

You’ve started to think he’s almost ready.

You don’t say it aloud. You don’t want to spook him. But there’s a shift in him lately—like maybe he’s starting to believe he deserves this. Deserves you.

Still, you remember the last time you two got close.

It was a quiet night, nothing special. The two of you were curled up on the couch, some half-watched movie playing in the background. You’d ended up in his lap, legs straddling his thighs, your fingers twisted into his hair, your mouths tangled in a kiss that had gone from sweet to hungry in seconds.

He was so warm beneath you, so solid. His hands rested on your waist like he didn’t trust himself to move them, like he was afraid of holding on too tightly. You could feel him, hard through his sweats, pressing up against your center—and the way his breath caught every time you shifted your hips only made you want him more.

You kissed him like he was the last good thing in the world. And he kissed you back like he believed it.

But then—just as your fingers slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, just as he let out this low, needy sound in the back of his throat—he pulled away.

Not all at once. Slowly. Like it hurt him to stop.

“Babe…” he murmured, his forehead resting against yours. His voice was hoarse, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. “I’m… I’m sorry. I can’t. Not yet.”

You didn’t sigh. Didn’t roll your eyes or pull away. You just cupped his cheek and smiled at him—soft and sure and full of love.

“No worries, Bucky,” you whispered, brushing your thumb across his cheekbone. “You know I love you, right?”

He nodded, and god, the look in his eyes… like he couldn’t understand how someone like you could be so patient. So kind.

You shifted, slowly climbing off his lap, careful not to make it feel like rejection. Just giving him space. You tucked yourself beside him on the couch, your knee still brushing his, your presence still close. You didn’t say anything right away.

He let out a long sigh and dragged a hand down his face. The other stayed loosely resting on his thigh, still balled into a fist like he was holding something back.

“I just…” he started, voice rough. “I’m scared I’ll fuck this up. Or that I’ll hurt you.”

Your heart cracked a little, but you stayed quiet, letting him speak. He rarely did. Not like this.

He leaned his head back against the couch cushion, eyes on the ceiling like he couldn’t bear to look at you. “I used to be such a charmer in the ’40s, y’know? Smooth talker. Confident. I had moves.”

You huffed a tiny laugh, not mocking—just warm. “I believe it.”

He glanced at you then, barely a flicker, and smiled faintly.

“But now?” he said, the smile dropping. “Now I feel like I’ve forgotten how to even… touch someone the right way. Hell, half the time I’m afraid to want anything too much, ‘cause what if I screw it up? What if I mess you up?”

His jaw tensed. You could see the war in his mind, the echo of every cruel thing that’s ever been drilled into him—by Hydra, by time, by the weight of his own past.

You reached over, took his hand, gently pried open his fingers from that tight fist and laced them with yours.

“Bucky,” you said, soft but sure, “you’re not going to hurt me.”

He swallowed hard, eyes still on your joined hands.

“And you’re not gonna mess anything up. Okay? Wanting something doesn’t make you dangerous. It makes you human.”

He didn’t answer right away. You let the silence settle around you both. Not awkward. Just… honest.

“I want to make you feel good,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper now. “I want you to feel… Safe. Loved.”

He turned his head toward you. His eyes were glassy, a little overwhelmed, but you could see it—the crack of light breaking through all the fear.

“I do feel loved,” you said quietly. “Every day.”

You squeezed his hand, just once, then let go so you could reach up and cradle his jaw instead—thumb brushing lightly along the edge of his cheekbone.

Then you leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hungry or needy. It was soft. Steady. Like a quiet promise whispered between two heartbeats. He kissed you back like he was still learning how, but already knew it by heart.

When you pulled back, your foreheads touched, your noses brushing, the air between you thick with unsaid things.

“I love you,” he murmured, like he didn’t even mean to say it aloud. “I don’t think I ever really understood what love felt like until you.”

Your breath caught a little, chest tightening.

He kept going, voice rough and low. “You’ve made my life feel like… a life again. Like I’m not just surviving. I didn’t think I’d get to have this. I didn’t think I deserved to. But then you came along and you just—god, sweetheart, you gave me something I never thought I’d have again.”

You felt yourself melting, your heart a puddle in your chest. His hand came up to rest on your thigh, not to start anything, not to take—it just landed there like he needed to touch you, to feel that you were real.

You leaned your head against his shoulder and sighed dramatically. “Jesus Christ, Barnes. You trying to make me cry?”

A breath of a laugh escaped him.

You tilted your head to grin at him. “You say one more sweet thing and I’m gonna have to marry you and sign up for bridge night at the senior center.”

He huffed a laugh, and that shy little smile of his—god, it destroyed you.

“I mean it,” he said quietly, “even if you joke your way out of it.”

You reached over, cupped his cheek again. “I know you do,” you whispered. “And I love you back, you old fossil.”

He laughed for real that time—head tilted back, the kind of laugh that cracked through all the walls he’d built. And it made you smile so big your cheeks ached.

That memory still sits warm in your chest—etched there like sunlight caught in glass.

You think about it sometimes. The weight of him beneath you, the kiss that lingered on your lips for hours after, the way his voice cracked when he told you what you meant to him. How you called him a fossil to hide the way your heart was splitting open inside your ribcage.

And now?

Now you’re in the kitchen with him, barefoot and sleepy-eyed on a Sunday morning. The radio’s playing something soft and old—something he probably heard first on vinyl. You’re standing at the stove, flipping pancakes while he hovers beside you, clearly pretending not to be watching them like a hawk.

He’s wearing a T-shirt that’s faded to hell and a pair of sweats low on his hips. You’ve got one of his flannels buttoned over your pajamas. The sleeves are way too long. He tried to roll them up for you earlier but got distracted kissing your shoulder halfway through.

Domestic bliss, Barnes-style.

You pass him the next pancake on the stack and bump his hip with yours.

“You’re lucky I love you,” you say. “Because these pancakes are borderline tragic.”

“They’re not tragic,” he replies, grinning as he takes a bite. “They’re… rustic.”

You give him a look.

He shrugs, chewing. “I like ‘em a little burnt. Adds character.”

You snort and turn back to the pan.

There’s a pause—quiet but easy—until his voice breaks it again. Low. Soft.

“I wanna marry you one day, you know?”

The spatula freezes in your hand.

You blink, heart skipping, and glance over your shoulder at him.

He’s looking at you like he’s thinking about saying it again, just to make sure you heard him right. His eyes are clear. Calm. No panic. No second-guessing. Just… love. Simple and steady.

“I mean it,” he says. “I don’t know when. I’m not gonna rush it. But I do. I think about it all the time.”

You stare at him for a second, and then your lips stretch into the stupidest, softest smile.

You turn back to the stove and flip the pancake onto the plate.

“Well, good,” you say. “Because if you didn’t marry me, I’d have to haunt you for eternity. Like, aggressively. I’d knock shit off your shelves.”

He chuckles behind you, then steps closer, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. His lips brush your temple.

“You already haunt me,” he murmurs. “Just… in a really nice way.”

His arms stay wrapped around you for a long moment after he says it—forehead resting against the side of your head, his body warm against your back. The scent of syrup and coffee hangs in the air, but all you can feel is him.

„I think I’m ready, doll.” He continues, firmly and with determination in his voice.

You set the spatula down gently, not because you’re finished cooking but because suddenly—this is more important.

You turn in his arms, hands slipping up his chest, feeling the slow, steady beat of his heart under your palms. His eyes meet yours. They’re soft. Honest. A little nervous. But not afraid.

“You know we don’t have to,” you say, voice quiet. “Not today. Not ever, if you’re not ready. I love you exactly like this.”

His hands come up to cradle your face—gentle, almost reverent. His thumb traces your cheek.

“I know,” he says, and there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. That old ache, the one that never quite leaves. But it’s softer now. “But I want to.”

Your breath catches.

“I’ve been scared for a long time,” he admits. “Scared that I’d mess this up, or hurt you, or—hell, that I wouldn’t remember how to be with someone like that. But the truth is… I think I just didn’t believe I deserved that kind of love.”

You swallow, eyes stinging.

“And now?” you whisper.

“Now I do,” he says. “Because of you.”

He leans in and kisses you then—slow, deep, tender. No hesitation. No trembling hands. Just Bucky. All of him.

When he pulls back, you’re already smiling, breathless and dazed.

“God,” you murmur, forehead pressed to his, “you say stuff like that and I get why girls in the 40s were all over you.”

He grins, a little crooked. “Yeah, well… guess I’ve still got it.”

“Barely,” you tease. “You made a grunting noise getting off the couch last night.”

He groans. “Why would you bring that up now?”

“Because I love you,” you say sweetly.

He’s laughing when he kisses you again—and this time, his hands wander a little. One settles at your lower back, pulling you closer. The other slides into your hair, gentle but firm.

The kiss deepens, lazy but loaded, and it starts to hum between you—want. Warm and steady and mutual.

His lips trail to your jaw, barely there kisses—soft, unhurried.

But then he pauses, nose brushing your cheek. His voice is low, warm, still a little breathless from the kiss. “Let me take you out tonight, huh?”

You blink, pulling back slightly to look at him. “Yeah?”

He nods. “Someplace nice. Fancy. White tablecloths, cloth napkins, the whole deal. I’ll put on that stupid tie you like, even if it’s choking me the whole night.”

Your heart squeezes.

“Bucky…”

He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb trailing down your jaw. His gaze is steady now, sure. “I wanna do this right,” he murmurs. “You’re my girl. A lady. You should be treated like one.”

God, you’re melting.

You’re not sure if it’s the way he says it—like it’s the most obvious thing in the world—or the way he’s looking at you, like he’s already undressing you in his mind but still wants to kiss your hand first and open every damn door along the way.

“Okay,” you whisper, your smile blooming full and wide. “Yeah. I’d love that.”

His grin is all boyish charm now—relieved, excited, maybe even a little smug. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, looping your arms around his neck. “Only if I get to wear something ridiculous and make you all flustered.”

His brows lift, amused. “Doll, you could show up in a trash bag and I’d still forget how to breathe.”

You laugh, full and bright, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. He catches you before you pull away, stealing another kiss—this one slower, deeper. Like he’s already thinking about later. About what this night could be.

You pull back just enough to whisper, “You’re gonna spoil me, Bucky Barnes.”

His lips curve as he presses his forehead to yours.

“That’s the plan, sweetheart.”

———

The restaurant is dimly lit and elegant, all low murmurs and soft clinks of silverware. Candlelight dances on the white tablecloth between you, casting gold on Bucky’s jaw—strong, clean-shaven, way too handsome for a man who claims he “doesn’t clean up well.”

He does. He really, really does.

That tie he promised to wear? Yeah, it’s perfectly knotted, navy blue to match his eyes. And the sleeves of his button-up? Rolled just enough to show a hint of his forearms.

And Bucky?

Bucky’s a goner.

He’s been staring at you since you walked into the room. Like, actually speechless. The moment you stepped out of the bedroom tonight in your dress—tight in all the right places, maybe a little backless, maybe with a slit high enough to kill a man—he made a sound. A tiny, quiet, reverent “fuck” that he probably didn’t mean to say out loud.

You’d just smiled and said, “Told you I’d make you flustered.”

Now, over an hour into dinner, he still hasn’t recovered.

“You cold, doll?” he asks, already sliding his hand across the table toward yours.

You shake your head. “Nope. Perfectly warm.”

He nods, but his hand doesn’t go back to his wine glass. It lingers, then slowly drifts down… under the table.

And then you feel it—his palm resting gently on your bare thigh. Not groping. Not demanding. Just there. Warm. Intentional.

Your eyes flick to him, and he’s sipping his drink like he didn’t just set your entire bloodstream on fire.

“You know,” you murmur, leaning slightly over your plate, “this is a very respectable restaurant, Sergeant Barnes.”

He doesn’t flinch. Just gives you a slow, easy smile. Then leans in slightly, voice a notch lower now—just for you.

„I told you, I used to be a charmer.” He shrugs.

His thumb strokes slow circles against your skin, just above your knee now. It’s not obscene. Not yet. But it’s loaded. And the heat in his eyes tells you everything—he’s ready.

Maybe not to take you home and rip your clothes off (well… maybe that too), but to have you. Finally. Properly. To show you how much he wants you in every possible way.

And god, you’ve never felt so desired. Or so fucking loved.

———

The ride home is quiet.

Not tense. Not awkward. Just… charged. The kind of silence that hums under your skin, thick with everything that didn’t need to be said at dinner. Your hand rests on his thigh, his knuckles grazing your knee as he drives, and the whole way back you can feel his gaze flicking to you at every red light.

When he parks in front of your building, he kills the engine and just sits there a second. One hand on the steering wheel. The other finding yours.

He doesn’t say anything—he just looks at you.

And you nod.

Yeah. You’re ready, too.

Inside, everything is soft.

You kick off your shoes. He hangs up his coat. His tie is already loosened, and there’s a flush to his cheeks that’s not from the wine—it’s from you.

He steps toward you slowly, like he’s afraid if he rushes, you’ll vanish.

But you don’t. You stay right there.

And when his hands come up to rest gently on your waist, you melt into him without hesitation.

His voice is low, quiet. “You sure?”

You nod again, reaching up to cup his face. “I’m sure.”

He exhales, almost like relief. Like he’s been holding his breath for months and finally—finally—he can let go.

Then he kisses you.

God, it’s different now. It’s not frantic or messy. It’s not lust without thought.

It’s slow. Deep. He kisses you like he’s mapping your mouth, relearning how to love someone through touch. His hands stay respectful, still at your waist, not drifting, not rushing. Just there.

You kiss him back, soft and patient, running your fingers through his hair. He shudders when you tug gently—just enough to pull a little sound from him, something low in his chest that makes your knees wobble.

He pulls back, barely, and rests his forehead against yours.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmurs.

“I know,” you whisper. “Me too.”

His hands finally move then—one gliding up your back, the other brushing along your jaw. His metal fingers are warm from your skin, and when they graze your cheek, you lean into them like instinct.

“I wanna take my time,” he says, voice hoarse now. “Wanna make you feel good. Wanna make sure you know how much I—how much you mean to me.”

Your heart stutters.

“You do,” you whisper. “You already do.”

But you let him show you anyway.

He leans down, kisses your neck—slow and reverent—and then he starts walking you backward, one step at a time, toward the bedroom.

Your back hits the edge of the bed and Bucky pauses there, standing in front of you, breathing a little harder than he should be for someone who’s only kissed you.

But it’s not nerves anymore. Not fear. It’s want.

“C’mere,” you whisper, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt.

He steps in closer. Between your knees now. His hands find your thighs again, thumbs brushing along the fabric of your dress as if he’s still memorizing the shape of you.

He eases you back onto the bed like you’re made of glass—slow, steady, never breaking eye contact. His body follows, covering yours without pressing you down, one arm braced beside your head, the other tracing the line of your hip with reverence.

He kisses you again, slower than before. Softer. Less lips, more mouths—open and warm and lingering. You part your legs to cradle him, and the sigh that falls from his lips ghosts across your cheek like a prayer.

His skin is hot against yours. Muscle and scar and heat. You run your hands down his back, memorizing every dip, every edge. He shivers at your touch, exhales into your mouth like he’s trying not to fall apart just from being this close.

His fingers reach up to your shoulder, brushing the strap of your dress aside, and he looks at you like he’s asking for permission without even saying a word.

You nod once.

So he slips the strap down. Then the other. His touch is featherlight—almost hesitant—but his hands don’t tremble this time.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, voice barely more than a breath.

Your chest rises with the compliment. It’s not the first time he’s said it—but something about this moment… the way his eyes are locked on you, the way he swallows hard like he’s overwhelmed just seeing you… it hits different.

He tugs your dress down slowly, letting it fall to your waist, then lower, until you’re sitting there in nothing but your bra and panties. The air between you shifts—warmer now, heavier.

His hands brush your arms, your waist, your hips—everywhere but the places you want them most. But you let him go at his pace. You want him to feel in control.

“Can I…” he starts, fingers ghosting over your bra strap, “…take this off?”

You nod again. “Yeah. Please.”

So he does. Gently. Carefully. Like he’s unwrapping something precious.

When your bra falls away, his breath catches.

“Jesus,” he whispers, eyes roaming your chest like he’s never seen anything so perfect.

When he undresses you fully, he does it slowly, dragging fabric down your legs with both hands, his metal fingers brushing over your skin with a tenderness that almost makes you ache.

You lift your hands to the hem of his shirt. “Your turn, Sergeant.”

He huffs a breath, a little grin twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”

You pull his shirt over his head, revealing the planes of his chest, the lines of scars, the metal arm, the years carved into him. You trace your fingers over the dog tags that still hang around his neck.

His skin is hot against yours. Muscle and scar and heat. You run your hands down his back, memorizing every dip, every edge. He shivers at your touch, exhales into your mouth like he’s trying not to fall apart just from being this close. His dog tags clink as they fall between you, cold against your bare skin.

He kisses you again, and this time when he settles between your thighs, you feel him fully—heavy and hard, pressing against you.

He settles there like he belongs there—shoulders broad between your thighs, hands gentle on your hips as he lowers himself, eyes never leaving yours.

Then he speaks—low, reverent.

“Let me taste you first, sweetheart. Make you feel good.”

And god, you don’t even have the breath to respond. You just nod, breath hitching, thighs already trembling beneath his touch.

He kisses the inside of your knee first. Then the other. Trails his lips upward, slow, soft, maddening. You can feel the warmth of his breath long before his mouth finds you—feel it ghost over your skin, spreading goosebumps down your spine.

His hands stay firm on your thighs, holding you open, holding you still. But his touch is tender, steady. There’s nothing rushed in the way he moves. Like he’s unwrapping something sacred.

And when his mouth finally finds you—lips parting, tongue tasting—

You gasp.

Quiet, breathy, uncontrollable. Your fingers twist in the sheets, one hand reaching instinctively for him. He groans against you when you thread your fingers into his hair, and the sound of it vibrates straight through you.

He’s slow at first. Careful. Testing. Tasting.

Learning you.

But he’s good at learning.

He watches you, listens to your breath, the way your body reacts—what makes your hips jerk, what makes your thighs tighten around his shoulders. His tongue strokes long and slow, then soft flicks, and when he hears the change in your breathing—there, that’s what makes your voice break—he stays right there.

He moans again, deeper this time, and the way he grips your hips tightens just slightly. Like he can’t take it. Like he’s the one unraveling just from the way you taste, the way you sound.

The dog tags still hang from his neck, cool against your skin. His hair’s messy from your fingers, jaw flexing as he works, as he buries his face deeper into you like a man starved.

And all you can do is feel.

The rise of pleasure. The way it blooms low and hot and thick in your belly. The burn of it, the ache. Every stroke of his tongue makes it worse. Makes it better.

Your thighs begin to tremble. Your back arches.

And still, he doesn’t stop.

He devours you.

Not greedily. Worshipfully.

Like he’s not just tasting you—he’s loving you with his mouth. Showing you just how deeply he means it.

And when you finally come—soft and shaking, moaning into your hand, thighs trembling around his head—he stays with you. Rides it out. Holds you through it.

He only pulls away when your body begins to relax beneath him, when your hand goes soft in his hair, when your breath evens out in his ears.

Then he rises slowly, kisses your inner thigh once more, then your stomach, your ribs, your chest.

He kisses you like he’s grounding you.

And when he finally reaches your lips again, he just hovers there, noses brushing.

You smile.

He smiles back—soft, flushed, eyes dark with affection and want.

And then, finally, finally, he settles between your legs again—not to taste you this time, but to be with you. To love you. Completely.

His mouth brushes yours—soft, almost shy. But the hand that cups your face? That’s steady. Grounded. He strokes your cheek with his thumb like he’s feeling it all through his fingertips.

Your legs wrap around his hips without thinking.

And when his hips settle against yours, when you feel the hard press of him, your breath hitches all over again.

He groans quietly—deep in his throat. The sound of it is raw. Barely controlled.

You reach between you, fingertips ghosting over his length. He shudders—actually shudders—and buries his face in your neck like he’s ashamed of how badly he wants this. Wants you.

You guide him to you.

And he pauses. Just for a second.

His forehead presses to yours and his voice, when it finally breaks the silence, is low and hoarse.

“…You okay?”

You nod. Whisper, “Yes.”

When Bucky sinks into you, it’s slow—but the depth? It knocks the air from your lungs.

He presses in all the way, until you feel him everywhere, and he stays there for a second—deep, thick, pulsing inside you while his breath stutters against your mouth.

Your mouth parts. His name catches in your throat. The stretch is deep and full and perfect, and for a moment, all either of you can do is feel.

He stills at the bottom, buried inside you completely. His eyes flutter shut, jaw clenched, like he’s trying not to lose it already.

Then he pulls back just a a little.

You moan into his shoulder. Fingers gripping the sheets. He groans, too—but it’s quiet, choked, like it costs him to keep this slow.

You’re soaked. Warm and clenching around him. And he groans when you tighten, like the feel of you is almost too much.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice shaking. “You feel… baby, you feel so good.”

His hips roll—smooth and deliberate—and you arch beneath him with a soft moan. He starts to move then, slow but filthy, every thrust long and deep, like he wants to stay inside you as long as he can.

His hand grips your thigh, pulling it higher around his waist. The shift makes his next thrust hit deeper—you gasp, and Bucky curses low into your neck.

“Shit, that’s it,” he groans. “That’s my girl. Just like that.”

The sounds between you are quiet but thick—breath and skin and need. The soft slap of his hips against yours. The low whimper you didn’t mean to let out when he hits that spot just right.

Your nails scrape his back, your heels press into him, needing more—more of his heat, his weight, the drag of him pulling out and sliding right back in, making you stretch and flutter and lose your rhythm

He makes you feel it—every thrust, every stroke, every trembling inhale.

You wrap your legs tighter around him, tilt your hips up, chasing the friction, and his rhythm stutters.

He’s panting now, buried in your chest, hips moving in slow, punishing strokes that leave you trembling.

Every sound you make—every whimper, gasp, broken moan—he drinks it in like it’s what keeps him going.

His hand finds yours above your head. He laces your fingers together. Holds you there.

Grounds himself in you.

“You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good, sweetheart,” he mutters, voice all grit and heat, “so tight around me, fuck—feels like I’m gonna lose my fuckin’ mind.”

You can’t even speak.

Just nod. Moan. Cling to him.

Your body is burning, slick and hot and aching for release again, and he knows. He feels the way you tighten, the way you start chasing his thrusts, hips rolling up against him.

His pace stutters. Picks up. Just a little. Just enough.

“Gonna cum for me?” he pants, his lips at your jaw, his hand slipping between your bodies to rub tight, messy circles over your clit. “Yeah? Gonna fall apart on my cock, baby?”

You cry out—soft and desperate—and he loves it. Groans low, grinding into you just right, fucking you through it as your walls flutter and clench, dragging him toward the edge with you.

“You’re so perfect,” he rasps, right against your ear, hips snapping a little harder now. “So fuckin’ perfect, holy shit—”

You’re spiraling again, thighs shaking, breath hitching—

And then you break.

Your whole body arches off the bed as you cum around him, gasping his name, your nails digging into his back.

He chokes on a moan and buries himself deep.

And follows you with a shudder that rocks through him—his hips stalling, cock twitching inside you as he spills with a low, broken growl.

“Fuck—oh my god, baby—”

He holds you tight through it. Hand in your hair. Face in your neck. Heart pounding against yours.

You’re still tangled up in each other, the sheets barely covering you, your head tucked beneath Bucky’s chin as you catch your breath.

Everything’s warm. His skin, his breath, the way his arms hold you like you’re something he earned.

You shift a little, snuggle closer. “Seriously, James?” you mutter, voice muffled against his chest. “You’re so fucking good. I can’t believe you were actually insecure you forgot how to have sex.”

He lets out a groan—somewhere between bashful and bashful-aggressive.

“Doll…”

“No, like—seriously.” You sit up just enough to look at him, eyes wide and dramatic now. “That was insane. Like, are you sure you haven’t been practicing with a pillow or something while I wasn’t around?”

“Absolutely not,” he mutters, one hand dragging over his face. His ears are pink. “Jesus Christ.”

You grin. He’s blushing. This gorgeous, 110-year-old supersoldier with arms the size of your thighs and a tongue that just rewired your soul is blushing.

“I mean, the way you—” You gesture vaguely at your lower half. “You knew exactly what to do.”

He looks like he might implode.

“Maybe it’s muscle memory,” he mumbles, avoiding your eyes. “Maybe I just got lucky.”

“Oh, baby,” you say, all fond and exasperated. You crawl back on top of him, straddling his stomach, hands on his flushed chest. “That wasn’t luck. That was talent.”

He groans again, letting his head fall back on the pillow—but his hands settle instinctively on your hips, keeping you there like he doesn’t actually want you to stop.

“Don’t do this to me,” he pleads, but you can see the smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m genuinely impressed, Bucky,” you say, mock-serious now. “Like, maybe you should’ve been cocky about it.”

He shoots you a look. “I can’t tell If this is your way of mocking me or you really mean it.”

You giggle—hard. Collapse onto his chest and wrap your arms around his middle while he sighs dramatically.

But he’s smiling.

You nuzzle your face into his neck and soften, voice low now, honest.

“You were amazing,” you whisper. “Like… beyond. You didn’t just make me feel good, Buck. You made me feel loved.”

That gets him quiet.

One hand slips up your back. His metal one curls protectively around your waist. He kisses your temple like he can’t help it.

“Only ever wanted to make you feel that,” he murmurs.

And now you’re blushing.

You both lie there a while—grinning, tangled, all warm limbs and wandering fingers.

“…So, round two?” you say sweetly.

He barks a laugh, grabs you around the waist, and rolls you beneath him.

“Bet.”

tags: @iamthatonefangirl @thatsbucknasty @buckytakethewheel @buckybarneswife125

[4aceclover]

One of the best ways to bond with a kid in FNAF is to make sure you have a killer rabbit after you

(how much do you want to bet these kids can never look at bunnies the same way ever again)

Oswald finally has friends to relate to in FNAF

[whenstarsundress]

— y is for yearning

caleb kissed your forehead every night before you fell asleep. you never noticed. always dozing too peacefully in his arms, breaths slow, heartbeat calm. but he did it anyway.

like a prayer. like a promise.

he kept little things too. napkins from cafes where you’d laughed at nothing, receipts with your doodles in the corners, blurry photos of your smile in low light. and sometimes, he’d write things on scraps of paper he never showed you.

‘you looked at me today and i forgot how to speak.’

‘i wish i could give you a world as warm as your laugh.’

‘she touched my hand and i almost collapsed.’

he folded them, tucked them into books, pockets, drawers. buried them like secret treasures he was too afraid to give you. because how could someone like him deserve someone like you?

you, who brightened every room with just your voice. you, who kissed the corner of his mouth when he was too shy to ask for more. you, who called him ‘cal’ like it was your favorite word.

you loved him, right? at least, he hoped.

but still, he didn’t say it. not out loud. not when you were awake. not until tonight.

you were lying on the couch together. your legs were draped across his lap, your face turned toward him, hair messy from your earlier nap. the tv was playing something neither of you were really watching. caleb was watching you. and he couldn’t take it anymore.

“i think i love you.”

you blinked once, then again. your head tilted a little, lips parting like you hadn’t heard him right.

caleb panicked instantly. “wait—i didn’t mean it like that. or—i did, but not to make it weird, i just—fuck, sorry, i should’ve waited—”

“but caleb,” you said gently, your voice caught between confusion and a laugh. “i thought we’ve been dating for months?”

he froze.

you looked at him with wide, amused eyes. “like… do you think i’ve just been cuddling you, sleeping in your bed, and kissing you platonically?”

his mouth opened. closed. opened again. “…we’re dating?”

you snorted. “caleb.”

he buried his face in his hands. “oh my god.”

you crawled into his lap, hands cupping his face, pressing your forehead to his as he groaned into your shoulder.

“you’re so dumb,” you whispered fondly.

“i thought i was being subtle.”

“you leave me good morning notes every time you leave early.”

“those are just—helpful,” he mumbled, ears pink.

“one of them said, ‘thinking about your smile made my whole day worth it.’”

he groaned louder. you kissed his cheek. then the corner of his mouth. then softly, right against his lips. “i love you too, you idiot.”

and that time, when he kissed your forehead, you were awake and smiling.

[soup-mother]

If I had a US American girlfriend I'd take such good care of her and keep her in a little shoebox and give her bits of hamburger and keep her away from dangerous things like feral cats and world maps. Unfortunately they're feral here so u can't keep them as pets :/

[solxamber]

Ace of Gates || Ace Trappola

You’re an A-rank Esper. He’s an A-rank Guide with too much mouth and not enough fear.

Together? You accidentally become the most functional duo in the building.

or: Guideverse!

Series Masterlist

The thing about life before the Gates was that it wasn't exactly good, but it had a kind of grimy charm.

You might have stubbed your toe on every available table leg in existence. You might have been ghosted by someone who claimed to be "allergic to commitment." You might've even once set off your smoke detector boiling instant noodles.

But at the end of the day, you could still wake up, brush your teeth, and go about your business without being chased across the freeway by a four-dimensional carnivore with sixteen elbows and the personality of an angry Yelp reviewer.

Then the Gates opened.

No warning or even subtle foreshadowing. One day, the sky said, "You know what this timeline needs? Suffering," and split open like the world's worst piñata.

Out poured creatures that looked like eldritch entities failed out of clown college—too many limbs, not enough skin, occasionally speaking in cursive. Spatial distortions started warping downtown office buildings. Birds flew backward. Somewhere, a tax accountant developed pyrokinesis and accidentally leveled a Subway.

And as the world collectively spiraled, humanity did what it always does in times of crisis: made things weirder.

First came the Espers—humans with the uncanny ability to punch reality back into place.

Blessed (or cursed) with psychically-charged nervous systems, Espers could tear Gates apart, launch energy blasts, and generally break the laws of physics over their knees like bad pencils.

Unfortunately, they also have the emotional regulation of a sleep-deprived toddler mid-sugar crash. Put too much strain on them and they'd short-circuit, cry, explode, or all three at once. You never really know.

Which is where the Guides came in.

Guides were supposed to be the grounding wires in this cosmic fever dream. Cool-headed, calm, attuned to the fluctuating mental states of Espers, and just functional enough to keep society from collapsing further.

But the truth was, most Guides were held together with caffeine, chronic back pain, and the sheer power of bitter determination. You could always spot one by their thousand-yard stare and that faint aura of "if one more Esper screams in my direction, I'm going to throw them into the sun."

Together, Espers and Guides became the last duct-taped hope of civilization. Gate opens? Send an Esper. Esper loses grip on reality after supression? Throw a Guide at them like a weighted blanket.

But somehow, society limped forward, staggering under the weight of Gate horrors and bureaucratic nonsense. Love, rent, public transport delays, emotionally unstable superhumans—it was all just part of life now.

A little messier and a lot louder. But still life.

Being an A-class Esper wasn't the worst gig in the world. You weren't flashy enough to get dragged into high-stakes Gate politics, and you weren't disposable enough to be thrown in like cannon fodder either.

You sat comfortably in the middle tier of survivability and suffering—overqualified for grunt work, underqualified for any high-profile heroic nonsense. Which was fine. You liked your soul intact, thank you very much.

But the thing about sitting in that sweet A-class spot was that you got a front-row seat to all The Horrors without the clout to veto them.

Like watching one of your training peers go nuclear mid-fight because their abilities decided to evolve like a traumatised Pokémon. Or worse—witnessing upper-class Espers go absolutely feral over Guide assignments like it was some messy dating sim with real-world casualties.

So when today's Gate spat you out after several hours of what could only be described as "spiritual hazing," you were ready to demand extra compensation on sheer principle. Not even hazard pay—ugliness pay. The creatures inside that thing were visually offensive. You saw one and instinctively gagged. They were so ugly.

You staggered out of the Gate, adrenaline fading and headache blossoming, reaching out instinctively for someone, anyone, to Guide you before your brain decided to pirouette off the mental cliff.

You were expecting warm hands. Soothing words. And you found a Guide who looked like they'd just crawled out of therapy and wanted to drag you in with them.

Instead, you got manhandled. By SS Esper Leona Kingscholar, no less—who apparently thought you were a misbehaving toddler in a mall food court. He picked you up by the scruff of your uniform like you were about to claw up his curtains and threw you across the recovery field toward some poor, unsuspecting soul with a Guide badge still so new it hadn't even smudged yet.

You landed in someone's arms with all the grace of a disgruntled, wet cat. Someone yelped. You blinked blearily up at them, registering orange hair, too much gel, and a look of pure panic barely hidden behind what was clearly practiced bravado.

Guide badge: present. Facial expression: overwhelmed.

You were too fried to be picky.

"First day?" you croaked.

His eye twitched. "I've totally got this under control."

Uh-huh. Sure.

He was stalling, clearly trying to remember some textbook protocol while you slowly disintegrated like a paper towel under a leaky tap. So you cut the formalities, grabbed his hands, and just pressed them to your cheeks. He made a squeaky noise not unlike a hiccuping kettle.

But damn, if the effect wasn't instant. It wasn't polished or practiced, but it was just enough at that moment. He fumbled his own breathing trying to match yours, probably counting seconds like his training manual told him to. But his guidance was warm and human. Grounded in a kind of sincerity that couldn't be taught.

And for the first time in what felt like hours, the pounding in your head dulled just slightly. The static eased. You exhaled.

"Not bad, rookie," you mumbled, eyes half-closed. "Now don't drop me, or I'm biting your shoulder."

"Wha—why would you—?!" He panicked, fingers twitching like he thought you might actually go feral.

You grinned.

This might be the start of something terrible. Or incredibly entertaining. Maybe both.

Ace—as you eventually learned his name was, after your brain rebooted enough to distinguish "man" from "tree"—has the vibe of a guy who showed up to a war zone thinking it was an unpaid internship.

Not that you were doing much better. You'd just crawled out of a gate that felt like fighting God in a parking lot behind a 7-Eleven, and your only priority had been: find a Guide, latch on, don't die.

You expected the usual from a Guide: firm grounding, minimal judgment, maybe a juice box if they were feeling generous. Instead, you got a panicked yelp and a pair of very nice hands that hovered like they were trying to defuse a bomb.

"Hey, hey, don't just grab—! I—um—this isn't covered in the training modules—are you bleeding internally or do your eyes always do that?!"

You cracked one eye open, squinting up at a face that was trying very hard to pretend it wasn't terrified. Gelled orange hair, vaguely delinquent posture, expression like someone just handed him a baby and said "good luck." You wheezed, "Are you my Guide or a weird hallucination?"

"Depends," he said, trying to puff up with confidence and failing miserably. "Do hallucinations get assigned A-rank badges on their very first day? Huh? No? That's what I thought."

"Oh great," you muttered, still clinging to him like a depressive barnacle. "I got the tutorial mode Guide."

"Hey! I'll have you know I aced my cert exams! All of them. Well. Most of them. I read some of the manual. Okay, look, I skimmed the headers, but still!"

"Guide me more," you said dramatically, like you were gonna drop dead. "Before I go feral and set something on fire."

He looked like he was going to pass out. "Why are you like this?!"

"You're asking that to someone who just spent four hours playing tag with a mutant centipede that screamed in Latin."

Somehow, miraculously, it worked. The haze in your mind lifted. Your pulse slowed. You were no longer vibrating at the speed of trauma. And your new Guide—Ace, looked down at his hands like they'd just sprouted wings.

"I did it," he whispered.

"You didn't drop me," you corrected. "Which is more than I expected. Congratulations."

He looked one part smug, two parts panic. "Is this how it always is?! Just people falling on me?? I thought I was gonna get, like, eased in. Assigned to chill D-rank espers with emotional support houseplants or something."

"Nope. It's just me and my trauma today," you said cheerfully.

Now that you were feeling only mildly like a wet napkin that had been through a blender, you shoved a vending machine coffee into his hands. One of the good ones—if "good" meant "tastes like burnt resentment with notes of despair." "Here. A little treat. You earned it."

"Why is it gray?" he asked, suspicious.

You smiled, patting his shoulder. "Because life is suffering."

And then you left him there, clutching a cup of sadness, looking like a man who had just realized this was his actual job.

The morning had started off pretty boring. You were catching up on the soul-crushingly dull backlog of post-gate paperwork—forms with cheerful names like "Guidance Feedback Report" and "Hazard Clearance: Tier Two and Below"—while sipping your third cup of questionable vending machine coffee.

You'd already filled out a whole page where you had to rate your existential dread on a scale of "chill vibes" to "screaming internally." You checked "Other" and drew a little raccoon with a knife.

Peace. Quiet. Administrative numbness.

And then: noise.

A high-pitched shriek echoed from down the hall, followed by a wet squish and the unmistakable sound of someone yelling, "PUT ME DOWN I'M NOT A STUFFED TOY." You knew exactly what you were about to see and were already emotionally checked out of it.

Sure enough, you rounded the corner and there it was: Floyd Leech, B class Esper, SSS class chaos goblin extraordinaire, had a full-body grip on some poor SS-ranked Guide who looked like they were halfway between having a panic attack and astral projecting out of their job. Floyd, meanwhile, was grinning like he'd just discovered a new chew toy and didn't plan on giving it back.

You made eye contact. With the Guide, not Floyd. The Guide gave you a desperate look.

You promptly turned on your heel. Not your business. Not your problem. Not even your plane of existence.

Just as you were about to flee back to the comfort of bureaucracy and caffeine poisoning, you caught a glimpse of orange in the corner of your eye. You looked again. Ah. There he was.

Ace Trappola, newly minted Guide, dragging in two boxes and a duffel bag, wearing a hoodie and sneakers and a Look that could only be described as "I survived my first week and all I got was this nervous twitch." The hair, formerly gelled within an inch of its life, was now flat and flopping wildly like it had been in a fight with gravity and lost.

You jogged over and took the top box without asking. He blinked at you.

"Wait—seriously? You're helping?"

"I enjoy manual labor when it comes with leverage," you said. 

He gave you a look that tried to be offended but mostly just came out tired. "Yeah, well, don't expect gratitude. I'm still recovering from my last gate. One of the espers threw up on me. Not near me. On me."

You nodded solemnly. "A baptism by bile."

"That was not in the handbook."

"Nothing in this job is in the handbook."

You helped him get the stuff into his new office—an aggressively beige space that looked like it had been furnished by a government official with a vendetta against joy.

He started taping up his beloved sports team posters, all the while throwing glances at the hallway like something might bite him if he let his guard down. Which was valid. There were a lot of people here who might.

"So is it always like this here?" he asked, gesturing vaguely toward the corridor where Floyd was presumably still clinging to his victim like an emotionally unbalanced barnacle.

You stared at him. "Dude. Rule number one. Do not make eye contact with other espers. Especially not the twitchy ones. Especially not Floyd. That's how you get conscripted into a hug you'll never escape."

Ace looked genuinely alarmed. "You people are insane."

"We're passionate."

"You say that like it's better."

You flopped down on the couch in his office and pulled out your breakfast—an aggressively stale bagel that had the texture of a rubber sandal and none of the flavor. He watched in horror as you took a bite.

"Is that safe to eat?"

"It builds character," you muttered, chewing with the solemnity of someone at war with both the bagel and their life choices.

Just then, your phone buzzed. You glanced at it. A single, terrible phrase: Level A Gate.

You groaned so deeply it echoed in your ribcage.

Ace raised an eyebrow. "That bad?"

"I had a whole plan today," you moaned. "I was going to sit in my office. And rot. Gracefully. Like an abandoned fruit cup."

"Well, looks like you're the fruit cup on call," he said, with absolutely no sympathy.

You stared at the beige ceiling. "Tell my dust bunnies I love them."

Then you stood up, still chewing, and walked out the door like a martyr going to war—with half a bagel in one hand and resignation in your eyes.

The last few gates had been a breezy little vacation, if your idea of vacation included blood, screaming, and a lot of ugly creatures. But compared to the usual hellscapes, they'd been mercifully tame. You'd barely had to flex your powers.

A brief dramatic pose here, a mild energy burst there, a lazy thumbs-up to the rookies watching you and panicking. Quick stabilizing sessions with whatever Guide hadn't already checked out of reality for the day, and boom—you were back home eating chips with your socks half on and your brain half off.

It was beautiful. Peaceful. And very, very suspicious.

Because nothing good in this godforsaken world ever lasts. You'd forgotten the first rule of living in a society balanced on the emotional regulation of human warheads: if things are going smoothly, you're about to get uppercut by fate wearing brass knuckles.

And it happens, of course, the moment you do something reckless. You'd made the mistake of feeling a little hopeful that day. Thought maybe—maybe—you'd go outside and feel the sun, not because you were being forcibly evacuated, but just to walk. To sniff a flower. To make eye contact with a squirrel and feel alive again.

You cracked open your door and the universe took that personally. Your comm lit up with the kind of emergency alert that usually means something has exploded or is about to.

Massive gate breach. Immediate dispatch. Bring everything.

So you showed up at the scene, and wow. If gates had Yelp reviews, this one would have gotten zero stars and a government shutdown.

The structure had collapsed in on itself like overcooked flan . Monsters were pouring out like rats fleeing a burning house. You watched one particularly unfortunate Esper get launched across the sky like a sack of potatoes. Another C class Esper was holding their shoe like it could ward off demons.

The entire street looked like it was being eaten pixel by pixel. Guides were sprinting around like unpaid interns at a fire festival for demons. The air stank of ozone and regret. The coffee in your thermos curdled in real time.

You took it in with the resignation of someone who's already mentally gone through all five stages of grief and accepted that today was going to end in blood, tears, or possibly being eaten by a bird-faced horror from dimension twelve.

And then—through the blur—you spotted him.

Ace.

Clearly regretting every career decision that led to this moment. It was still his first week as a Guide after all.

He was standing off to the side, looking like someone who'd been told this was a casual office job and was now watching someone get disemboweled by a worm made entirely of teeth. 

His hair, which had been styled into "I'm employable" during the last gate you saw him at, was now sticking up like he'd fought a wind tunnel and lost. His hoodie had a suspicious stain. He has was gripping his Guide manual like it was a shield, which it absolutely was not.

And yet—he didn't bolt. You could see it on his face: sheer uncut panic, barely held together by ego and trauma, but he stayed.

You sighed. He really was trying. But the idea of this baby deer of a Guide trying to emotionally stabilize you (or anyone) while you were fried like an overcooked spring roll was… a lawsuit waiting to happen.

So you walked up, grabbed him by the sleeve, and said, "Car. Go sit in it."

"What—"

"My car. Passenger side. Americano in the cupholder. Go."

He blinked at you, somewhere between confused and offended. "I'm literally here to guide—"

"You're literally here to cry if something sneezes too loud. Get in the car."

He hesitated. You didn't. You gestured at the car again, channeling the authority seen only in pissed-off parents at amusement parks. "Ace. If you so much as catch eye contact with one of these things, it's going to sense your new-hire energy and take you out like a starter pack snack. Go. Sit. Drink the coffee."

And—miraculously—he did. He shuffled off in the direction of your beat-up car like a tragic little duckling, muttering something that sounded like "I hate this job," but he still got in and shut the door behind him.

You turned back to the chaos, took a deep breath, and summoned your weapons.

Time to go do the absolute most, again, while the new Guide cowered next to your glovebox and tried not to spill anything on your emergency taser.

By the time the higher-ranked Espers arrived, flanked by whatever fresh hell of support units HQ had managed to scrape together at the last second, you were already halfway to being burnt toast with a personality disorder.

Your limbs had felt like they were being held together by sheer spite for the last hour, and you were pretty sure you'd used a move that wasn't technically legal under Esper Regulation 12.6-B—something about "not summoning energy constructs larger than public transit."

Not that anyone noticed. The moment the S+ ranks dropped in, the remaining monsters were obliterated so easily that it made you wonder if they even knew what effort felt like. You didn't bother sticking around to hear the post-battle gloating.

Instead, you crawled over to the curb and planted yourself down, tucking your head between your knees like you were trying to fold yourself into a nice, compact package of trauma.

You breathed. In. Out. Didn't punch the concrete. Didn't vaporize the mailbox. Did not scream because your head felt like it had been playing host to every radio signal within a fifty-mile radius.

And then—there was a touch. Light and gentle. A hand on your head, cautious like it wasn't sure if you were about to bite. Which, fair.

You lifted your face just enough to look, and there he was.

Ace.

No longer in the car and no longer looking like he wanted to fake his death and live as a farmer. He was kneeling right in front of you, brows furrowed, face uncharacteristically serious. One hand was still on your head; the other came up to cradle your cheek like he actually knew what he was doing now.

He didn't say anything—just closed his eyes and let the Guiding energy pulse out of him in careful, practiced waves. And okay—maybe he had figured it out.

The energy hummed through your system like a warm tide, smoothing over all the sharp edges and static that had built up from overusing your powers. You inhaled shakily, and the scent that hit you was unmistakable: chocolate.

The exact brand you kept stuffed in the side panel of your car for emotional emergencies. You almost laughed, but it caught in your throat, tangled up with exhaustion.

Instead, you just leaned in. Right into his neck, your face pressed against the still-damp collar of his hoodie. He yelped—just a little—but didn't pull back. His hand slipped around to support the back of your head and you melted into him like he was the last unburnt bit of the world.

You didn't know how long he held you like that, only that when you opened your eyes again, the world felt a little less bright and your heart wasn't trying to break out of your ribcage anymore.

Eventually, you managed to stand. Your joints cracked like pop rocks, but hey, you were vertical.

Ace rose with you, a little more confident now, like helping you not implode had somehow restored a piece of his soul. He glanced away as he dusted off his pants. "Thanks, by the way," he said, voice just the tiniest bit shy. "For earlier. Y'know. The car thing."

You snorted. "You mean when I told you to sit there and drink coffee like a sad raccoon?"

"Exactly that." He grinned, then smirked. "Best part of my whole day, honestly."

You leaned in and ruffled his hair—deliberately ruining the way it had finally grown back into some form of chaos management. He squawked in protest, tried to bat your hand away, but he was grinning too hard to be mad.

You turned before you could say anything sappy. There was still work to do. A cluster of lower-ranked Guides were struggling to contain a group of Espers who were shaking like soda cans left in the sun, on the very edge of a full mental detonation. You squared your shoulders, rolled your neck, and headed toward the chaos.

Because sure, you were fried. Sure, your legs felt like overcooked noodles. But if Ace could pull himself together and hold you through your mess?

The least you could do was return the favor.

You had finally completed enough missions, clocked in enough hours, and filled out just enough headache-inducing paperwork to earn the privilege (read: institutional liability) of being assigned your very own Guide. Not just a harried intern with a flashlight and a pamphlet on deep breathing exercises.

And, to be fair, you were excited. Truly. Genuinely. But also deeply concerned for whatever poor soul had been sentenced to the eternal emotional rollercoaster that was… you.

You knew your reputation. You were mostly fine, except when you weren't, which was usually right after crawling out of a gate like some freshly molted nightmare creature with a migraine and an attitude problem.

You didn't mean to be difficult. You were just, as your last temporary Guide had eloquently put it, "a high-strung pressure cooker of unprocessed trauma and volatile energy." But you meant well. That counted for something, right?

The sterile white waiting room didn't help the nerves. Everything was so aggressively clean it felt like a trap. You sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair, bouncing your knee, trying not to explode before anyone even showed up. Across the room, a vending machine blinked ominously, refusing to take your credits. You glared at it. It glared back. The air hummed faintly with fluorescent lighting and barely-contained dread.

That's when you saw him.

A Guide—clearly veteran, clearly so done—dragging a protesting SS-class Esper by the scruff of their collar like a furious mom hauling a toddler mid-tantrum. You didn't know either of them personally, but you gave the man a nod of quiet respect, which he returned with the dead-eyed focus of a man who hadn't known peace in years.

The Esper threw a tantrum about being micromanaged. The Guide looked like he was mentally designing their tombstone.

You shrank slightly in your chair. Yeah. No thanks. You weren't built for that life. Higher-ranked Espers terrified even you. You were A-class and even you thought most of your own were unhinged.

By the time your name was finally called, you had witnessed two more Guides dragging their Espers out like disobedient golden retrievers, and one Esper sobbing dramatically into the corner like they'd been paired with the ghost of their dead ex.

You were thoroughly psyching yourself out. Your brain had already crafted seventeen worst-case scenarios and was midway through number eighteen when the attendant handed you your assignment sheet.

You took it with hands that were definitely not trembling (they were, though), and glanced down at the name.

Ace Trappola.

You sagged so hard in your seat you practically became part of it.

You didn't even try to hide your relief. Out of all the possibilities, this was a win. Ace might not have had the experience, but he had charm, resilience, and—most importantly—not the eyes of someone one bad conversation away from spontaneous combustion.

"Oh thank God," you muttered under your breath, hugging the sheet to your chest like it was a sacred relic. Maybe—just maybe—this was going to be okay.

Ace's office was already a mess, and not the charming kind that said "creative genius at work." No, it was the other kind—the one that screamed "I've lost control of my life and also my filing system."

You knocked anyway, because manners, and cracked the door open to find him pacing in a circle like a disgruntled hamster. He didn't even notice you. He was too deep in what could only be described as a righteous fury spiral.

"—and then they just assign me a new esper, like, boom! Congratulations, here's your emotional landmine, hope you enjoy spontaneous combustion with a side of caffeine withdrawal. Do I get a warning? A dossier? A name?! No. Just a shiny little memo with 'new assignment incoming' like I'm a damn Pokémon center," Ace barked at the air, hands flying. "I swear, if this one screams or bites or starts levitating—!"

You leaned on the doorframe and bit your lip to stifle a laugh. It was always fun watching Ace have a crisis. His hands flailed more when he was stressed, like he was trying to physically throw his emotions into the void.

He finally stopped pacing, glanced up—and froze.

"Oh great," he said flatly, "you're here. Did you come to laugh at my suffering? Again?"

You shrugged. "I mean, maybe. Depends. What if I am your esper?"

He stared.

You smiled.

He stared harder.

Then his eyes widened like you just told him you were secretly three raccoons in a trench coat. "No."

"Yup."

"No way." He pointed an accusing finger at you like you were personally responsible for his current descent into madness. "You're joking. You're messing with me. You—this is hazing. This is some dumb esper hazing thing, right?"

You handed him the assignment form like a receipt for emotional damage. He snatched it and scanned it so fast you were surprised it didn't catch fire. And then he just… stared at it, like the paper had personally betrayed him.

"I can't believe this," he whispered. "Of all the people. Of all the people."

You clapped him on the back. "Hey, at least it's someone you know. We've got rapport. Chemistry. Vibes."

"You ate all my fries the one time I let you drive me to work," he deadpanned.

"They were completely unguarded," you countered.

He sighed and sat down like the weight of responsibility had aged him fifteen years in five minutes. "I'm never getting hazard pay for this, am I."

You beamed at him. "Nope. But you get me."

"Yeah," Ace muttered. "That's what I was afraid of."

The next time a Gate popped up on your radar, you felt something dangerously close to joy.

Not because of the monsters, obviously. No one in their right mind enjoyed getting gnawed on by interdimensional hellbeasts with poor skincare and too many limbs. But because—for once—you wouldn't have to rely on a trembling intern Guide who looked like they'd rather take their chances inside the Gate than be within a five-foot radius of you.

No. This time, you had Ace.

Your own Guide.

And if that wasn't the emotional equivalent of being handed a complimentary emotional support soda after surviving a hurricane, you didn't know what was.

So you fought. You dodged. You possibly kicked something in the jaw that wasn't a monster but in your defense it was slimy and made a horrible noise. You made it out with only mild trauma and one (1) concerning scratch that may or may not be sizzling a bit, but that wasn't important.

What was important was that when you finally stumbled out of the collapsing Gate, there he was—Ace, standing at the edge of the suppression field like someone had personally promised him pizza if he didn't flee. He spotted you, eyes wide, mouth parting like he was about to say something deeply sarcastic—

And then you stumbled straight into his arms.

You didn't even think about it. It just happened. One second you were vertical, the next you were face-first in a hoodie that smelled vaguely like Axe body spray. You sagged into him, finally letting your shoulders drop and letting your head fall to his shoulder like the universe had finally decided to cut you some slack.

Ace, to his credit, didn't immediately drop you like a hot potato. He wobbled under the sudden weight of your whole being and then steadied you, arms wrapping around you without complaint—well, almost without complaint.

"You do know we can just hold hands, right?" he muttered. "Like. Normal people? Normal guiding protocols? This isn't a fainting couch situation."

"Yeah," you sighed, eyes closed. "But you're very comfortable."

There was a pause. You could feel it—the exact second the words reached his brain, ricocheted around his synapses, and triggered a full-body blush.

"Hey!" he squawked, indignation peaking—but he didn't let go.

In fact, his arms tightened around you just a little.

You didn't say anything else. Neither did he. But you did hear him complaining about "guiding being a scam" and "you're the worst" under his breath, which—coming from Ace—was basically an affectionate poem.

The farmers market Gate incident would go down in your personal history books as both a magical catastrophe and the worst advertisement for locally sourced produce since that time you accidentally blew up a vegan co-op.

You were enjoying a rare moment of peace—by which you meant doing exactly nothing and feeling deeply smug about it—when the gate alert buzzed on your phone like an angry bee with a grudge.

You skimmed it. Normal stuff. Minor rupture. Medium-range creatures. Casualties pending. And then you saw it.

Location: Public Farmers Market Guides trapped: Multiple Hostile rating: High

You blinked at the screen. Then texted Ace:

"pls tell me you're not in a gate buying overpriced jam rn."

No reply.

Your soul left your body just a little.

There was no logical reason for a whole flock of Guides to be at the farmers market. It was like a divine joke. Or a badly written fanfic plot twist. You were already halfway into your gear, muttering a prayer to whatever Gods handled idiot emergencies, because let's be honest—if any Guide had decided to go sniff tomatoes and talk about microgreens on gate day, it was going to be Ace Trappola.

When you got there, it was already chaos.

There were monster corpses everywhere—half-eaten leeks, shattered jars of "sun-blessed lemon marmalade," and the unmistakable scent of kombucha violence. Someone's dream of ethical farming had died here today.

You ducked a flying melon. You saw a mid-rank Guide trying to use a literal baguette as a weapon and briefly considered quitting the entire profession. You helped two baby Espers escape from under a collapsed garlic stand.

A Guide was desperately swinging a massive leek at a monster, eyes wild and determined like they were avenging their grandmother's greenhouse. You almost saluted them on the spot out of sheer respect.

And then you saw Ace.

Standing on top of a wobbly fruit stall, hurling seasonal produce with impressive arm strength and zero dignity.

He whipped a honeycrisp apple into the jaws of a slime beast and screamed, "SAY HELLO TO FIBER, YOU UGLY CHIHUAHUA!"

You couldn't look away. You were too stunned. Too amused. Too horrified. He spotted you mid-pitch and practically sagged with relief.

"DUDE," he yelled, mid-ducking a flying zucchini. "A LITTLE HELP?? I'M RUNNING OUT OF PERSIMMONS!"

You helped. Because that was your job. Because despite your desire to let him stew in the compost bin he metaphorically built, you were technically a professional. So you and a bunch of barely-standing Espers wrapped the gate up, sealed it, and survived.

When the dust settled, Ace was sitting on a crate, shirt half torn, tie missing, and what might have been a berry smoothie dripping from his bangs.

You walked over, arms crossed.

"That's what you guys fight?" he asked, voice thin. "Like. Regularly?"

"Mhm," you said, chewing on a granola bar you looted from a nearby tent.

Ace looked haunted. Like he'd just learned about mortality and also taxes in the same ten seconds. He leaned forward, forehead thunking against your shoulder.

"Never. Speak. Of this. Again," he whispered.

You patted his head with the affection one reserved for shell-shocked war heroes and dumbass coworkers. "Sure," you said. "Your secret fruit war is safe with me."

He just shook his head like he'd seen the other side and it was powered by vegetables. 

"Forget this ever happened," he muttered, eyes fluttering shut.

You didn't say anything. You just pulled him a little closer, steadying him with one arm while the other waved away a very confused emergency response team.

You'd tease him about it later. But for now, you let him rest.

Ace called you at 3 AM, which was frankly criminal behavior. 

You stared at the buzzing phone like it had personally insulted your lineage before you picked up and croaked something unintelligible that may have been your name, or possibly a spell to banish him.

"Heyyy," came his too-cheerful voice, already suspicious. "Wanna go to a magic show?"

You blinked. You looked at the time again. 3:08 AM.

"Ace," you said, voice hoarse, "do you know what time it is?"

"Yeah, that's the whole point," he said, with the sort of maddening logic only a chaos gremlin could wield. "It's a midnight magic show. Come on, when else are we gonna see a dude try to pull a live fish out of his armpit? This is culture."

You almost said no. In fact, your soul did say no. Loudly. But your mouth was overridden by a strange instinct, the same one that told you not to eat discount gas station sushi but still you did it anyway.

"...Fine," you muttered. "But if this is some cult initiation, I'm pushing you into the altar first."

There was no logical reason for this. No rational part of you that wanted to be out of bed. But something in your soul—some ancient, unkillable gremlin instinct—told you this was the right choice. Or at least that it would be entertaining.

You met him outside a theatre that looked like it had once been a pawn shop and was now held together with duct tape and multiple.curses. Ace was leaning against the wall, half-grinning, wearing a hoodie that claimed he ran a marathon in 2013 (he didn't).

His hair was sticking up in defiance of gravity, and he had the manic gleam of someone who'd either discovered enlightenment or downed an energy drink mixed with coffee.

The show, against all odds, was happening. You squeezed into two creaky folding chairs and immediately regretted it. The magician on stage was trying to pull coins out of a bowl of soup. The soup did not cooperate. Ace was already snickering.

The magician's cape had visible ketchup stains. There was a rabbit that looked like it had unionized. The crowd consisted of six other people, one of whom might have been asleep and another who was loudly booing even during the introductions.

It was awful.

You tried to be polite. You really did. But then the magician dropped his wand, apologized to it, and accidentally kicked over a prop bucket labeled "DO NOT KICK," and Ace whispered, "We're witnessing history," and that was it. You broke. You were gone.

Somewhere between the magician's card trick that turned into a live chicken and the very dramatic poetry interlude, you noticed Ace wasn't laughing quite as loudly anymore. He was still grinning, still nudging your knee with his, but his eyes kept drifting to the exits, and he flinched when one of the props fell too hard against the floor.

The gate incident must've rattled him more than he let on. Of course it did. The monsters were nightmare fuel, but you'd been around long enough to swap fear for disgust. He hadn't. He wasn't used to things getting that close, to hearing people scream, to being helpless while chaos chewed its way through the air.

You didn't mention it. He didn't bring it up. But you laughed a little harder, leaned a little closer, and handed him some of your stale popcorn like it was sacred. He took it and commented something about you probably poisoning it. You told him you absolutely had.

This wasn't about the magic show. This was about feeling human again. And if that meant watching someone fail to saw a fake body in half while Ace whispered "That's going to haunt me more than the gate," then so be it.

You'd be there. Even at 3 AM. Even when the magician made eye contact and asked for volunteers and you had to physically hold Ace down in his chair.

Honestly? Best terrible night ever.

You'd started hanging out with Ace more because you were worried. Genuinely, responsibly, adult-level worried. The job was eating him alive. The early signs were all there—the stress-yawning, the sarcastic jokes that sounded a little too real, the thousand-yard stare whenever someone mentioned mandatory overtime.

You'd seen it before: one day they're drinking instant coffee and guiding B-ranks through minor breaches, the next they're staring at the wall and whispering "I'm fine" like it's a lie they've told too many times to believe.

So, you made yourself present. Not pushy or clingy but just there. Like a houseplant, but taller and with worse coping mechanisms. You started dropping by his office after your missions under the noble excuse of stealing his snacks.

You made him leave the building for actual food when he looked pale enough to pass as a ghost. You started showing up at his apartment with takeout when he pretended he didn't have time to cook. (Spoiler: he never did have time to cook. You found out he considered cereal and three leftover fries a dinner once.)

But then the concern turned into something else. Something far less noble and a lot more annoying.

Because now you hang out with Ace not because you're worried about him burning out, but because he's kind of…your person? Despite the fact that he talks like he's the main character of a sitcom and eats chips like they owe him money, you've never had someone so effortlessly sync into your orbit. He makes everything a little funnier, a little lighter.

He gets your jokes. He rolls his eyes when you fake-dramatically pretend to collapse on the couch after missions, but he always tosses you a bottle of water after.

And if your heart fluttered the other day when he leaned in too close just to steal your fries with the kind of grin that should be illegal? No it didn't. Your heart was just startled. Yes. Like when a cat sees a cucumber. Totally physiological.

Because this is fine. You're fine. You're definitely not catching feelings for your Guide, who once tripped over his own shoelace trying to show off and who called you "a disaster in a cool jacket."

Nope.

This is normal. You're just...bonding. Like coworkers. Like comrades. Like people who happen to spend all their time together and sometimes maybe fall asleep shoulder to shoulder watching a bad sports documentary neither of you picked.

Totally normal. Completely not a problem. Everything's fine.

The floor of Ace's office had truly seen things. Blood, sweat, tears, a spilled iced coffee that achieved sapience for twelve minutes before being vanquished with a napkin.

And right now? It was you. You were part of the floor. You were the floor. The couch was unusable—stuffed with enough junk to declare itself a sovereign nation—and frankly, this was fine. Ace had stepped over you four times already and you had no intention of returning to vertical society.

Then the alert came in. It was the kind of blaring screech that implied the God themselves had stubbed their toe. 

You didn't even lift your head—you just groaned into the suspiciously warm floor as Ace yelled from the other side of the room.

"Nope! Nope. Nuh-uh. I haven't even finished my boba!"

You tilted your head just enough to peek over at him. He was holding his phone like it had personally insulted his bloodline. "SSS-class gate," he read aloud, voice flat with horror. "This is workplace harassment."

You finally sat up and sighed. "S+ Espers are going in. A ranks are on standby."

Ace narrowed his eyes at you. "You're A rank."

"Congratulations on knowing the alphabet."

"Oh, you think you're funny now. Just wait till we get there and your kneecaps try to vacate the premises."

Despite the dramatics, he was already gathering his gear. You both knew there was no skipping this one. When a gate got rated SSS, it meant things were already bad enough that someone in admin had cried on the official report.

You reached the scene, and it looked like a discount apocalypse sale—everything must go! Reality included! A guide was crying into a clipboard. An Esper had tried to fight a monster with a traffic cone. One guy just laid down on the pavement like he was hoping the ground would adopt him.

You were getting out of the car when Ace suddenly reached over and gripped your wrist like he was trying to keep your soul tethered. His expression was weirdly serious for a guy wearing a hoodie that said "Espers Are Just Goth Pokémon."

"If you die in there," he said, "I'm going to kill you."

You blinked. "That's not… how that works."

"I will find a way."

You tried to smother your grin, but it was already halfway out. "You gonna haunt me?"

"I will invent necromantic litigation. I will sue your ghost."

You tried to reply but you were wheezing too hard to make words. He looked dead serious and also vaguely like he was going to cry. You ruffled his hair—he yelped like a kicked cat—and stepped out of the car.

You gave him a wink and a "Don't die while I'm gone, it's my turn first," before heading off into the swirling chaos of the gate breach.

Ace said something after you, but you didn't catch it.

You gave him a thumbs-up. That meant love. Probably.

The gate was already breathing wrong when you got there. That was never a good sign. Gates weren't supposed to breathe, and definitely not in that horrible stuttered wheeze like a dying fax machine. 

You stood at the perimeter with the other A-ranks, all of you collectively pretending not to notice that the S+ Espers inside were fighting like their pensions were on the line. There was screaming. There was fire. At one point, a building developed teeth and bit someone. You weren't sure who, but they definitely didn't have insurance for that.

Usually in situations like this, someone higher up would appear and fix things with grace and devastating power—SS/ SSS Espers were good at that.

Unfortunately, all the top-tier meat shields had been scattered like sprinkles over three other hellmouths that had opened up across the city.

You'd gotten the memo about it twenty minutes ago and had been deeply hoping the gate would just collapse out of pity. Instead, it expanded. And burped. And then let out a sound like a blender full of marbles.

And then they called your name. Specifically. Because apparently someone up in the control center looked at the current death forecast and thought, Yes. Let's throw this poor A-rank into the cosmic garbage disposal. That'll go well.

You stepped in, and instantly regretted not writing a will. Or at least a passive-aggressive goodbye email to the HR department.

Calling it an SSS-rank gate was generous. You'd call it a "Don't ever speak to me or my timeline ever again" gate. It was evil in that weird, administrative way, where the environment itself wanted to make you cry. The gravity was off. The lighting was offensive. The monsters were aggressive, densely packed, and had no regard for personal space. 

And there were so many. Every time you thought you'd cleared the last one, five more would spawn like this was a cursed MMORPG with no cooldown settings. At one point, you tripped over your own boot and ended up elbow-dropping a creature with more legs than opinions. Another Esper high-fived you mid-battle and then immediately exploded. You didn't even ask.

Your arms hurt. Your soul hurt. Your favorite jacket was in tatters, and you were reasonably sure your socks were on fire. After hour ten, you stopped checking your communicator and accepted that time was now a lie. You were running on adrenaline, spite, and whatever residual trauma gave you extra DPS.

And still—still—the gate wouldn't collapse. It refused to die. It was the kind of persistent that could ruin marriages and survive nuclear winter. You didn't even know where the monsters were coming from anymore. Were they breeding? Was the gate duplicating them out of salt and collective despair? You had questions, and none of them were getting answered because you were too busy trying not to get dismembered.

Then, around hour eighteen, just as you were beginning to suspect this would be your new full-time job until retirement or death (whichever came first), the air shifted. 

The pressure dropped. The temperature dipped. And then an SSS-class Esper appeared at the gate's edge like they'd been summoned from the plane of Being Way Too Tired for This.

They didn't say a word. Just strolled in, wrecked the largest monster in a single move that looked suspiciously like an over-the-shoulder stretch, and then left without making eye contact. You didn't even catch their name.

What you did catch was the sigh of relief from every Esper present, followed by the collective collapse of ten people who had clearly been holding on out of sheer stubbornness.

You sat in the remains of a smashed car—might have been an Audi once—and looked at your busted gloves, cracked weapon, and gelt your internal organs playing musical chairs. 

You considered dying. Then you remembered you'd promised Ace you wouldn't, and he'd probably kick your ghost out of spite. So instead, you closed your eyes, let the chaos buzz around you, and thought about how tomorrow, you were going to sleep for sixteen hours.

You woke up to someone shaking you like you were the vending machine that just ate their last coin.

"Hey. Hey. Don't do this. Wake up, right now. I swear, if you die, I'm putting ghost pepper in your electrolyte packets."

Your eyelids creaked open like they were rusted shut, and there was Ace's face hovering above yours, which would've been more comforting if he didn't look two seconds away from ripping the sky open with sheer panic.

"You're awake," he muttered, and for one unguarded moment, his whole expression went soft—terrified and overwhelmed and so stupidly relieved that it punched you harder than any S-rank monster ever had. 

But then the emotion vanished like a magician's rabbit, replaced by a scowl so deep it could've been classified as a crater. "What the hell were you doing in there? Hosting a rave with your immune system? Playing tag with the horror squad?"

You blinked again, because your mouth wanted to say I'm fine but your brain was still buffering, and your limbs were attempting to unionize against the concept of "consciousness." You barely had enough strength to keep your eyes open, much less regulate your leaking powers, which was currently sparking.

Ace pressed his hands to your cheeks like he was trying to physically plug the chaos leaking out of your soul, muttering all the while. "Come on. You know how to do this. Sync with me. You've done it a million times. You got this. Don't go all Final Boss right now, I haven't even finished the side quests in my life."

His hands were warm, but your body was still in full static meltdown. Every time he tried to Guide, your energy fizzled, refused to settle, like it didn't trust him—not because he wasn't capable, but because you were too far gone, too brittle and overdrawn and already halfway to self-combustion.

You croaked something that might've been "calm down" or "carbonara," it was hard to tell.

"I am calm," he snapped, clearly lying. "I'm the calmest. Look at me, I'm a zen master. I'm inner peace incarnate. And if you die, I'm going to haunt your ass with passive-aggressive monologues about how you never listen to me."

He was spiraling. You were spiraling. There was an entire mutual disaster spiral happening in surround sound.

And then he did the most absurd thing.

He kissed you.

Just desperation and instinct and a split-second decision that said: if emotional regulation won't work, maybe making out will.

And—God—you kissed him back.

Because of course you did. Because somewhere between the midnight magic shows, the bad vending machine coffee, and the weirdly heartfelt threats about dying on his watch, you'd fallen stupidly, irrevocably in love with him.

The kiss was messy and slightly tilted because your body still thought gravity was a lie, but it worked. Your powers, which had been throwing a tantrum with the intensity of a sugar-high toddler, finally started to settle.

Not because of fancy techniques or textbook hand placements but because it was him. Just Ace, with all his ridiculous jokes and flailing hands and heart thudding loudly right under his hoodie.

When he finally pulled away, breathless and wide-eyed and clearly unsure what dimension he currently existed in, he didn't say anything at first. Just stared at you, jaw clenched, as if debating whether to scream or faint.

Then, in the flattest voice imaginable, he said: "You're banned. From gates. From work."

You laughed, because your soul was still a little frayed at the edges and your emotions had gone full goblin-mode. And Ace, clearly still running on leftover adrenaline and half a caffeine patch, leaned in again, kissed you like it was your punishment and his apology rolled into one, and whispered:

"Next time you do that, I'm requesting a raise and a leash. In that order."

When Ace took the Guiding classifier and got told he had "potential," he practically floated out of the room. 

A rank, easy, he'd bragged to himself while spinning a pen between his fingers and imagining all the mildly impressive medals he'd soon be awarded. He hadn't even taken the real test yet, and he was already picturing himself leaned back in a high-backed ergonomic chair, sipping something overpriced while patting a trembling esper on the head and telling them, "It's okay, you're safe now." Preferably with dramatic lighting. Maybe a cape.

In theory, it was going to be glorious. In practice, it was a scam orchestrated by the universe to humble him.

The training program didn't help. Oh, sure, they talked about Gates and Espers and "emotional regulation" and "mental shielding," but no one ever sat him down and said, "Hey, kid, by the way, most of these people come out of Gates looking like they fought a Lovecraftian horror and lost."

No one showed him clips of people sobbing into their hands while leaking so much unstable energy it set off car alarms. And no one mentioned that sometimes the first Esper you ever have to Guide gets thrown at you by Leona Kingscholar himself like you're a damn emergency pillow.

That Esper being you was probably karma. He just didn't know what for.

He hadn't even had time to scream. One second he was adjusting his stupid tie (why had he even worn a tie, what was he trying to prove??), the next second he was catching a battle-scorched Esper like a sack of potatoes. He'd frozen. Completely blanked. Training forgotten. Mental scripts on fire. 

You'd been glowing like a Christmas ornament left too close to a microwave, and he was just there, mouth open, hands half-raised, wondering if this was the part where he got fired or vaporized or both.

And then—you guided him.

You grabbed his hands like it was normal and pressed them to your cheeks with the resigned look someone who had absolutely no faith in his skills and wasn't subtle about it. "Just do it like this," you'd mumbled. And you were trembling, clearly on the verge of blowing a hole in the parking lot, and he was supposed to be the one grounding you—but instead you talked him through it. Patient. Steady. Calm.

He was the Guide. You were the one glowing with leaking energy. And you had to help him stabilize you.

And the kicker? It worked.

Somehow, between the tremors in your fingers and the pulse of too-much-power in your veins, the sync clicked. You stabilized. He didn't faint. There was no catastrophic explosion. Just silence, breath, and the faint, nauseating hum of vending machine coffee warming behind him.

Which, speaking of, was what you gave him as a thank-you. Bad vending machine coffee in a paper cup with your fingers still shaking. He took it because it felt too awkward not to. It tasted like burnt toast and regret.

He sat with that coffee for ten full minutes after you left. Staring. Processing.

He might be in trouble.

Ace wasn't built for warzones. He was built for dodging responsibility, making snide comments, and winning card games with smug grins and sleight of hand—not for waiting outside a screaming, crackling Gate that looked like it wanted to swallow the sky.

His first week as a Guide had been a slow descent into madness already. His coworkers were all clinically unhinged in different flavors. And now he was standing thirty feet away from a Gate that radiated the kind of energy that made your bones itch. Great.

And then you, ever the chaos-swathed miracle you were, showed up, took one look at him, and said, "Go sit in my car."

"Wait, what?"

"Car. Americano. Dashboard. Stay put. Don't explode."

He wanted to argue—something about not needing to be babied, something about not wanting your pity—but you shoved your keys into his hands with that A-rank glare that suggested you'd knock him out with one of your boots if he didn't obey.

So he went. He sat in your car like a well-trained pet, sipped your surprisingly good americano, and found the emergency chocolate you kept stashed in the side panel. And he thought, as he gnawed through caramel and panic, that this was probably your weird, overpowered Esper way of saying, I've got this. Don't worry.

When you finally stumbled out of the Gate hours later, looking like you'd been dragged through hell by the ankles, his heart dropped to somewhere around his knees.

He didn't even think. He was on the ground in front of you in seconds, pressing his hands to yours, trying every technique he could remember. His voice shook, but his hands didn't. Not now. You were relying on him. It was the least he could do.

Afterward, you leaned into him, quietly muttering something about how gross those monsters were, and he didn't have the heart to tell you that you'd just bled on his hoodie. He didn't care anyway.

He just held you tighter, tucked your keys back into your pocket, and decided he might start bringing emergency chocolate. Not for you, obviously.

Ace knew he was screwed the moment he moved into his office and met the cast of his new workplace.

The halls were filled with chaos incarnate wearing ID badges. There was the one guy who muttered to himself in five different languages and might've been growing moss. Someone had definitely duct-taped a "don't feed the Esper" sign on a door.

And there was a B-rank Esper with the energy of a caffeinated raccoon doing cartwheels in the training yard. Ace stood there with a box full of supplies, his dignity hanging on by a thread, and genuinely considered walking right back out.

You helping him move in had been unexpected. You were just there, strolling up with a stale bagel in one hand and a half-sincere "Need help, rookie?" on your face. He'd recognized you immediately—how could he not? You were the Esper who'd practically hotwired his Guide training back to life just a few days ago by pressing his hands to your face like it was a universal adapter.

He still had nightmares about it. Slightly fond nightmares. Unfortunately.

Still, you seemed—comparatively—normal. You didn't bite anyone. You didn't hiss at the fire drill siren. You didn't threaten to collapse a hallway with your brain. You were also sharp and a little terrifying, yeah, but you also handed him a coffee without judgment and helped him navigate the vending machine settings that lied about having lemon tea.

So when he was told three days later that he was being assigned an exclusive Esper, he fully assumed it was a mistake. What did they mean, "exclusive"?

That sounded like some VIP bonding situation that required a blood pact and a welcome fruit basket. Why didn't anyone tell him who it was? Was it a typo? Was it a trap? Was it Leona? Would he survive a second throwing?

He spiraled. Openly. Loudly. He was mid-rant, flailing a pen around like it personally betrayed him, muttering about how he was too young and too pretty to be sacrificed this way—when you walked into his office and stood there like you belonged.

He blinked at you.

You grinned and said, "I'm your new Esper."

He died. Briefly.

There was a moment of silence in which he reconsidered every life decision that had brought him here. Then he laughed, a little hysterical, and buried his face in his hands like he could dissolve into the floor tiles. "Of course it's you," he muttered. "Of course it is."

Because fate clearly hated him. And because you had that look in your eye like you already knew this was going to be hilarious. And because the universe had decided that Ace Trappola, rookie Guide and emotionally constipated disaster, was going to have to survive this job with you of all people.

Ace had never cared about ethical produce a day in his life. He didn't care if the tomato had a name, a mortgage, and three kids—it just had to go in his pasta.

But apparently, being a Guide also meant being roped into group outings under the guise of "team bonding" and "supporting local agriculture," which is how he found himself at a farmer's market full of artisanal beets, overpriced mushrooms, and Guides pretending they could taste the difference between moral zucchini and regular ones.

He was already plotting his escape via a strategically-timed "emergency call" (read: pretending to answer his ringtone-less phone and bolting) when the sky cracked open and the unmistakable shimmer of a Gate ripped through the middle of the market.

To say Ace wasn't prepared would be a generous understatement. The most violent thing he'd seen that week was someone cutting in line at the burrito stand.

But now? Now there were monsters with too many eyes and not enough laws about personal space crawling out from the produce section, and he was standing on top of a stall throwing apples at a thing that looked like it ate dreams for breakfast.

He'd never seen a Gate monster up close before, only in training footage. In those, everyone fought like it was choreographed.

What they didn't show was the part where your knees shook and your brain screamed, "This is fine," while you tried to bludgeon a slime demon with a persimmon.

Then you appeared—sprinting in like some post-apocalyptic action hero, and Ace could have cried. No, really. If his tear ducts weren't frozen in pure existential terror, he might have.

You didn't mock him for his current situation, which was a feat in itself. You just helped take down the monster like it was just a regular day in your life and then let him lean into you as the adrenaline crashed and the smell of radishes filled the air.

When you pulled him closer, murmuring something like "Good job, produce warrior," he thought his soul left his body and slapped him on the back of the head.

Ace wasn't dramatic. Really. But he was genuinely unsure if his heart would survive the way yours beat steadily against his chest like nothing could hurt him as long as you were there.

He wasn't touching an organic vegetable ever again, though. Let's not get ahead of ourselves.

Ace was not okay.

No matter how many times he told himself he was. No matter how confidently he pretended the slime monster at the farmers' market hadn't scarred his soul and permanently altered his relationship with zucchini. No matter how many snide jokes he made about "getting slimed Nickelodeon-style"—he was very much not okay.

He'd wake up sweating, convinced he could still smell radishes and horror. He started carrying a flashlight in his pocket "just in case." He got weirdly jumpy around cucumbers.

And at 3 AM, lying flat on his back in bed, surrounded by crumbs from three different snack brands and trying to decide if the ceiling crack looked like a crying bird or a turnip, he realized something terrifying.

He needed to talk to someone.

Worse—he needed you.

So he called you. At 3:08 AM. Because, in his defense, time was fake and also he was spiraling. He had fully prepared for you to reject him. Or cuss him out. Or maybe teleport into his room just to stab him for waking you up.

Instead, you picked up and just… said, "I'll come. Text me the location."

And he froze. For five whole seconds. Phone still pressed to his ear, staring at it like it had just turned into a very smug banana.

"…Wait, for real?"

"Yes, Ace. For real. I'm already putting on pants."

"Ugh, cringe. Could've shown up pantsless for the drama."

He met you thirty minutes later, wildly underdressed in a hoodie and one croc, the other foot bare because the matching croc had vanished under mysterious circumstances and time was of the essence. You gave him a Look, and said nothing about it. 

Just raised an eyebrow at the theater sign blinking "The Mystifying Mustachio & Friends!" and followed him in like this was a completely normal thing for battle-hardened combat Esper-Guide duos to do on a random weeknight.

The magic show was, predictably, a tragedy.

It was less "magic" and more "cheap dollar store props and one dude's misguided dream." A dove escaped during the second act and dive-bombed a toddler. One of the assistants audibly whispered the next card before the magician could "guess" it. 

You laughed so hard you nearly slid out of your seat. Ace laughed even harder, maybe because he was delirious or maybe because he needed this. Needed something so dumb and low-stakes and idiotic after nearly getting dismembered at a produce stall.

Halfway through, he looked over and caught your profile in the flickering spotlight. You were still chuckling, leaning on his shoulder like you belonged there. Your fingers tapped absently on his arm in time with the magician's increasingly dramatic music.

And you didn't ask why he looked like he hadn't slept in a week. Or why he flinched when the magician pulled a rabbit out of his hat with a slightly wet squelching sound that, unfortunately, reminded Ace of slime monsters. You just leaned back in your seat, laughed louder than anyone else at the terrible sleight of hand, and nudged him every time a trick went wrong.

And Ace, in turn, said absolutely nothing about how your shoulder kept brushing his.

Did his heart flutter a little? Maybe. Was he going to tell anyone about that? Not unless someone wanted to get roundhouse kicked into another Gate.

You didn't talk about the slime monster. You didn't ask how he was doing. But you came to that dumb magic show at three in the morning, and that was more grounding than anything he'd gotten from mandatory post-trauma Guide therapy.

Maybe he was still a little messed up. Maybe he'd never buy ethically sourced squash again.

He would never say any of that out loud, of course. If you even hinted that he was getting sentimental, he'd chew drywall. But deep down, while watching Mustachio pull a limp bouquet out of his sleeve and dramatically yell "ABRACADABRA!" with enthusiasm, Ace thought—

Yeah, okay. I think I might be in love.

When the emergency alert for a full-blown SSS-ranked gate lit up his phone like it was Christmas and the apocalypse had scheduled a joint party, Ace was very vocally Not Okay™.

He didn't want you to go in. No part of him wanted you to walk into the flaming jaws of death. But how do you say that to someone without also saying "If you die, I will never recover, I will fall apart like a badly made IKEA shelf, and I'm already two screws short as is"? You can't. Not without it sounding like a confession.

So instead, he told you, "If you die in there, I swear to god I'll kill you myself."

You laughed, ruffled his hair into oblivion, and climbed out of the car with the swagger of someone who was entirely too casual about going into monster hell.

He muttered a barely-audible "don't leave me" into the steering wheel the moment the door closed. Which, thankfully, you did not hear. Ego: saved. Mental health: wrecked.

What followed was eighteen hours of what he could only describe as spiritual waterboarding. The kind of dread that nestles under your skin and chews through your ribs like a termite.

Every time another mangled esper came out of the gate looking like they'd aged six years and lost their last two brain cells, Ace had to stop himself from throwing himself into the gate with a sign that said "WHERE'S MY DUMB ESPER" and fists full of prayer.

And then the gate finally stabilized. The air stilled. And you—

You were lying there. In the middle of it all. Motionless.

Ace didn't remember running. One second he was behind the barricades, the next he was on the ground, hands shaking you, voice cracking like a poorly tuned violin.

"Wake up, come on, don't be stupid, this isn't funny, you're not allowed to make jokes about ugly monsters and then become one, wake the hell up—"

And then you blinked. Eyes barely focusing, but looking at him.

And for one heartbeat, Ace thought everything was fine.

Until he realized your energy was so unstable he couldn't even sync with you. He couldn't stabilize you. He couldn't even bring you back to baseline. He tried everything—breathing exercises, grounding, full contact hand-holding—and nothing worked. You were too far gone, and he didn't know what to do.

And you—being you, being you—were still trying to calm him down. Which, frankly, pissed him off even more because this was backwards. He was the Guide, you were the Esper, why were you comforting him while actively dying?

He didn't think. He just kissed you.

It was frantic, and messy, and tasted like ash. He kissed you because he was scared, and because you were still warm, and because if he didn't do it now, he'd never get the chance. He kissed you because he loved you. Had loved you for a while now. Loved you so much that watching you on the floor had made him feel like the whole world had just punched through his chest.

And when he finally pulled back, panting, hands still on your face like he could tether you there—your energy finally clicked into place. The guiding finally worked.

You smiled, loopy and exhausted. And Ace, who didn't even try to hide it anymore, kissed you again. Slower. Steadier.

"You're not allowed to do this again," he whispered into your temple, voice trembling.

Because this time he'd managed to bring you back.

Next time, he wasn't sure if he could survive it.

You were technically supposed to be on medical leave. That meant sleep. Rest. A healthy amount of soup and zero proximity to gates, monsters, or things that try to eat you faster than your anxiety. 

But what it actually meant was you lying on the couch, nursing a dull, bone-deep ache, while Ace paced around your apartment like a wind-up toy someone forgot to turn off.

He was jittery in a way that made even you concerned, and you'd once finished a mission with three cracked ribs and a mild concussion and still stopped to buy an energy drink on the way home.

His leg bounced when he sat. He kept sighing like he was auditioning for a tragic play. He reorganized your spice rack. He threatened to reorganize your socks.

Eventually, you were like, enough is enough. You cornered him by physically grabbing the front of his hoodie while he was mid-fidget and pulled him down onto the couch with you.

"What's going on in that Guide brain of yours," you asked, voice soft but very, very serious. "You've been twitchy for three days. Are you dying? Are you going to attempt a second reorganization of my kitchen? Please tell me before I preemptively set something on fire."

He stared at you for a long second. And then he said, quieter than you'd ever heard him, "I can't do it again."

You blinked. "Do what?"

"I can't see you like that again," he muttered. "I thought—when you didn't wake up right away, when you didn't stabilize, I thought I was gonna lose you. And it's not fair. It's not fair for you to keep throwing yourself at death and expect me to sit on the sidelines. It's not fine."

You had no words for that. Your throat clenched. Because he wasn't wrong. This world was a mess and you'd grown used to being one of the few willing to throw yourself in headfirst. Because someone had to. Because if not you, then who?

But Ace had always been in the middle of it too. Not as flashy or as reckless, but there. And maybe you hadn't realized just how deep your scars were starting to show on him too.

"I'm sorry," you said eventually, voice low. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"I know," he said. "But I also know you're not gonna stop, so I'm not asking you to. Just—bond with me."

You blinked again. "What."

"Permanently," he clarified, in the tone of someone very determined and also slightly terrified. "So I always know where you are. So I can reach you faster. So you'll always be tethered to me and I can yank your sorry ass back before you're too far gone."

Your heart did a weird thing. It fluttered. And it ached.

You looked at him, at his furrowed brows and stubborn little frown, and you knew it wasn't just about the utility of it. He didn't want to lose you. Not ever.

"Okay," you said, and the smile you gave him was the softest one you'd managed in months. "Let's do it."

You kissed him. You kissed him the way you'd been wanting to for ages, with no near-death scenario in the background this time. Just the two of you and the smell of burned popcorn and a couch that really should be cleaned.

Later, when the bond was sealed and his energy pressed warm and familiar against yours, you leaned into his shoulder and sighed.

"Life is still garbage," you mumbled.

"Yeah," Ace agreed. "Certified dumpster fire."

"But," you added, pressing a kiss to his cheek, "at least I've got my favorite Guide."

"Ugh," he groaned, hiding his very red ears. "You're so sappy when you're not actively dying."

You laughed.

And maybe life did suck.

But if you had Ace? You could live with that.

Masterlist ; Series Masterlist

[bruciemilf]

Still very haunted by the idea of a young! Justice League AU.

They come across each other with an intentional, common goal. It feels like coincidence, but it also doesn’t. It’s destiny at work.

When Clark is 18, spoon-fed good manners, tall like a tree who thinks it’s a flower, sunshine laughing in his blood, he gently carries two cows back in the barn when he hears it.

Buildings decomposing. Faint, blaring cars dying. Soft whispers of ‘please please— oh god — I don’t want to die— what is that? What is that?!’

Metropolis cracks open. There’s a wound in the sky the police, the army, cannot heal. He tried calling. No one picked up.

It’s wide and scary and red and bleeds violently and Clark is so scared — but if he can survive being Perry White’s intern, he can survive this.

He grabs his Pa’s red flannel, ties it across his midsection, and flies faster than fear.

Clark learns two things that day.

1) He hits good, but he can’t throw a punch to save his life.

2) The scariest boy in the world has eyes that could make oceans cry.

Dressed in tactical gear, cobalt blue, bat shaped symbol drawn in neon across his chest. Runny eyeliner, smudged, mixed in stale blood running down his temple.

Glare so strong it could bury God.

The Bat carries an injured civilian on his back and two kids under his arms. Looks at Clark like someone seeing a shooting star for the first time.

Clark’s heart caves in on itself. Say something cool.

“I like your — blood.”

Clark hopes the next alien thing leaking from that gaping hole puts him out of his misery.

The boy blinks.

“How hard can you hit?”

Clark gulps. He gets a truck thrown at him and he stops it with one hand. He doesn’t even look at it.

“Pretty hard.”

—-

Barry Allen doesn’t arrive into battle. He trips into it.

Fifteen. Physics homework slams against settling air when he stops. Blur of red and shaking like a live wire. His sneakers light up when he walks.

“Hi! I’m Barry! Does anyone have a granola bar?”

Bruce blinks. He hands him one from the emergency compartment.

“Did everyone see that thing?! I mean — you can’t really miss it, I saw it from my house and thought ‘oh that’s weird I better go check it out’ and — IS THAT BLOOD?!”

Bruce, flat, “Not ours. Entirely.”

“Oh, okay. Coolcoolcoolcoolcool. “

Clark — carefully — moves Barry out of the way so he doesn’t get impaled by a car. Barry screams.

—-

Hal Jordan, 17 and 4 months, is five bad jokes in aviator glasses and holds the world by his teeth.

He sees Metropolis burn from Jupiter.

He inherited a dying wish from a good man, got chosen by a purpose three times bigger than him, and begs the council to go.

They have to debate first.

Hal can’t sit around to decide if this is the day he’s gonna be brave.

He crashes into battle like a green meteor, blasts Britney Spears from his ring (the battle remix), and pretends he’s not rotting with fear.

“Green Lantern, willing and able! No need to panic, people! Coast City represent! Let’s GOOOO— IS THAT A BROKEN LEG?!”

Bruce, half his face shielded by Kevlar, swallows a molar. “Fractured.”

Hal throws up a little. Clark cries. Barry looks a sugar rush away from exploding.

“You call yourself Green Lantern?” Bruce raises a brow, like he’s speaking to the human version of a typo.

“Yeah? What do you call yourself? Nickelback and Trauma?”

“The Bat.”

“…Man? Boy? Customised?”

“I can’t call myself Batman yet. If I do it now, it won’t be chronologically accurate.”

—

Oliver Queen, 17, watches it on the news.

He’s got a meeting at 11, a tan at 1, a court hearing for punching a senator at 3, and a half broken bow from last night’s patrol.

He’s pretty sure he’s going to die if he goes.

He knows he’ll regret it more if he doesn’t.

“We’re gonna die, aren’t we?”

Clark takes a breath, raises two fists he doesn’t know what to do with, and looks up to a dying sky like he’s begging it to last longer. He doesn’t answer.

He just looks at Bruce, summer blue eyes wide, fear melted over.

“I’m not hitting until you do.”

So Bruce does.

—-

A girl, taller than all of them, older than all of them, grin sharper than her sword, pierces through battle like she has war on a leash.

Diana is 18, — in their years. She kills three aliens in under a minute.

Covered in guts and glory and sunny, walks up to them like nothing.

“We will fight together, yes?”

They all nod, a bit too scared of finding out what happens if they don’t.

[nanamiskentos]

JUDAS (IS THE DEMON I CLING TO)— 両面宿儺 RYOMEN SUKUNA

PLOT 𐙚 After Gojo’s death and the collapse of the jujutsu world, you were taken, not killed, by the King of Curses. Sukuna decided you were to remain at his side, whether you liked it or not. Now, you spend your days silent and simmering, trapped in an estate built on ash and bone. And you hate Ryomen Sukuna. Hate the way blood perpetually follows him, streaking the wooden floors. You also try to pretend that you don't spend your nights with fantasies of the rough grip of his inked hands on your hips.

FEATURING Ryomen Sukuna x Reader

CW 𐙚 afab!reader, enemies to lovers, Sukuna Won AU, implied past Gojo x Reader, másturbation (f), trueform!Sukuna, incorrect jujutsu/domains lore, creámpie, máting press, crude talk, mentions of blood, injury and violence. dp!Sukuna, CÓNSENSUAL (c/nc) but if dark romance makes you uncomfortable, please be wary! MDNI

WC 𐙚 5.4k

NOTE 𐙚 this isn't a genre i dabble in much but i wrote this as a gift for a very dear friend 🎁

You had been dragged through the wreckage, head throbbing, and flanked by two low-grade curses. Their knobby hands clamp around your elbows like damp stone, claws digging just deep enough to sting in the thin winter air.

The atmosphere is ash-choked, acrid as it burns the lining of your nose.

Above, the sky bleeds a violent shade of red, seeping like an infected wound. Somewhere in the distance, a temple bell tolls in a cruel and ceremonial mockery.

You’re not even sure where you are. Maybe this is the ancient heart of jujutsu, the city of Kyoto.

Or perhaps, you’re still stranded in the remains of Gojo’s battlefield, the ruins of Shinjuku.

The curses drag you forward until your knees slam against rough stone. Pain blooms ferociously as your chin knocks downward, gravel grinding into your teeth, and the sharp warmth of iron blooms on your tongue.

“Careful,” one of the curses chitters, reprimanding his companion. The curse has a voice like cracked clay, digits digging deeper into your tired bicep, “Sukuna wants her in one piece. I don’t fancy being flayed for messing up.”

You don’t bother speaking, not even as the sliding doors creak open behind the bone-white torii gate. The air shifts, with cursed energy curling outwards like heavy smoke, thick with the scent of incense and firewood. There’s a sweetness to it, beneath the copper tang of dried blood.

As a sorcerer, you understand that Domains are complicated. Half-real, and half-willed into existence. A metaphysical pocket carved into space.

Over the centuries, countless sorcerers had likely gone mad trying to decipher whether a Domain was tangible or simply a trick of the five senses.

Had things been different, had you not been dragged before a victorious King of Curses, you might have pondered the estate’s nature too. Because it felt real, too solid and too grounded in the bones of the world to be an illusion.

The throne room is dim, and lanterns glow behind crimson silk shades, casting slow-moving shadows over the floors. Despite your tired eyes, it’s hard to miss the striking architecture, dark wood beams and protective spells dangling from the rafters, parchments swaying like ghosts.

Of course, the King of Curses mars the decadent view. All four of his thick arms are draped along a throne, an ivory structure that bears the dull, dried appearance of charred bone.

His bare chest gleams, ridged with muscle and heatless sweat. Rings glint on his fingers, gold and dried sinew, as long, obsidian nails tap lazily against the throne’s edge.

Your gaze drops, instinctively. The lower arms twitch in an almost restless, feline manner. You could almost get lost in the hypnotic vision, were it not for the flash of memory. Gojo Satoru’s corpse, bisected on the snow-dusted pavement of Shinjuku.

Ryomen Sukuna is a monster, make no mistake.

The upper corner of his mouth lifts, but not in a smile. It’s a barbed expression, something more fang than good-will. His voice cuts through the thick air like molten stone, low and mocking, “Kneeling already?”

Your jaw clenches, as an aching pain blooms behind your ears, scorching your temples, while defiance stings your tongue, “Dragged here, actually. Don’t act so surprised.”

Sukuna’s laugh thrumbles through the chamber, dry and humourless like a sour thunderclap, “Still got that mouth.” The King of Curses is musing, head tilting just slightly as dawn-pink hair ripples across his forehead, “Good. I was afraid you’d be broken.”

You lift your chin, dirt-streaked and trembling, “Not yet.”

“Not yet,” Sukuna echoes, savouring your words slowly, like a promise, “Mhm. That will do.”

The thick fingers of his lower right-hand twitch, and one of the curses step back as though he has been charged. The other captor hesitates too long; cold grip still latched to your arm. He’s looking between you, his prisoner, and Sukuna, his lord.

A ripple of irritation flashes across Sukuna’s fine features, or at least, the half of his face that isn’t covered in thick, rough plates of hardened flesh, “You may leave us.” His tone leaves no room for suggestion, and the curses dissipate with a hiss.

The room falls into an odd silence. Stretching long enough for the pain to settle in, your knees aching, and arms burning with a tight strain. You feel as though your lungs and heart haven’t caught up from the constant tolls of countless battles. From Gojo’s sudden –

No, don’t go there.

Sukuna shifts, as the throne creaks beneath him as he leans forward, gaze glinting as he coos, “Look at you.” There’s something deceptively soft in his tone now, but it is not pity nor kindness. Curiosity, or hunger, you don’t quite know.

You feel the cursed energy rise as he steps down from the dais. It tightens the air like a noose around your neck. The ground seems to warp with each step he takes, and you can barely breathe through it.

There are ankles on him, coils of gold and iron, resting round the thick jut of tendons. He’s taking his time, not out of grace nor indulgence. And your eyes lift up against your will.

Sukuna is terrifying beautiful.

His face is inked in brutal brushstrokes. The markings carve along the sharp angles of his jaw, and his four eyes are concentric, rust-coloured, as they drag across your form, committing you to memory. But you try to look away, attempt to not track the split tongue that flickers over a fang.

But there’s a heat that coils in your gut anyway. Shameful in a way that makes your heart pound, and your stomach lurch.

Sukuna crouches before you soundlessly. Not a king. Not a god.

A beast.

One hand reaches forward. Not to strike, but to hold. Your chin is caught between a clawed thumb and finger, his touch calloused and searingly warm. Far too intimate, too wrong.

A long nail drags along your jaw, tracing a streak of dried blood, “Yours?”

“Does it matter?”

Sukuna hums, a low sound, almost pleased, “No.”

He gently wipes the blood away, before bringing his thumb to his mouth. Maroon eyes never break contact with yours, and you nearly recoil. Disgust curdles in your stomach, as Sukuna savours it.

You’re jerking back, a mere few inches, before his upper hands shoot out, catching your shoulders and yanking you back forward. Your body collides with his chest, the contact searing like a sharp brand.

“What’s the matter?” Sukuna murmurs, a furnace of air brushing hot against your cheek, “You forget? I did promise to not kill you.”

“Then what do you want?” You grit out, pain splintering behind your temples.

Sukuna’s eyes drop, trailing down your blood-slick chest. The bruises, and the grimy mess of the past few weeks clinging to you. The sorcerer’s gaze lingers where it clearly should not, and there’s a twitch of his reddened mouth as though he’s barely reining something in.

“Is it not obvious?” Sukuna’s voice is like velvet over a knife, “I would have you.”

You blink, “Me?”

It’s stupid, the way the jagged question leaves your lip. Weak, and reeling from both rage and disgust, and something far more traitorous that coils like fire beneath your skin.

“I would have you as my Queen,” Sukuna says easily, “By my side.”

You scoff, mostly to cover the very real pulse of panic that cracks through your ribs. But Sukuna only smiles wider, cruel in his manner, as his grip tightens. Your knees buckle.

“You think I would waste you?” Sukuna murmurs, dragging his lower hands reverently, slowly up your arms, “You fought harder than anyone.” A sneer flickering across his features as his lower lip juts, “Aside from Gojo Satoru, of course.”

Sukuna tilts your face upward, fingers cradling your jaw as if the King of Curses sees you as something fragile. Even worthy of worship.

But you know better, for Ryomen Sukuna does not believe in anything sacred nor holy.

“You made me bleed,” Sukuna muses thoughtfully, “And you are still strong. Still beautiful, even now.”

“You killed – ”

“Yes, yes,” Sukuna interrupts irately, “Spare me the weeping monologue. I killed them all.”

There is no guilt in his tone, no remorse. Your grief and fury is just another discarded page in the story he’s already rewritten.

“But you, I let live,” Sukuna leans in, voice dark and indulgent, “And you will thank me for it.”

You don’t ask what Sukuna does during the day. You don’t want to know.

It’s far easier that way, not wondering which cities lie burning beneath the horizon, or which shrines have been Sliced and Cleaved under the weight of his wrath and lazy hunger. You’ve long since stopped pretending the wind doesn’t carry ash through the open windows, or the sky hasn’t been a sickly, stagnant red for weeks.

Your days are now filled with things that mock comfort. Silk gowns in every shade of shadow, and blood. Combs and ribbons woven through your hair by silent handmaidens with cracked porcelain masks, and soot-darkened fingertips. You sleep on linens, in sprawling, ornate quarters, with no locks.

You hold to your resolve with a white-knuckled grip. You will not scream, nor will you give your husband the satisfaction of tears. And above all, you will not entertain Ryomen Sukuna in any form of conversation.

Especially not when, each night without fail, the King of Curses prowls into the dining quarters like a victorious beast, ivory robes loose, and rivulets of dried blood tacked to his chin. He slams his weight down beside you, all four arms sprawled, and thighs parted indecently, tearing into his food like it still writhes.

But he does not touch you.

Sukuna, for all his cruel jabs and leering glances, has yet to lay a clawed hand on you. It is a thought that you refuse to dwell long upon.

You eat in silence, and you certainly don’t flinch when Sukuna cracks bone in one hand and tosses the shards behind him. You try not to look at the second mouth on his torso, where the skin of his abdomen stretches into a grin.

You hate to admit it, but the icy little shadow trailing behind Sukuna, Uraume, knows how to make a damn good bowl of stew. Fragrant with green onion and wine, rich enough to cut through your ever-present nausea. You chew slowly, contemplatively, and make a mental note.

It might be worth befriending the sour, quiet bastard.

Maybe you could convince Uraume to slip something extra into Sukuna’s next meal. Not enough to kill him, because Sukuna is probably the sort to drink pond water for fun, but enough to leave him doubled over with a stomach-ache. The humbling image is amusing, and you can’t help the twitch of your lips.

“You’re quieter than usual, wife,” Sukuna drawls, tipping a goblet of wine to his lips. You ignore the thin rivulet of red that spills down his chest, straight into the waiting grin of his second mouth, “Not even a nasty look for me tonight?”

You focus on your stew. The heady wine, the sweetness of the fried onion. You’re chewing with purpose and stabbing chunks of beef with more force than strictly necessary. Imagining, quite vividly, what it would feel like to jab him instead.

If Sukuna notices, he doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, he’s amused, “I look forward to that look, you know,” he murmurs, voice coiling like smoke around your spine, “The one that says you expect me to be grateful you’re here, instead of finding a knife in my ribs.”

You glare into your bowl, slicing meat carefully. You don’t reply.

“That’s the one,” Sukuna laughs, low and rolling, like distant thunder in this broken world.

You jolt when one of his lower hands, the left, reaches for you. Slow, deliberate. It tilts your chin, and you yank back before his grip can tighten. The woven mat beneath you shifts sharply as you stand, breath catching in your throat.

You’re not sure what to say.

Don’t talk to me?

That would be a pointless command, for Sukuna is the only one in this cursed estate with a voice. The others only click and twitch, nodding as if you’re supposed to understand their insect-like chatter.

Don’t touch me?

That one’s worse. That one stings. Because saying it out loud would make it real, and expose the awful, shameful truth.

You can’t bring yourself to say that either.

The rooms have been quiet these past few weeks. Lonely, and lately, far too often, you’ve finished with your own slick fingers buried between your thighs.

Chasing the ghost of ivory hair and blue eyes, and furiously flushing as the image gave way to inked sun and rippling, inked muscles.

And Sukuna, perceptive as he is, seems to know this. He watches you, head titled. Not angry, nor offended. Curious, in a way that makes your skin crawl.

“I like it when you talk back,” Sukuna finally says, voice low. His upper arms drape lazily over the back of his cushion, while his lower hands rest on his thighs, talons twitching like a predator biding its time, “But your body betrays you.”

Sukuna grins, fangs peeking out beneath a wine-red mouth, as though he’s aware of the slow, sticky throb beneath your fine robes, “I wouldn’t have needed Six Eyes to tell me that.”

You spin to leave, with the words blooming on your tongue, detailing exactly what you think Sukuna should do to satisfy himself.

The door slams shut before you reach it, a thud of finality that vibrates up your spine. A pulse follows, not sound, nor touch. You realise it’s the own beat of your heart, thrumming hot.

You freeze.

Sukuna hasn’t moved, not a single inch, but his cursed energy spikes. It wraps around your ankles like invisible chains, slow and deliberate. Then it rises, serpentine and humming, up the backs of your calves, your thighs, blooming heat at the hinges of your knees.

You swallow. Hard. It isn’t painful. But it’s heavy, clinging to your pulse points like it knows you intimately.

“You think I do not notice?” Sukuna’s voice is a slow, scraping murmur, “The way you jolt when I enter. How your thighs press together when I speak. Odd, no? For one who detests me so much.”

You don’t dignify Sukuna with a response. But you don’t deny it, either.

Sukuna stands, towering and bare-chested. The memory of your first night here vividly strikes in your mind once more.

Beautiful, but monstrous.

Holy, but sacrilegious to all you’ve ever held dear.

And yet, so tantalising. You would be lying if you said that you had not spent cold nights in your soft bedding, aching to know the feel of thick fingers in you, ringed with dark ink.

“Say the word,” Sukuna lazily rolls a ring from one hand to the other, “You need only ask.”

His cursed energy is tight. Not enough to hurt, just enough to hold. Your back finds the edge of the long dining table all the same, breath caught as your knees brush carved wood. But Sukuna’s hands remain at his sides. He hasn’t touched you.

But his presence is everywhere.

You glare up at him, voice tight, “Coward. Can’t even touch me without your cursed tricks?”

That earns you a laugh. Low, rough and sharp-edged.

“You think I need to?” Sukuna steps closer, concentric eyes trained on the swan-arch of your neck, “This is still my form of mercy, wife.”

Sukuna lifts a single finger, just one. He runs a dark-tipped claw along the line of your throat. A gesture that could slice your carotid artery cleanly, should Sukuna become careless with the pressure he uses.

But there is no threat in his touch, and your knees buckle at the prospect of moving away.

“I can feel your heart,” Sukuna murmurs, and a snarl dies in your throat. Words meant to tear and strike, for Sukuna has no clue of what truly lies in your heart, for how can he know something he lacks? But it’s a weak retort, and you exhale as another hand rising to rest flat against your sternum, and Sukuna’s eyes narrow, “Here. Beating like a war drum.”

“I hate you,” you snap, voice finally battling it out of your throat.

Never let anyone say you aren’t consistent.

Sukuna smiles, slow. Wolfish, as he brings a third hand to tap at his temple, “Perhaps. Up there.”

But his mouth dips towards your cheek, and the heady scent of pepper and wood-smoke envelops your senses, as he continues, “But down here?”

The heat between your legs is heavy and throbbing, beading at the apex of your thighs.

You can feel it, and you know he does too.

Sukuna always knows.

The silence stretches, and it’s unbearable.

The King of Curses tilts his head, forked tongue flicking out, dragging up the side of your cheek in a long, filthy stripe. The gesture is warm, obscene.

You shudder, but it’s not revulsion that ripples through you. Just heavy, irrational arousal.

And then, so close to your ear that you can feel the air vibrate, “Did he taste you first?” Sukuna murmurs, “Before I killed him?”

Your stomach drops, and everything inside you goes still. Your hands coil up into dense fists, as you shove at his chest, with little avail.

“Fuck you! – ”

Sukuna catches your wrists before you can even land the second blow. Two of his strong, meaty hands pin your arms above your head. Cursed energy cinching around them like a velvet rope, as you sink your teeth into your bottom lip. Desperate for Sukuna to not hear a breathy sound escape your mouth, as you suddenly clench around nothing, and find yourself aching for some friction.

You’re spread against the wall now, held up as much by furious adrenaline, as by him. His knees part your thighs, but they don’t press. Not yet.

“Gojo Satoru,” Sukuna says, and the name falls quietly. Almost reverently, “Did he kiss this mouth?”

He brushes your glossy lips with his thumb. You resist the urge to sink your teeth into his hand.

“Did he fuck this cunt?”

Gojo hadn’t, despite what people assumed. He had been your friend, not your lover.

But Satoru had always wanted more, an eager, gentle and wide-eyed love that you should have given him.

And yet, here you were, pinned in the arms of the four-armed demon that brought him down. Wet and slick, pulsing and hungry for a monster’s touch.

Some little mercy.

Another hand hovers between your legs, a breath above the silk of your inner thighs. Not quite touching. Not yet.

Your jaw is locked, but your hips shift. Just once, bucking upwards for the smallest scrap of pleasure. Barely perceptible.

And he feels it. Of course he does.

“That is what I thought,” Sukuna mutters, “Think I am not finely attuned enough to every breath you take?”

His large, warm palm settles between your thighs. Not rough, nor forceful. Just there.

You flinch again, not from fear. From want. You want Sukuna to slowly drag the flesh of him palm further up, to brush up against where you ache for his touch the most.

“Think I do not hear how your body begs?”

You hate how true his words are. Your breath shudders when Sukuna leans in again, “Begging to be taken,” he whispers, “To be filled. To be ruined.”

A single flick of his callous thumb brushes silk, right over your swollen clit, pressing down.

You jolt, a sharp and involuntary sound leaving your throat. Half-started gasp, and half moan. That single huff of air hands in the space between you and your husband, and you’re not sure if it’s a trick of the low light, but the very tips of Sukuna’s ear glow a flushed and angry red.

“Say it again,” Sukuna whispers, and you’re taken aback at the sudden anger that tinges his voice, but it’s not directed at you. Anger at himself for becoming so affected by the merest taste of you, “Say that you hate me.”

You bite your lip hard enough to draw blood. But you don’t move.

Sukuna bites. Not deep, just enough.

Just enough to make you mewl, your spine arching off the wall as sharp teeth catch at your throat. Claiming, branding you as the wife of the King of Curses. The pain blooms for only a second before it melts into something darker, filthier.

You pant against his mouth, dizzy with the force of it. Some unreasonable part of you aches to push forward, to press your lips to his, to end this charade once and for all.

But Sukuna pulls back, and your arms fall limp as the cursed restraints vanish with a crimson whisper. You’re crumbling forward against the oak table once more, chest heaving and legs shaking. Your pulse beats furiously at your neck, just beneath the strategic imprint of his fangs.

The King of Curses watches you, with some undiscernible expression flickering across his face.

You certainly must appear dishevelled now, fine robes crumpled as you flush from cheek to chest. Lips parted, throat damp where his tongue and fangs left their mark.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you rasp, cursing the unsteady waver of your voice.

“Why not?”

Sukuna is already turning, always walking away, and you don’t miss the angry twitch in his broad shoulders, the red heat crawling over the nape of his neck. The door slides open with a hiss, as your husband looks over his shoulders, “I will return to the estate within three days.”

And then, Sukuna is gone.

Your puffy cunt throbs, miserable and neglected as you pinch your thighs together for some weeping friction.

You should have put that dining knife through his ribs when you had the chance.

You don't see Sukuna at meals. Nor in the halls. Not even in the cursed, rotting corners of the estate where his minions cling like ash in your lungs.

Ryomen Sukuna is gone, true to his word.

Off hunting, off killing, off doing whatever it is that makes him a happy, smug prick.

And it irks you to no end. Not just your moral dilemmas with Sukuna's hobbies, but the fact that you've been waiting. For his voice, for his touch, for the rasp of his breath against your throat.

Your fingers keep twitching with the phantom memory, of claws at your hips, of heat between your thighs, of your own body folding under him like it belonged there.

You hate how vividly you remember it. The last few nights you've spent, alone in your chambers, weren't spent sleeping at all. On your back, with your knees bent and parted, silks twisted around your thighs.

The touch of your own hand wasn't nearly as overwhelming or deep as you wished. You'd press your fingers in, curling them in search for some sweet spot and relief, but it was never the same.

The ache didn't go away. It only bloomed, dark and awful, curling in your gut like hunger. For Sukuna.

On the third night, the sunset drips molten red through paper walls. The light begins to cut your pacing shadow in half as you mutter ill, seething omens into the air. You tell yourself it's not about the King of Curses, that he hasn't gotten under your skin that badly.

It's the confinement, right? The stillness, the —

Snap!

A voice, all teeth and thunder, curls through the room, and if you didn't know better, you would have caught the faint surprise beneath the bored drawl, "My wife is still here, it seems."

You whirl, fury burning across your face. Fury, yes, for how dare he leaves you wanting and aching for a touch that should not be yours to claim.

But Sukuna is already pressing his mouth to yours.

There's no warning nor hesitation, just sheer collision. Sukuna's mouth crashes into yours like a war cry, two hands already in your hair, and another two settling at your waist. The force of him has you stumbling back, but Sukuna follows, devours, consumes.

It's not gentle, and it's certainly not kind. It's all him, brutal and overwhelming, tasting you like you're already his in every way imaginable.

You gasp into the kiss, but your hands are already clawing up his frame to rest in his blush-pink hair before you can think better of it. Yanking and clawing, your teeth clinking against his.

You can feel Sukuna's mouth against yours, curling into a half-sneer, and half-satisfied smile as you moan, nails sinking into the inked planes of his back, right as he begins to push you towards the floor.

"You missed me," Sukuna breathes against your lips, dragging his forked, split tongue over your bottom lip before biting, hard enough to make you squeal, "Say it."

"No."

"We will see."

Sukuna takes you to the polished floor, rough palms skimming up your thighs, making space for you scramble at the knot of your robes. But his patience seems to grow thin, and quite soon, dark claws are curling into the fine fabric, tearing clean through silk.

You're bare beneath him. Bare, and furious, and soaked.

Sukuna's mouth is everywhere. Searing heat down your jaw, your throat, between the valley of your breasts. Leaving bruising, blooming marks that make you stifle sharp gasps.

He laves his tongue over one pebbled nipple, and rolls it between his teeth, while a massive, calloused hand pins your wrists above your head.

Your hips buck up, needy and shameless, as you blindly grasp for the waistband on his loose, martial pants. There's a thick, curved jostle against your thigh already.

No, there's two.

You can feel them, one thick and low, pressing right where you need it. And the other cock dragging higher, riding the curve of your abdomen as Sukuna ruts against you, clearly chasing pleasure of his own, a cherry-red hue painted high across his furious scowl.

"I can't – I can't b-believe you."

"Oh, so you would wish for me to stop?"

Your legs are spread beneath him, thighs splayed wide as your weeping folds swell and throb, pearly drops of your arousal already feeling unbearably hot against the cool, evening air.

And you glare at your husband, cheeks flushed with the prospect of the ridiculous motion, "I didn't say that."

You catch a rough, half-coughed snicker from the King of Curses who shifts his weight, and with little forewarning, shoves the lower of his cocks right between your folds, sliding along the wet slit, hot and heavy.

You need not even glance down to comprehend the sheer size of him, the thick bulge that snags against your entrance.

You're keening as the wispy, heated head bumps into your glistening clit, then lower, as Sukuna drags his cock against your entrance, but not quite pressing in yet.

"You're already dripping for me," Sukuna hisses, watching the hypnotic slide of his cock being enveloped by your heaven-sent pussy, "Fuckin' perfect. You want it? Take it."

And you do, for you roll your needy hips, desperate, catching the head of his cock once more, right at your entrance.

"Beg."

You growl, wiggling your hips further down to try and ease at least one cock in, "Go to hell."

Sukuna's responding look is flat, exasperated even, as all four hands are grabbing your thighs, spreading them wide, holding you open for him like a feast, "I will take you there."

Nothing could have prepared you for the jaw-dropping stretch, the snug inches that are melded by your gummy walls.

You cry out, spine bowing off the floor, eyes rolling. Sukuna's huge, stretching you, splitting you open like you were made for him.

The second cock, thankfully, does not slip further, but instead, drags against your belly as he begins to set a steady pace within you, the obscene friction adding a devastating pressure just under your skin.

You can't breathe. Can't think. Can only feel.

Sukuna moves with mean intent, driving into you with maddening rhythm, hips crashing against yours. Your back arches, hands scrambling for purchase on his biceps, his shoulders, the floor, anything.

"You should see yourself," Sukuna snarls, fangs glinting in the low light. "Mouth open, legs shaking. Grindin' on my cock like a bitch in heat."

You moan, head falling back, body clenching around him. He feels it, groaning, dark and low, and shifting his angle just slightly. Thick head finding that rough, sweet patch that makes you whine.

Kissing that spot deliciously with every sticky thrust and smack of his hips against yours.

"F-fuck, S'kuna— !"

"That's it." He leans in, sweat beading on his brow, and it brings you decent satisfication to know that he looks just as ruined as you feel. Maroon eyes hazy, lips glossy and flushed, and pulled back into a handsome snarl, "You can get louder. Let her talk."

Sukuna's second cock is leaking translucent, creamy pre against your stomach now, the obscene slide of it adding to the slick mess between you.

He presses his broad chest down, grinding the upper cock against your skin while the lower one ruins you, thrust after thrust dragging you closer to the edge.

You're trembling, gasping, sweating. And you want to hate him. You do, right? Heady and cloying arousal floods your senses in quick, lightning-style jolts that claw at any rational thoughts peeking in at the edges.

Sukuna feels you clench again, and his brutal pace falters, just for a moment.

There's stringy strands of slick being pulled between your thighs and his hips, all while Sukuna grunts, brows furrowed, "So soon, wife?"

"F-fuck you."

Sukuna snickers, mouthing at the juncture between your throat and jaw, "You are."

Your climax tears through you like fire, sharp, bright, overwhelming. Your back bows. Your throat rips open on a cry as you clamp down around him, spasming, sobbing, soaking his cock with your release.

And Sukuna doesn't stop. He fucks you through it, chasing his own end, voice ragged as he growls, "Gonna' take all of it? Every, last – fuck."

He slams in once more, deep and brutal. You feel it, everything. His cock throbbing inside you. The flood of warmth that fills you.

His second cock pulsing against your skin as he finishes, both of you trembling, writhing, lost.

Silence.

Heavy, sweat-slicked, tangled. He collapses over you, caging you with his body, still buried deep. And you're suddenly struck by the oddest comparison of your husband and a large, forest bear.

You're blinking up at the ceiling, chest heaving, and your legs still shaking. Your thighs sticky and spread, with drops of thick, opaque seed leakin' right out of your clenching cunt, smeared equally over Sukuna's abdomen.

You pretend not to notice that dastardly second mouth of his doing a right, determined job of cleaning the taste of both of you up.

"So," Sukuna rumbles, voice hoarse and smug, "Think you can take both?"

You let out a breathless laugh, eyelids heavy as you meet his challenging gaze. "What? You think I can't?"

His clever mouth twitches. One dark brow arches in challenge.

"Get on your back, husband."

And he does.

Wordlessly. Fluidly. Like he's been waiting for the command, and is still indulging you. You climb over him, the last of your strength curling into something sharp and hungry as your knees settle against the floor.

His hands find your waist. One of them slides up, slow, warm, steady, palm flattening over your stomach. The claws are gone. Blunted. Gentle.

Neither of you says a word about it.

[dcxdpdabbles]

DCxDP fanfic idea: Cooking Teacher

Damian Wayne does not do failure. He always mastered whatever skill he put his mind to, regardless of the number of hours he invested in the work. His ability to mimic others ' voices, movement, and behaviors was so sharp that even without instruction, he was able to clean and effectively accomplish mastery of whatever struck his fancy.

It was a testament to his parents' genes that he was able to prove their mixing had produced the perfect offspring.

That was, until Drake bet him fifty dollars that if it was anything like Bruce, no amount of training, good genes, or instruction would ever help him in the kitchen. Father did not help this insult when all he did was nod and shrug his shoulders.

"The Waynes are cursed," Father said, waving a fork around. "Whenever one of us steps into a kitchen, disaster follows. Cooking is just... not a thing for us. But, we can sing"

As if being compared to a songbird was a good thing. Damain vowed to prove them both wrong. And thus he ventured into one of the Wayne Manor extra kitchens, clutching a bag of groceries and a simple cookbook.

He followed the instructions to the letter. He studied various videos and cooking blogs. He used only the freshest ingredients. Really, there was no chance for it to go wrong.

And yet, when Damian pulled out the vegetarian lasagna from the stove, it resembled a soiled baby diaper. He attempted to take a taste, assuring himself it only looked bad, but the second the food made contact with his taste buds, his entire body shuddered in disgust. Damian had to stick his head under the running water of the sink to wash out the vile taste.

It was infuriating that out of all the skills in the world, something as simple as cooking was evading him.

Not about to give up, he tried again the following day. And again, and again, and again, until three months of failed attempts forced him to seek out professional help.

Alfred straight up refused to lend a hand, not after the many years he attempted to teach Damian's grandfather and father. Apparently, the only times Alfred had gotten workers' compensation were when he stood with a blood-related Wayne in the kitchen.

Damain wanted to call him a coward for that, except when he went into the kitchen to confront the bully, the stove exploded and nearly burned the old man's face off. Damian barely even glanced at the dials. He had no idea how it was able to set off like that.

Well, no matter, there were plenty of cooking instructors in this city. They may not be as great as Alfred- for that man made even dirt taste delicious- there had to be someone out there who could teach him to make one decent meal.

___________________________________________________________

Danny Fenotn is short on cash. That tends to happen when your evil godfather somehow rips your ghost half out of you and flings your human side to an unknown parallel world.

Gotham City was large and dangerous in a way Danny had never known. Without Phantom, he had no skills he could use to make a profit, and without a form of identification, he couldn't even sign himself up for school or aid programs.

He had wound up on the streets, dodging police and other street rats as best he could, but he was not doing too well for himself. days turned into weeks, which turned into months, and he was still unsure how he even survived that time.

Just as he was starting to actively dream of a shower and a roof over his head, word began to spread that a wealthy individual was willing to pay top dollar and even provide lodging for anyone willing to teach him how to cook.

Danny wasn't the best chief around, but he was desperate, so he washed up in a park sink and scurried across the city to the mansion of a house.

Danny followed a giant group of people, all dressed better, looking better, and smelling better than he did. Many were wearing chef outfits, giving him disgusted glances, but he grew accustomed to the casual hatred over the past few weeks.

They were told to wait in the hallway, sitting on some chairs with a number. The kid who wanted cooking lessons would call them in one by one and give them an interview, alongside asking them to cook something simple to prove their worth.

Danny was number twenty-two out of fifty candidates. A few people left when candidate number five ran out of the room screaming, with half his clothes on fire. More got up from their chairs and excused themselves when three different parametric teams were called in to rush out number eleven, number fifteen, and number seventeen.

What really cleared the room, however, was the screams that came from number twenty's mouth as though they were ripped off her limbs from behind closed doors. In a stampede of movement, the hallway was cleared, leaving only Danny sitting awkwardly on his chair.

"Number twenty-two?" A tall, dignified butler questioned from the door, seemingly surprised that someone was still there.

"Um, yeah?" Danny scrambled to his feet, aware his appearance was less than presentable. He felt like he just dragged himself out of a garbage can, even after trying his best to tidy himself up.

"This way, young man."

Danny is led into a kitchen —or a kitchen that has survived an ill-fated war. There was food splattered against the walls, smoke was burning on three stoves, some tiles were missing on the ground, and the furniture was turned over.

Sitting at the only untouched surface area was a young boy of twelve years old, and Danny nearly winces at how close in age they are. He doubts he will be able to teach the kid anything he doesn't already know.

"Good evening," The boy says, holding up a clipboard.

"Oh, uh, hi?" Danny replies. The kid raises a brow, clicks his red pen open, and scribbles something down. Danny feels himself break into a cold sweat.

"We shall start the interview." The butler cuts in, taking a graceful seat next to the boy and picking up his own pen. "Please answer to the best of your abilities."

Danny fumbles his way through the interview, muttering excuses when they ask for any of his past information, and by the time the food test comes around, he can tell they aren't going to consider him. He decided to teach the kid a simple recipe just so he could leave quickly, and by the time Danny had taught the kid a simple chicken soup recipe, he was all but ready to run.

Until the kid's fist closed in his dirt-stained shirt - it was no longer purely white, now it had a gross, brownish hue to it - keeping him in place.

"You are hired." The boy says, staring up at him with wide, joyful eyes while clutching his bowl of soup like it was the last lifeboat in a sinking ship. "The curse does not harm you."

Well.....Danny didn't like that, but he really had no other choice, did he?

[rainrot4me]

A Hunter's Moon

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

──────────────────────────────── smokey eyes - lincoln

── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.

CONTAINS NSFW, MINORS DNI

✦ . Summary: Beneath late summer nights, Jack always found you. Human and monster, two different worlds separated by a picket fence. But when he didn't return, you set out to look for him. You find him in rut, in pain, in the ache of something like love—and what kind of friend would you be if you refused him?

✦ . Characters: Eyeless Jack x Female Reader

✦ . Warning: Friends to lovers, partial-canon backstory, rut/heat cycles, mentions of blood and violence, gore, cannibalism, predator/prey relationship, chasing, biting, vaginal, cunnilingus, multiple positions, rough sex, animalistic sex, belly bulge, clawing, begging, partial non-con, creampie, breeding, knotting

✦ . Words: 15.5k

✦ . Note: Monster fucker nation please stand, this one is for you. Very gross, very scary, but ohhhhhhh so good and yum and UGHHHHH. Feast my children. Don’t tell the others, hurry hurry hurry, we can’t let them know that this is what we’re into.

────────────────────────────────────────────

You always loved June.

It was one of those syrupy summer nights, the air thick and soft, clinging to skin like a second, invisible layer. Cicadas droned lazily from somewhere deep in the woods, their chorus blending with the distant hum of traffic beyond the trees. The sun had long dipped behind the hills, but the heat of the day clung on, reluctant to let the world rest.

Your backyard was a patchwork of dim porch light and moonlight, the fence throwing long shadows across the brittle grass. Beyond the fence stretched the treeline, thick and dark as spilled ink, pulsing with the unseen eyes of the forest.

The fence was old—weather-worn wood, sun-bleached, as tall as your chest, and starting to splinter in spots—but it was your fence. Your spot. The place where every night, like clockwork, you would stand on one side with the glow of your kitchen lights behind you, and he would linger on the other, half-concealed by the darkness of the pines.

You heard the faint scuff of boots on dried leaves, the rustle of branches catching on old denim. You didn’t even have to look. You knew it was him.

“Late again,” you teased, leaning against the picketed wood. Fireflies darted around overhead, slow and golden, tiny lanterns against the night.

Jack shifted closer. Tall, broad-shouldered, the faintest glint of moonlight catching the wet curve of the dark mask he wore, the slits where eyes should have been yawning and black—just two gaping sockets, still managing somehow to see you. The copper tang of dried blood still clung faintly to him, mingling with the loamy smell of the forest and his favorite cologne. All wrapped up in an oversized gray hoodie and old wrangler jeans.

“I had…business,” he rasped, voice rough like something left too long in the dark.

You studied him, heart twisting. Once, things had been different. 

You met Jack in college, before everything changed.

He was Eyeless Jack to the world now—a name passed around in hushed rumors and panicked police briefings—but once, he was just Jack. Jack Nyras, pre-med major, scruffy-haired and half-insomniac from too many late-night study sessions. You’d first bumped into him, literally, outside your genetics class when you spilled an entire iced coffee down the front of his hoodie.

Instead of getting mad, he laughed. That laugh, even now, you remembered with a painful fondness: easy, warm, too big for his slight, lanky frame.

After that, you were inseparable. You sat in labs together, sharing notes, studying for hours until your brains turned to mush. Sometimes you’d catch him drawing twisted little sketches of incredibly detailed body parts in the margins of his anatomy book, black ink dripping from his pen like nightmares, doodling hearts and vein patterns and every bone you could think of. He’d grin sheepishly if you pointed it out.

“Just to blow off steam,” he’d told you.

If only it had stayed that way.

But something was off that last semester.

It started with Jenny. A bright-eyed, over-eager girl with too many questions about death, about gods, about what might live on the other side of everything. You’d seen her hanging around Jack, pressing him for his knowledge of anatomy and the occult. You hadn’t thought much of it—she was a weird kid, but who wasn’t in college?

Until the night they took Jack to a ritual.

You hadn’t known where he went, at first. A text left on read. A worried voicemail. Then nothing. You had no clue.

They’d dragged him to an abandoned house on the outskirts of town, where Jenny and her cult had tried to summon a demon—and they’d needed a human sacrifice to open the door. Jack. Your Jack.

They had held him down, cut his eyelids away so he could never look away, and scooped out his eyes with brutal, surgical precision. You would have nightmares about that for years: those empty, bleeding sockets. Then they poured something black and slick, like tar, into the holes—a living thing that pulsed and smoked, thick with hatred.

It was supposed to let a demon pass through him, a doorway wearing a human face. But something went wrong.

Instead of a perfect vessel, Jack became the demon’s prison. The possession took root, warping him, twisting flesh and bone. His skin turned an unnatural gray, hard like stone. The black voids where his eyes once were never stopped weeping that tar-like ichor. Needle-sharp teeth split his mouth, rabid and hungry.

Jack was the only one to survive, if you could call it surviving.

When he came to you after, it was in the dead of night, half-collapsed against your back porch door, trying to hold his guts inside his ribs with clawed, shaking hands. He was weeping. You’d never heard a sound like it, the noise of someone whose soul had been torn in half.

“Don’t look at me,” he begged, voice raw, inhuman already. “Please.”

But you did. You looked. You saw him for what he had become, and refused to turn away.

You kept him alive those first weeks, when he didn’t know what to eat, didn’t understand the pull inside him. You watched him break down on your kitchen floor, apologizing over and over. You helped him find ways to stay hidden, to scavenge what he needed to keep from losing his mind completely.

When Slenderman came for him—a towering, impossible shape between your backyard trees one night—you thought you’d lose Jack for good. But even that faceless horror couldn’t break the bond you’d built. Jack still came back, slipping from his grip in brief windows, always returning to the same spot at the back fence, where your world met the dark.

You wondered if part of him fought that puppet-string control just to see you again.

The truth was, you had every reason to fear him. You’d seen the news reports, the evidence photos, the torn bodies left in his wake. The world would call you naive, maybe even insane. But you knew him. You’d seen him laugh over spilled coffee. You’d watched him hold a scared freshman’s hand in a bio lab when they passed out during a dissection.

That Jack was still there, tangled in the ruin.

So you never turned him away. Even now, years later, you stood by your back fence on humid summer nights, waiting for the quiet scuff of his boots through the weeds. You told him about your boring, safe life—air conditioners and late shifts and microwave dinners—and he told you, in broken pieces, about the horrors he couldn’t help but feed on.

And despite all of it, despite the monsters clawing at his mind, you stayed. Because sometimes being a friend wasn’t bright or easy. Sometimes it was raw and heavy and stubborn, refusing to let go of someone even when the world said you should.

If you wanted, you could forget that night he’d stumbled from the woods, half-monster and half your friend. You could pretend this fence was a line dividing your worlds.

But you didn’t.

Because he was Jack. A biology major, obsessed with genetics and a little too competitive at beer pong. Now, the woods had become his kingdom, the darkness his only safe harbor. But some things hadn’t changed: the way he still leaned forward a little when you spoke, or how he listened more than he talked.

“Rough night?” you asked gently.

He tilted his head, a gesture oddly canine in its curiosity, “Rougher for them.”

You sighed, but there was no real fear in it. If there was one truth in your world, it was that he’d never hurt you.

“I had a pretty boring day,” you offered, voice light, trying to balance out the shadows in his. “Work was slow. Mrs. Carter’s cat had kittens, I saw them in her yard. Oh—and I got a sunburn.”

His head dipped, as if acknowledging the small tragedies of a normal human life. “Show me,” he said quietly.

You laughed, brushing your sleeve up to reveal pink skin. “See? Totally my fault. I fell asleep in the hammock.”

He reached forward, clawed hand resting on top of the fence, close but not quite touching. “You should be careful,” he murmured. “The sun can be quite dangerous this time of year.”

That startled a laugh out of you—a small, real sound. “Wow, Jack, you going to lecture me on skin cancer now?”

A faint, rasping chuckle answered, like dry leaves scraping together.

You both fell into silence, the comfortable kind. The night seemed to wrap around you, humming with late-summer heat, thick with scents of honeysuckle and crushed grass. Somewhere far off, an owl called.

You studied him across the fence, trying to read the shape of him. You could still see the slope of his shoulders, the faint twitch in his jaw when he was worried. The eyeless mask made him look monstrous—but you’d stopped seeing it that way long ago. Nowadays, you were just upset you couldn’t see his cute smile.

“Jack,” you said after a while, softer now, “are you…okay?”

His shoulders rose and fell. A sigh? Maybe.

“I don’t know if I even remember what ‘okay’ feels like,” he murmured. “But… this. Talking to you. It helps.”

Your heart pinched, warm and a little sad. “Then I’m not going anywhere.”

You saw him shift closer, a whisper of movement, enough that the shadows seemed to lean toward you. You swallowed, wishing you could reach over the fence and touch him, just once. Instead you let your fingers curl against the peeling paint. “I’m glad you still come back,” you smiled. He just nodded.

“You should go inside soon,” he rasped. “It’s too warm to sleep, but… safer. You should eat some dinner.”

“Will you stay out here a while?” you asked.

He dipped his chin, the faintest promise. “Yeah. I’ll keep watch.”

It was nothing, and it was everything.

Crickets sang to fill the hush that followed.

You stepped a little closer, pressing your palm to the wood between you, pretending you could feel his heartbeat through the fence. If he even still had one.

“Same time tomorrow?” you asked, trying to smile.

He nodded once again, a barely-there motion. “Same time.”

“Goodnight, Jack,” you said softly.

“Goodnight,” he answered, voice steady, a vow carried on the warm summer air.

And then, like a dream dissolving, he stepped back into the gloom of the pines. You caught one last glimpse of his silhouette before the night swallowed him whole.

The fence was still warm under your hand, the cicadas still singing. You exhaled, steadying herself, knowing that tomorrow he’d be there again—your friend in the woods, monster and boy, killer and companion.

And you would be there too, waiting for him.

── .✦

The day crawled by, the hours sticky and dull. You’d scrubbed your kitchen counters twice, answered a handful of emails for work you barely remembered, and even tried to read a book on the back steps—but the words blurred in the heavy evening heat.

All you could think about was Jack.

Ever since that night, years ago, your days felt incomplete until you met him at the fence. Those small conversations, traded across weather-ruined ply-wood, had become your strange ritual, your fragile thread of normal.

Tonight was no different. As the sun began to drop, you practically inhaled your dinner—pasta gone rubbery from the microwave, but you didn’t even taste it—swallowing mouthfuls so fast you nearly choked. Then you ran a hand through your hair, smoothed the wrinkles from your shirt, and stepped outside.

The air was still and damp, the kind that made your arms itch. The cicadas thrummed their endless song, hiding the hush of the woods. You leaned on the fence, peering into the tree line.

Nothing.

You waited, shifting your weight from foot to foot, hoping you’d see the pale glint of his mask moving between the trunks. But the woods stayed silent, the sky growing darker by the minute.

Maybe something came up. Maybe Slenderman needed him. Maybe he was hunting. He was usually late anyway.

You tried to reason with yourself, but the night stretched on, thick and empty, until the mosquitoes started biting and you had no choice but to go inside.

The next night, you came out early, practically running through the kitchen just to get to the fence faster. But again—nothing. The woods felt wrong, like a silent accusation, each leaf unmoving in the hot breeze.

The third night, you could barely stand to eat. You pushed your food around the plate, your stomach a hard knot, fingers picking at the torn edge of your thumbnail until it bled. The skin around your cuticles was raw from worry, your breathing shallow and thin.

Three days, you thought, three days is too long.

He had never gone three days without showing up, not since that night you saved him from bleeding out in your basement.

A cold panic clawed at your throat. You pictured him cornered somewhere, wounded, or worse—devoured by whatever lived inside him. You pictured Slenderman tearing him apart like a dog with a ragdoll, or the police finally catching him, gunning him down before he could explain he was more victim than monster.

Your fork clattered to the plate. You couldn’t take it.

You stood so fast your chair scraped a painful shriek across the floor. You grabbed your flashlight, heart pounding against your ribs like it wanted out, and stalked out into the night.

The fence gate to the woods creaked open, a hesitant protest that felt far too loud. The path beyond was half-eaten by weeds and dark as ink, but you forced yourself through, lungs full of warm, wet air that smelled like dirt and dying leaves.

If Jack wasn’t coming to you—then you would go to him.

You stepped across the fence line, your safe little world snapping shut behind you like a broken jaw, and let the darkness swallow you whole.

── .✦

The woods closed in around you the moment you crossed the fence line, swallowing up the distant hum of the highway and the yellow glow of your back porch light. Out here, everything was shadow layered on shadow, the air thick enough to choke.

You stepped carefully, branches scratching your shins, the beam of your flashlight bouncing across the undergrowth. Every so often you caught a flash of color—a scrap of paper, a mushroom cap, a piece of trash—and your heart would leap in false hope, only to crash back down when it wasn’t him.

Where are you, Jack?

You tried to keep your breathing quiet, tried not to think about the thousands of unseen things rustling in the tall grass. Your imagination filled the darkness with monsters: faceless giants and hollow-eyed shapes, hands reaching.

A branch snapped somewhere ahead, sharp and loud. You flinched, heart hammering up into your throat. Your flashlight jerked wildly, sending yellow arcs of light through the undergrowth.

“Jack?” you called, voice soft and strangled.

No answer. Only the startled flutter of birds erupting from the canopy, taking to the sky in a rush of frantic wings. You staggered back, hand clamped over your chest, adrenaline scalding through you.

You swept the beam of the flashlight across the trees, willing him to be there—a dark mask, a familiar slouch, anything—but the woods only gave you more silence.

Panic built behind your ribs like a scream. You tried to swallow it down.

“Jack?” you called again, a little louder this time, your voice carrying through the trees.

Nothing.

The darkness pressed in. Every stick crack, every scuttle of an animal felt like claws reaching for you. You forced yourself forward, one step at a time, your sneakers sinking into damp earth.

You called again, and again, each time a little braver, though the sound of your own voice nearly terrified you more than the silence did.

“Jack,” you pleaded, “if you can hear me… please answer.”

The flashlight beam wobbled as you clenched your shaking hand around it. The woods felt too big, swallowing your words whole. You had no idea how deep Jack had gone, or if he was even alive, or if you’d ever find him again.

But you had to try.

You would keep going. Even if it meant walking straight into a nightmare, you would keep looking for him, because Jack had never left you alone, even at his worst.

And you refused to leave him alone now.

You kept walking.

The night felt endless, the same dark trees repeating over and over until your legs burned and your feet throbbed inside your sneakers. Branches snagged at your sleeves, tearing tiny holes you barely registered. Bugs droned in the heavy air, the only thing keeping you company.

You lost track of how long you’d been out there—forty minutes, an hour, maybe more. Every step felt like you were sinking deeper into something that didn’t want you there.

Then your flashlight caught a rounded shape in the dirt.

You froze, breath stuttering, and dropped to your knees. The beam landed on it properly this time, and your heart broke in a single, sharp crack.

Jack’s mask.

It lay half-buried under leaves and mud, one side split down the cheek like something had struck it hard, the once-smooth paint now chipped and stained. It looked wrong, abandoned, like a piece of him torn away, like it had been sitting here for a couple of days.

“No,” you whispered, fingers trembling as you picked it up. It was heavier than you expected, damp with rain and sweat, smelling faintly of earth and blood.

“Jack!” you shouted, panic swallowing every scrap of caution you had left. “Jack! Where are you?”

Your voice rang off the trees, harsh and desperate.

Nothing answered.

You shoved the mask under your arm and pushed onward, scanning the cliff runoffs and dry creekbeds where you knew animals liked to hide, searching the tangled roots along the old trails, calling his name again and again.

“Jack! Please—answer me!”

The woods felt different now. As you climbed another steep rise, lungs burning, you realized it had gotten… quiet.

Way too quiet.

The cicadas were gone. No crickets. No night birds. Nothing.

Like the entire forest had been smothered under a heavy, waiting hush.

Your footsteps sounded painfully loud, each broken twig echoing off the trunks around you. You forced yourself to keep moving, scanning every hollow, every patch of shadow for a flash of gray skin or those ink-black tears—anything to prove he was still here.

But the silence felt absolute.

Crushing.

Wrong.

You swallowed, hard, the edges of the quiet closing around you until it felt like the woods themselves were holding their breath.

The stillness was so heavy it pressed on your eardrums, leaving you dizzy and unsteady. You clutched the broken mask tighter to your chest, heart hammering, flashlight flicking from one twisted branch to another.

That was when you heard it.

A wet, tearing sound, slick and raw, like someone wringing out a soaked rag. Then another noise—a sharp pop, like cartilage snapping.

Your stomach lurched.

You turned your flashlight toward the sound, its pale circle shaking so badly it barely held focus. You swallowed, took a single step, then another, trying not to crack any twigs, the silence around you making every breath sound huge.

You crept forward, through brambles that snagged your jeans, and finally reached the thick trunk of a pine tree. Its bark was rough against your palm as you steadied yourself, heart about to pound out of your chest.

The noises were louder here—slurping, chewing, flesh pulling away from bone.

You squeezed your eyes shut for a heartbeat, steeling yourself, then leaned to peek around the tree.

The sight made your legs go out from under you.

Jack was crouched low, his claws sunk deep in something—someone—sprawled in the mud. His face was buried in the corpse’s stomach, his mask gone, the ruined hollow of his sockets pressed to ruined flesh as he tore through it with those glinting, animal-sharp teeth.

Wet, black gore streaked his chin. Strings of it dripped from his mouth as he devoured what was left of the person’s organs.

He looked monstrous, more beast than man, moving in a brutal, mindless rhythm that made bile rise in your throat.

A scream clawed its way up before you could stop it, raw and terrified, tearing itself from your lungs.

The flashlight fell from your hands, clattering against a rock. Jack’s broken mask slipped after it, landing in the dirt.

Your knees buckled and you crashed to the ground, hands braced in the leaves as you gasped, the scream still echoing through the dead, silent woods.

Jack’s head snapped up, raw and slick with gore, strands of dark tissue clinging to his torn lips. For a moment, he just stared—or aimed those hollow sockets at you, emptier than any night you’d ever seen.

Then he let out a sound.

It was a low, throaty grunt, bubbling through whatever remained of the man’s organs, followed by a choked, strangled whine.

He shoved the corpse aside in a jerking, hungry motion, the wet smack of it hitting the ground making you flinch. Jack’s claws scraped through the dirt as he pushed upright, swaying on his feet. The moon caught the raw gleam of his teeth, stained black-red and sharp as glass. The front of his gray hoodie was stained dark, blood covering his chest and collar.

He took a staggering step toward you, hunched, moving in fits and starts—a predator not quite remembering how to use its limbs.

“J—Jack,” you stammered, voice cracking under the weight of your own terror.

Another grunt, this one higher, confused, almost hurt. But he kept coming, head tilted like he was trying to place you, thick lines of blood still running from his mouth.

You scrambled to your feet, hands scraping against sticks and dirt. Your flashlight lay where it had fallen, but you didn’t dare grab it—the thought of wasting a single second made your heart seize.

You ran.

Your legs barely worked at first, a jolt of panic burning through them so violently you stumbled. Behind you, Jack howled—a horrible, broken sound, like a wolf choking on its own kill—and then he charged.

You heard him crashing through the brush, smashing into trees hard enough to shake the branches overhead, snarling and sobbing all at once.

Your lungs tore with each gulp of damp air, your feet tangling in vines and roots. The world blurred, branches whipping your face and arms, your pulse a screaming rhythm in your ears.

You glanced over your shoulder—mistake.

Jack was close, horrifyingly close, lurching forward on all fours at times, then staggering upright, drool and blood flinging off his chin with every strangled cry.

The sound of him was horrible, like a nightmare given voice: gasping, wet snarls, a boy’s whimper trapped in a monster’s throat.

You pushed harder, legs on fire, tripping through a creek bed and nearly going down. Behind you, Jack crashed in after, water splashing like a thunderclap. He slammed against the bank and scrabbled up again, claws raking mud, his body moving with a terrifying, unstoppable hunger.

The night around you felt like it shrank, every tree too close, every shadow reaching. You could hear him breathing—wet, ragged, sharp—right behind you, the animal panic of a predator whose prey was slipping away.

Tears spilled hot down your cheeks, half from terror, half from heartbreak. Jack. Your Jack. Reduced to this. Hunting you like he didn’t even know your name.

He wailed again, an echoing, desperate sound that sent a fresh spike of adrenaline through your spine.

You scrambled up a hill, nails tearing into the dirt for grip, and felt him slam into the slope behind you, sending rocks and dead leaves skittering down around your heels. He tripped on a root, crashing to his knees with a scream of frustration, but he was already dragging himself up, unstoppable.

You felt pathetic, small and breakable, every instinct screaming to run run run run—

But there was nowhere to go, nowhere safe. The forest was a cage, and Jack was filling every inch of it, his cries ripping through the dark, hunting you down with mindless, monstrous determination.

You ran anyway, because you had to.

And behind you, he followed—crashing, wailing, unstoppable.

It only took one misstep of your foot, one trip—a rush of air and the thunder of clawed feet, and then he crashed into you with the force of a falling tree.

You hit the ground hard, the breath punched out of your lungs, dirt grinding into your palms. Before you could even scream, Jack was on top of you, pinning you to the forest floor with all his unnatural weight.

He snarled inches from your face, the sound raw and animal, splattering you with thick, foul-smelling gore. Blood dripped from his wide lips, fat droplets falling onto your cheek, sliding warm and sticky into your hair. You noticed it then, the absolute richness of his smell. Like his cologne, but so stout and thick you could’ve choked on it.

You froze, terror swallowing you whole, every muscle locked in place. His claws curled into the ground beside your head, framing you like steel traps.

“Jack,” you choked out, your voice breaking under the fear, “Jack, it’s me—please, please, it’s me!”

He leaned closer, so close you could smell rotted copper and damp earth on his breath. His hollow sockets flared wide, a horrible, empty focus. Another snarl tore out of him, spraying more blood across your face. Even the tips of his pointed ears were speckled with the stuff.

You raised your hands, palms open, pressing against the dampened fabric of his hoodie, feeling the quivering, rigid muscles beneath.

“Jack—Jack, please,” you sobbed, “you know me—it’s me, it’s me—”

Something in him stuttered.

The endless growling broke off, replaced by a high, confused whine. His head twitched, tilting to one side, like a dog trying to understand a new word.

His breath hitched, and then he bent down, nosing against your cheek, sucking in deep, shaky lungfuls of your scent.

His three black tongues emerged, slick and twitching, and began to sweep over your face in long, wet strokes, gathering up the blood he’d splattered there. It was revolting—warm, sticky, and far too intimate—and you flinched as he moved lower, tongues pressing to your neck, tasting, cleaning.

He breathed you in so desperately you thought he might inhale your entire soul. His chest heaved against your hands, shuddering with each inhale.

“Ssr—” he tried, voice grinding out of a throat that sounded half broken, “Mmn—Hah—”

You could hear it, buried in the monstrous ruin of his voice, “So-Sorr-ey—Mmn-sorr—Mnn-Miss yewhh—”

He kept trying to form the words, but they came out in garbled sobs and animal rasping, drool and blood dripping onto your skin.

You couldn’t move. You couldn’t even breathe.

His tongues kept working, lapping gently at your throat, tasting, nuzzling, his claws scraping at the dirt on either side of your head. A pitiful whimper rattled through him every time he pulled away and tried to speak again.

It was like being pinned by a hurricane—something impossibly powerful and terrifying, but also heartbreakingly confused, lost, wanting only you.

You stared up at the empty sockets inches from your eyes, mind screaming, every nerve alight with raw, animal terror.

Jack’s blood-slick mouth hovered above you, trying so hard to shape human words, but all that came was a broken, hopeless cry.

Your heart pounded so hard you thought it might crack your ribs. Jack’s weight felt endless on top of you, a monstrous, crushing presence that smelled of blood and rot and something older, darker.

But… this was Jack.

You tried to remember that—your Jack, even buried in this nightmare. You preached about loving him and being there for him no matter what, but as soon as you’re faced with a horror, what did you do? Stupid.

You drew in a weary, shaking breath and reached up, fingers threading through the wild, tangled strands of his dark hair. The roots were tacky with drying blood, but you ignored it, combing gently, soothing.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, voice raw, “Jack… it’s okay. You’re okay.”

He whimpered against your throat, the monstrous rumble of his chest vibrating against yours. His tongues tried to drag across your cheeks again, desperate and sloppy, but you pushed him back with a shaking hand, steadying him.

“Stop—hey, it’s okay,” you tried again, voice firm but soft, like talking to a wounded animal.

He froze, breathing you in so deeply it hurt to hear, then slowly lowered his head until his brow touched yours. The blood was sticky between you, but the contact steadied him, just a little. You’d never have thought touching him, seeing him without his mask for the first time in months would’ve been like this. Fate has a weird way of working things out.

You kept your hand moving through his hair, gentle, grounding, and after another moment he shifted, claws pulling out of the dirt beside your head and instead curling around you, wrapping you in a terrifying, protective cage.

His hands—bloodied and sharp and so wrong—trembled as they ghosted under your shirt, rough against your waist, pulling you closer, pressing your ribs against his chest.

His entire body shook as he settled, breath ragged and uneven, the smell of iron so strong you wanted to gag. Still, you stayed, letting him hold you, even when every terrified instinct screamed to run.

Moonlight spilled through a break in the canopy, falling on the two of you in a cold, pale wash. It caught the gore still clinging to his jaw, the unnatural gray of his ruined skin, the inky stain of his hollow eyes.

Jack clung tighter, claws pricking your sides, breathing hard against your neck, confused sounds still rumbling in the back of his throat.

He didn’t understand. You could feel it in the frantic rhythm of his touch—he didn’t know why his body felt so raw, so starving, so desperate.

Jack stayed wrapped around you, claws trembling against your back, his breathing raw and frantic. His face was buried at your neck, those horrible tongues twitching against your skin, tasting you over and over as if it was the only thing keeping him sane.

Your head spun. He was so strong—you could feel it in every twitch of those monstrous hands, how easily he could have broken you. But he didn’t.

He was shaking, whimpering, lost.

“Jack,” you tried, voice cracking, “what is this? What’s happening to you?”

He made a mangled sound, low in his chest, trying to force words through a throat that wasn’t made for them anymore.

“Ca-c-can’t—” he rasped, wet and torn. “Can’t… s-stop.”

You swallowed, panic still clawing at your ribs. His claws flexed under your shirt, not hurting, but clutching at you like a lifeline.

“Can’t stop what?” you asked, heart hammering, “Hurting? Hunting?”

He shook his head, a violent, jerky movement against your neck, a fresh whimper breaking free.

“Smh-smell… y-you…” he gasped, voice breaking. “C-c-can’t… st-stop.”

Your mind was spinning, trying to piece it together. You thought of how he’d tracked you down, how he couldn’t stop licking you, couldn’t get enough of your scent, the way he was holding you now like he needed you to keep breathing.

Your stomach dropped.

Was this… heat? The word felt alien, but close. Or something like it. He was… an animal, twisted by what they’d done to him. Maybe his body had gone feral in more ways than just hunger.

“Jack,” you whispered, dread crawling up your spine, “are you… in some kind of… rut?”

He went still, pressed against you. A miserable, pained whimper came out, low and helpless.

“Dha-d-don’t… know,” he stuttered, voice thick with something raw and pathetic. “I… s-smell… yo-ou… need…”

It made your head swim. Of course he didn’t know. How could he? No one ever taught a monster about instincts like this.

His claws scrabbled at your back again, then curled around your waist, pulling you even tighter. His face pressed into your collarbone, those tongues working against your throat like he was trying to memorize you.

It was terrifying. It was heartbreaking.

“It’s okay, Jack,” you whispered again, voice catching, “I’m here. I’m right here.”

Jack trembled against you, his claws flexing and unflexing along your ribs, scraping your skin just enough to sting. His entire body was rigid, shaking, the way a bowstring might before it finally snapped.

A raw, pained groan crawled up his ruined throat, and then—he moved.

He shifted, his hips dragging against yours, grinding down, slow and clumsy, a desperate friction that made your blood run cold and your spine bow off the ground. He did it again, harder, a broken sob rattling out of him. He was hard, and so painfully, terrifyingly big. 

It was so wrong—but so heartbreakingly human in a twisted way.

He didn’t know what he was doing. You could feel it in how he shook, how his claws fluttered against your skin like he was afraid to hurt you. But some dark, feral instinct had its claws in him now, and it wouldn’t let go.

“J-Jack—” you stammered, terror slicing through you like a blade, “Jack, wait—wait, please—”

He didn’t seem to hear you. Or maybe he couldn’t.

He only whimpered, grinding down again, more frantic, his entire body surging with confused, alien need. The weight of him pinned you, crushing you into the damp earth, making it impossible to squirm away.

Your words turned to babbling, desperate, tears spilling from your eyes.

“Jack, please, wait, j-just—just hold on—you don’t have to—!”

But he needed to.

His tongue, the longest of the three, licked up the side of your neck, tasting your tears, and his whole body shuddered in something close to ecstasy.

You were perfect—you smelled so good, so alive, so his.

Jack keened against you, hips ramming forward again against the center of your thighs, a hopeless rhythm he didn’t understand, only that it made the gnawing ache inside ease for the briefest second. You grunted with every press, legs clamping to close around his hips, but it was no use.

His claws roved under your shirt, skittering against your bare skin, so hot and feverish it felt like they might burn you.

You tried to hold on to him, hands bracing against his chest, trying to reason with him, but he was gone to you—lost to instincts so deep and cruel they drowned out everything else.

“P-please, Jack,” you cried, voice catching on a sob, “I know you’re in there—I know you’re in there, please just—”

He didn’t answer.

He buried his face in your neck, inhaling with a desperate, shaking gasp, then ground into you again, a brutal, guttural snarl tearing from his chest.

There was hunger, yes—but not for organs, not this time. It was a hunger that was aching, tearing him apart in places he didn’t even have names for anymore.

He needed you. And he couldn’t stop.

The heat in his body was a firestorm, swallowing everything that made sense, leaving only need. You smelled so good—the salt of your skin, the sweet tang of your fear, the soft, warm human scent that had always belonged to you.

His claws scraped against your ribs as he ground down, again and again, unable to stop, each movement more desperate than the last. A whine rattled out of him, high and pained, like it physically hurt to be this close and not inside you somehow. You matched his whines, your thighs shaking with how his cock rubbed against your cunt through layers of thick clothing.

Your hands clutched at his hair, pulling, nails digging into his scalp. You were crying, babbling, your voice cracking with half-formed pleas—but you weren’t fighting him, you didn’t think you could anyhow.

He latched onto that with something feral, something primal. You wanted him, some buried part of you did, or at least you weren’t kicking him off, and that was enough to break what was left of his reason.

His tongues flicked over your neck, tasting sweat and tears and heat, making him snarl in frustrated ecstasy. The sound vibrated through your chest, and you arched up against him without meaning to, hips meeting his with a helpless grind that made his claws clench hard enough to bruise.

The world was spinning, dizzy and molten, your voice cracking again as you gasped, “J-Jack—”

He couldn’t stop.

“Mhnn—M’sorry—”

He bit you.

His jaws snapped down on your shoulder, too hard, the sharp points of his monstrous teeth tearing straight through the thin cotton of your shirt and sinking into flesh.

You screamed—a sound tangled between pain and something far, far darker, some twisted surge of relief that made you go limp under him.

He tasted your blood, hot and coppery, and moaned against you, rutting his hips so hard you could barely breathe.

Your head fell back, tears streaming, your body alight with panic and arousal and a hundred things you couldn’t name.

“Ah—Fuck—!” you sobbed, hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer even as you trembled from the agony of his bite.

He whined around the mouthful of your skin, drool and blood spilling down your shoulder, tongues fluttering against the broken flesh. His claws skittered under your back, catching on the fabric, desperate to feel you, to anchor himself before he tore you apart completely.

The smell of you, the taste, the way you moved against him—it was too much. It was everything.

Jack’s grinding grew more frantic, more nasty, sloppy and desperate, like an animal starved of touch for centuries, driven by something so foreign he couldn’t even name it.

You moved with him, rutting up to meet his rhythm, your voice breaking into half-sobbed moans as you clutched him closer, dizzy from pain and heat and the horrible, unbearable need radiating off of him.

It was messy, violent, a collision of instincts and terror and some warped, twisted need to save him.

It built like a storm, each frantic thrust of his hips dragging you closer to a precipice you couldn’t see, didn’t even know it was there until you felt the coil in your stomach. Jack was panting, growling, his claws scoring lines onto your ribs and back and all over as he rutted against you, mindless and unstoppable.

You were barely breathing, the pain in your shoulder mixing with something hot and carnal that had your hips moving up to meet his every time, your voice caught in your throat in sobs and broken cries. Your thighs feel open, legs coming around his broad hips to wrap around him, locking your feet together at the base of his back.

The smell of blood, sweat, the damp soil—it all blurred around you, your entire world narrowed to the way his hips slid against yours, his length pressed against your aching clit.

Jack’s tongues lashed against your skin, tasting you, claiming you, his breath so ragged it rattled his chest. His hips stuttered, harder, faster, his growl climbing into something high and keening—

You felt the tension snap inside you like a frayed wire, every nerve flaring white-hot as you choked on a sob, your hips jerking up, caught in that same unstoppable rhythm.

Your orgasm crashed through you, messy and raw, pain and pleasure and terror all tangled together until you didn’t know what you were feeling except that you couldn’t handle the pressure any longer.

He felt it too.

Jack’s whole body went rigid, a strangled, animalistic cry bursting out of him as he ground down hard, shoving you into the dirt so rough your bones ached. He shuddered, every muscle seizing, the heat of him smothering you as he came, mindlessly rutting through the last frantic pulses until his hips slowed to stutters.

For a long moment, there was only panting—his huge body draped over yours, twitching, shaking.

The forest was silent except for your breathing, your heartbeat pounding in your ears, the coppery sting of blood sharp under your nose.

Jack went still, finally, the frantic, feral madness draining out of him all at once like a burst dam. He slumped against you, heavy and limp, rasping out broken, rattling breaths.

You felt his face move against your neck, those horrible tongues twitching sluggishly, no longer hungry, just back to cleaning the blood that trickled from your bite.

A low, almost human voice crawled out of him, helpless and raw.

“C-cou-couldn’t—” he tried to say, and choked on a sob, “couldn’t s-stop…”

Your shaking hands found his hair again, combing through the blood-matted strands. Your voice was thin, ruined from crying, but you managed to get words past your cracked lips.

“I-I know,” you whispered, “Jack, I know…”

He let out a hoarse, broken whine, pressing his face harder into your throat. The pressure of his claws, still tucked under your shirt, turned gentle, almost soothing, stroking your bare skin in a clumsy mimic of affection.

The blind, animalistic need had quieted, leaving something raw and battered in its place.

He was Jack again, for now—shaky and confused and so, so sorry.

“D-didn’t… want to… h-hurt…” he stammered, one of his tongues licking a stripe up your jaw as if trying to apologize, “you smelled so-soo good…”

You swallowed hard, blinking against the tears.

“It’s okay,” you whined, voice paper-thin, “it’s… it’s okay. We’ll… we’ll figure it out.”

He let out a low, pitiful whimper and curled tighter around you, as if even after all that, he couldn’t bear to let you go.

You felt the heat of him, the ragged exhaustion, the sloppy, dazed nuzzles as he licked at the bite he’d left on your shoulder.

But then—you felt it.

Hard. Still hard.

Thick and throbbing, pressed against the curve of your hip, pulsing with a need that clearly hadn’t burned itself out yet. The realization shot a cold spear of panic through your gut, even as your mind reeled from the aftershocks of what you’d already survived.

“Jack,” you breathed, voice breaking, “wait—”

But he was moving again. A slow, rolling grind against you, the heavy ridge of him rutting over your thigh. You flinched, a fresh spike of sensitivity bursting through your half-numb body.

He whined—higher, clearer, more Jack than the animal—but still desperate.

“C-can’t stop…” he stammered, his voice raw and torn, but understandable now, “please… I need… more…”

Your heart lurched, hammering so hard you thought it might crack your ribs. You put your hands against his chest, trying to push him back.

“J-Jack—wait—just—just hold on a second—”

But he didn’t. Couldn’t.

He loomed up over you, gray skin catching in a shaft of moonlight, eyes still hollow and leaking that inky blackness, but somehow so full of you, focused only on you.

A clumsy claw caught the hem of your shirt, tugging, tearing the cotton easily as if it were paper. Another hand fumbled at your waistband, his movements frantic, awkward, scraping your skin as he tried to pull your pants down. He tore his claw through your shirt, ripping the fabric in half, shoving it off your chest. The air was warm, but your flesh still crawled with goosebumps, crossing your arms across your bra.

“J-Jack—” you pleaded, voice cracking, “slow down—”

He shook his head, a course growl pulling out of his ruined throat, all three tongues lolling and quivering as he nosed at your bare shoulder, inhaling you like your scent was the sweetest perfume known to man.

“Sm-mells so… g-good…” he slurred, breath shivering across your damp skin, “It hurts… I need…”

He sat up off of you onto his knees and tugged harder, practically ripping your pants down your hips, dragging the fabric across your thighs and off your ankles, leaving you shivering in the warm night air, half-covered in blood and dirt and his own desperate scent.

Your head spun, panic and some horrible spark of want twisting in your belly.

His claws raked down your sides, leaving angry red lines in their wake, but his grip gentled near your hips, as if trying, clumsily, to be careful with you.

“Please,” he whispered, voice cracking around the word like glass, “I need it…”

You barely had time to catch your breath before he was tearing at what was left of your clothes, his claws hooking into your panties and ripping them in a single, impatient pull. The elastic snapped, leaving you bare beneath him, the humid night air kissing every inch of your trembling skin.

Jack leaned back, just enough to see you fully—the sight of you exposed made him snarl, low and guttural, his hips twitching in a spasm of aching need.

You gasped when he tore at your bra, the clasps giving way to those claws so easily, leaving you naked, splayed out beneath him in the mud and leaves. His tongues ran over his lips, shivering in the night air, and he lowered his face to your chest, sniffing so deep it made your skin prickle.

Jack shifted above you, still breathing in those ragged, animal-edged huffs of air. His claws twitched at the edge of his hoodie, scrabbling almost clumsily as he started trying to yank it off, frustration roughening his voice.

“Too… h-hot,” he snarled, voice breaking as he tried to pull the oversized fabric over his shoulders, “can’t—too tight—”

It was ridiculous, in a way—the thing was big on him, he had to roll up the sleeves for crying out loud, but with the way his body strained and trembled now, even that roomy cloth felt suffocating.

You watched, dazed and shaking, as he finally managed to drag it over his head, the hood catching for a second on his head before he ripped it free with a growl.

The air hit his skin and he shivered, shoulders rolling. His body was… terrifying, and yet so painfully, heartbreakingly familiar.

His skin, that strange ashy blue-gray, gleamed with sweat, muscles standing out in sharp, tense lines. Broad shoulders, roped with lean, powerful definition, his chest heaving, his ribs showing the slightest hollow from days of half-starved hunting. Scars ran across him in jagged, uneven tracks, some healed rough, others still pink and new.

The moonlight skimmed over his abdomen, tracing hard-cut muscle under a shimmer of sweat, each breath flexing the taut cords of his stomach. His hips were narrow, but thick with power, and every line of him looked made for violence—but somehow so vulnerable in this raw, exposed moment. But the pièce de résistance was the trail of hair that started under his belly button and traveled down to somewhere unknown beneath his waistband.

He tossed the hoodie aside and leaned back over you, hair matted and damp around his forehead, claws spreading on either side of your waist as he growled, breath ghosting over your chest.

“Hold on now, w-wait—” you stammered, but the words barely left your lips before his mouth was on you.

He licked a broad, hungry stripe up the slope of your breast, then latched on, three tongues working over your nipple at once—hot, slick, inhuman. You cried out, body arching up, nails digging into his shoulders as the wet heat sent a jolt of electricity through you.

He moaned at the taste of you, his voice raw and desperate, his hands splaying out over your hips to pin you down as he moved lower, lower still, dragging those horrible, clever tongues across every inch of you.

When he settled between your thighs, you tried to close them—but his claws kept you open, spreading you wide, your body so exposed you could hardly stand it. You leaned up onto your elbows, fingers digging into the grass.

Jack paused for just a second, panting, his face hovering over your slick, his tongues twitching with anticipation. He let out a broken, hungry little whimper. Was he… was he fucking drooling?

“P-pretty…” he slurred, the syllables barely holding together, “so… pretty…”

And then he lunged, mouth burying itself against you with no finesse, no mercy.

You screamed, your back bowing off the ground as those three tongues moved with wild, sloppy desperation, lapping at you like he was starving. It was too much—the rough flicks, the obscene wetness, the teeth scraping gently at sensitive skin, sending shockwaves of pleasure and terror straight through your core.

You gasped, hips jerking, the spark of pleasure sharp as lightning through your belly. Jack let out a deep, satisfied growl at the reaction, circling your clit with the tip of one of his tongues, soft at first, then firmer, more insistent, making your muscles clench under him.

You fisted his hair, gasping, voice cracking as you tried to guide him, tried to survive the hurricane of sensation.

The second tongue joined the first, working in a counter-rhythm, stroking and licking at you until you were shaking again, barely able to think. He was playing with you—greedy and clumsy, but somehow still so achingly precise, watching you break apart under every drag of his tongues.

“J-Jack—oh my god—slow—please—!”

He didn’t slow. Couldn’t.

He added another.

His monstrous hands pinned your thighs even wider, his growls vibrating right through you, and he sucked at your clit with all three tongues, so intense you almost blacked out, eyes rolling far beyond the back of your head.

“Fuckk—y-you—taste—” he babbled into you, lost in it, “so fucking good.”

You felt his hips rutt against the ground while he devoured you, grinding for relief even as he tore every ounce of yours from you with terrifying devotion.

It was savage. Beautiful.

You were helpless, caught under him, trembling as the pleasure built again and again, nowhere to go, nothing to do but cling to him and pray you survived.

And Jack—he just kept going, lost in you, a monster starved for more than flesh.

Then, with a hungry deliberation, he shifted, tongues drawing lower, to the dripping entrance of your core. One slick tongue traced around the tight ring of muscle, circling, then gently pushed inside—the stretch was strange, hot, noticeable, and you cried out, fisting the dirt, hips rolling helplessly.

Jack shuddered like he could feel it, letting out a sound halfway between a moan and a growl that vibrated against your cunt.

Then a second tongue slid in next to the first, thicker, the two of them twisting, writhing, pressing against places inside you that made your toes curl and your spine curl off the forest floor.

“F-fuck—Jack—!” you sobbed, barely holding on.

He whined, eager, desperate to please, and a third tongue pushed at your entrance, stretching you even more, making you feel so full and so impossibly overwhelmed. He fed them in deeper, deeper still, moving them in slow, obscene thrusts as your body fluttered helplessly around them.

His claws dug into your hips, holding you steady, and he watched you break apart, those empty sockets somehow burning with a savage, possessive adoration.

“Cant stop—I can’t—” he stammered, voice shaking as much as you were, “So warm—”

The tongues twisted inside you, slick and hot and everywhere, while the tip of one still worked your clit in perfect, punishing circles—until your mind was nothing but static. You could feel your restraint dissolve, feel every muscle coming unbound with every pass of the muscles roiling around inside your gummy walls. All you could do was hiccup through tears that spilt down your cheeks, hands lost between fisting the grass and Jack’s messy hair.

He wouldn’t make you decide for long.

Jack finally slowed, his three tongues pulsing one last time inside you before starting to pull free—inch by inch, painfully slow, the writhing muscle dragging slick and hot against your walls.

You cried out, hands scrabbling through the dirt, thighs shivering so hard they nearly clamped shut around his head. Jack lifted, and the sight of him made your stomach twist—his face was covered in you, slick and glistening all the way to the hollows of his cheeks, dripping down the edges of his jaw.

He panted, claws still gripping your hips, and then—almost absently—he used those tongues to clean himself. They swept up over his chin, lapping across his cheeks, curling to drag away every trace of you with obscene thoroughness.

The longest tongue curled all the way up to the corner of his eye socket, slicking away a streak of blood, while the others worked over his lips and down to his throat, catching every drop.

It was monstrous, horrifying—but something about it was also devoted, his noises soft and grateful as he tasted you over and over again.

When he was finished, his face shone faintly in the moonlight, wiped clean by nothing but his own inhuman hunger, and he looked down at you with those hollow, endless sockets, panting, starved, still wanting.

“Taste so… mhnn—so go-good—” he stammered, voice breaking apart, almost overwhelmed himself.

Then, shaking, he leaned back on his haunches, claws fumbling at the button of his jeans, breath coming out in deep, stripped huffs. The denim was already soaked with sweat and stained with little flecks of gore, clinging to his muscled thighs.

“C-can’t—too tight—need…” he growled, frustrated, claws almost tearing the button clean off before he finally managed to wrench it open and shove the jeans down.

The second they fell, your breath hitched. You felt your stomach roll over on itself.

His cock was monstrous, huge even by impossible standards, flushed a dark bruised-blue that almost glowed in the slivered moonlight. Thick ridges ran along the underside, pulsing faintly, and the head was slick and shiny, drooling a bead of clear precum that dripped to the dirt below. Veins wrapped around the shaft like dark ropes, throbbing with each frantic beat of his inhuman heart.

It was obscene, the sheer size of it, the way it twitched and jumped with the smallest movement of his hips. Your body tensed, terrified and aching all at once, while Jack looked down at you with those endless, hungry sockets, a guttural, whiny sound escaping his throat. A noise a dog would make if you held food above its head.

“Sweet girl,” he rasped, voice shaking, “Want—hnn—want inside… please… pl-please.”

He was so hard he looked in pain, the length of him bobbing forward, heavy, glistening, terrifyingly perfect in its brutality. One clawed hand wrapped around the base, a poor attempt to steady himself as he leaned over you, every muscle in his lean, powerful frame quivering with raw, feral need.

You could barely breathe, heart hammering against your ribs, as Jack loomed over you—huge, starved, and desperate to make you his.

A wave of terror slammed into you, cutting through every dazed, sweet ache in your body. Your instincts screamed run, and before you could even think, you rolled over onto your stomach, dirt scraping your skin, legs wobbling as you tried to get your knees under you.

You were so weak, so shaky from everything he’d already done to you, but you managed to crawl forward, dragging yourself clumsy and frantic through the leaves. No fucking way were you going to take that thing.

“Jack, no—” you gasped, voice breaking.

But he snarled behind you, a sound so deep and hungry it rattled your bones.

“Don’t run…” he growled, words wet and cracked, “…don’t run, pretty girl…”

You made it only a few feet before his claws closed around your calf, the rough grip tearing a desperate cry from your lungs. Jack hauled you backward with terrifying ease, your fingernails clawing at the dirt as he dragged you until you were flush against him, your back pressed to the heat of his bare chest, his hips crowding up behind you.

He leaned over, breath scalding against your ear, and you felt the monstrous weight of his cock slide along the curve of your ass, so heavy and thick it made your whole body clench up.

It rested there, pulsing hot against your skin, smearing precum over your lower back and leaving your mind reeling with just how deep he was going to go.

“Don’t run…” Jack repeated, lower, almost a begging whimper tangled with the snarl, “n-need you…need all of you…”

He ground forward, letting the head of his cock catch between your cheeks, then angling his hips, slid his length between your thighs, pressing against your entrance just enough for you to feel the impossible stretch waiting.

Your breath came in sharp, terrified gasps, the world a dizzy blur as his claws dug into your hips, holding you pinned, his voice breaking as he panted into your hair.

“P-pretty…don’t run…gonna make you f-full…so full…”

The sheer heat of him, the solid, inhuman girth twitching and drooling against you, made your head spin. Your heart thundered like prey under a predator’s paw—helpless, trembling, trapped.

You tried to squirm again—a panicked, half-blind attempt to drag yourself away, the leaves and damp earth clinging to your elbows. But Jack’s low, animal snarl made your heart stop, vibrating through your ribs like thunder.

“Don’t,” he rasped, breath raw and uneven, “don’t run—gonna take you—”

His hips rolled, the bulging head of his cock catching against your clit, making you yelp and arch from the sudden jolt of raw, overwhelming pleasure. He dragged it up and down your slit, soaking you with slick precum, smearing it across your folds until you were trembling so hard you could hardly breathe.

Then he shifted, the tip nudging against your entrance, parting you, teasing just enough to send another bolt of fear straight through your spine.

You tried to move again, legs kicking weakly—but that only seemed to annoy him. A harsh growl ripped out of Jack’s throat, and before you could even scream, he slammed both hands onto your back, claws spreading wide across your shoulder blades and pinning you flat against the earth.

He pushed, his massive weight bearing down, forcing your spine into a sharp arch so your ass was high in the air and your chest crushed to the dirt. It was a humiliating, bestial pose—your body forced to submit, trembling, fully exposed.

“Stay,” he snarled, voice cracking around a broken whimper, “stay still—don’t squirm…”

You felt the head of his cock pressing again, harder this time, nudging into you with enough force to steal your breath, the tight muscle of your cunt burning already. You could barely process the stretch, barely believe it would fit, your walls already fighting the impossible intrusion.

Jack’s hips flexed, and the head started to push in, painfully slow, prying you open one quivering inch at a time.

“F-fuck—so tight—so…warm…” he stammered, panting above you, his claws tightening on your shoulders until they dug sharp enough to sting.

The pain was blinding, a burn that radiated through your hips and made tears prick your eyes. Your body shook, helpless, every muscle trying to clamp down and push him out—but he wouldn’t stop.

Jack rocked his hips forward, the head bobbing deeper, pulling out a fraction only to shove in again, each movement nudging him further and further inside until your walls were clinging to the first few inches of that monstrous, ridged length.

Your mind blurred, terror and overstimulation crashing together, as the stretch split you wider and wider—and Jack’s heavy breaths grew more desperate, his voice breaking into wild, devoted praise.

“Yeah—so good—so good—take me—need you t-to take all of me…”

And you realized, in that moment of absolute terror and helplessness, that he meant to fill every aching, breaking inch of you, no matter how much it hurt.

“Oh fuck— Oh, God—wait, Jack—”

Jack’s rhythm grew steadier, more determined, as he worked deeper—each push splitting you a fraction more, the obscene stretch lighting up every nerve in your body. Your breath came in ragged, sobbing pants, eyes screwed shut against the tears as your walls spasmed helplessly around him.

He was relentless, hips rocking, drawing out and then pushing a little deeper each time, forcing your body to mold around him. You could barely process how much was already inside—it felt like too much, so impossibly full, and still he hadn’t bottomed out.

“Hold on—hold on—just wait,” you hiccuped, reaching your arms behind you to plant against his hips, trying to stop him from going any further. You could already feel him bumping against your cervix, drooling tip nudging the deepest parts inside of you.

“Almost, pretty girl—almost there,” Jack rasped, voice wet and fractured.

You choked out a half-formed plea again, but it was lost in the dark as he pressed closer, his sweaty chest crushing against your back. He shifted his claws from your shoulders to dig into the dirt on either side of your head, caging you, pinning you, leaving you nowhere to go as you trembled under him.

And then—with a low, guttural growl—he leaned down and bit into the other side of your shoulder, teeth tearing your skin, white-hot agony blinding you. He locked his jaw tight.

Your scream broke the night, ripping from your throat, echoing through the trees. You pressed your forehead to the ground, heaving and panting into the grass.

In that moment of your rawest, most helpless pain, Jack shoved forward, burying the final brutal inches in one unforgiving thrust. The monstrous cock slammed home, hilting inside you so deep you could barely comprehend it, your body jolting forward from the force as if he meant to split you in two.

Your walls convulsed, spasming wildly around his impossible girth, every nerve alight with pain and pressure and a sick, brutal pleasure that made your head spin.

Jack’s breath rattled against your neck, hot and frantic, his tongues slipping out to lap at the blood welling from his bite as he held himself buried to the hilt, trembling over you like a beast barely chained.

“So—so warm,” he whined against your torn shoulder, voice shaking, “Feels so g-good, baby. So tight—”

And you felt everything inside you go tight and molten and unbearably full, helpless under the weight of him, pinned in a way you could never escape, your body forced to take every impossible inch.

You felt him shift—a subtle grind of his hips, the head of that monstrous cock grinding even deeper, making you jolt with a strangled cry. He couldn’t even wait until you got adjusted.

He let out a wet, shattered moan. “G-gonna move—can’t—can’t stop—hold still—”

And then he pulled back. Slowly at first, dragging that inhuman length from your spasming, quivering walls until only the tip was left stretching you wide, and for a heartbeat you thought he might let you rest.

But then he slammed back in, the force of it making your eyes roll up, punching the air out of your lungs in a weak sob.

“F-fuck—so—tight—” Jack stammered, voice raw, animalistic, clawed hands braced on either side of your head as he started to fuck down into you.

Each thrust was brutal, making you lurch forward, the wet slap of his hips against your ass echoing through the dead-silent woods. He was so deep, so thick, dragging against spots inside you that left your mind spinning, the pain a white-hot brand with every punishing push.

You tried to crawl away again—an instinct, a desperate, animal attempt to survive—but Jack caught you by the hips and slammed you back against him, snarling in your ear, “Don’t run—don’t you run from me. You’re mine—mine—”

His claws dug into your sides, angling you up so every thrust hit a new nerve deep inside, making your stomach tighten painfully around him. You could barely breathe, your body forced to take it over and over as he fucked into you like a starved animal.

Jack’s moans started to crumble, breaking apart into sharp whimpers and cries, his teeth dragging over the bite-mark on your shoulder, licking the blood and sweat. You felt him trembling, desperate, the force behind his thrusts growing frantic and messy, cock twitching with every pull out.

He couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop.

And under the moonlight, pressed into the dirt with his massive length tearing you open over and over, you realized neither could you.

It hurt. God, it hurt—but something in the pain had started to shift, twisting deep in your belly until it burned into something hotter, something needier. Each time Jack slammed forward, your cunt clenched, not just from the brutal stretch but from a raw, wicked spark that left you reeling.

You couldn’t help it—your hips began to rock back to meet him, your battered body chasing the next drag of that searing cock as it raked through your oversensitive walls.

Jack stuttered for a second, stunned, a growling noise pulling out of his throat as he realized you were pushing back. That you wanted more.

“Yeah, yeah—sweet girl—” he stammered, voice breaking, “feel so—so good—”

Your hands scrambled backward, clinging to the thick muscle of his arms, then up to dig your fingers into his shoulders, nails dragging across hot, sweaty skin. He was burning behind you, feverish, the broad line of his chest flexing with every ragged breath.

“Jack,” you gasped, voice catching, “t-touch me—please—Jack, please—”

That was all it took.

He let out a deep, snarling whimper, the sound rolling through his chest and into you, and then he was moving even harder, rutting into you with sloppy, frantic thrusts that made your thighs spasm and your vision blur.

His claws scraped the earth beside you as he tried to keep from ripping you apart, every thrust wet and obscene—slick squelching, drool dripping from his mouths down onto your back, strings of precum and slick soaking your thighs as his jeans pooled around his knees.

The raw, nasty sounds of him splitting you open filled the air, sticky and wet and feral, each thrust making you clench tighter, wanting more, more, no matter how much it hurt.

Jack’s hips smacked against your ass again and again, leaving stinging bruises, and still you pushed back, desperate to meet every brutal stroke. Your hands clung to him like a lifeline, nails raking across his skin, your body screaming for more even as it trembled under the onslaught.

Jack’s tongues slipped out again, drooling, laving down your spine, tasting your sweat, your skin, your pain—unable to stop devouring you in every way.

“Don’t—don’t stop—” you choked out, and he let out a hoarse, shattered laugh that broke halfway to a growl.

“Can’t—never—never stopping,” he gasped, rutting forward until your knees buckled, forcing you to collapse under him, pinned to the dirt by his weight and the vicious, monstrous cock ripping you apart.

It was filthy, raw, a primal mess of slick and sweat and drool and blood, and neither of you could seem to get enough.

Jack’s thrusts slowed momentarily, a slurred, choked sound catching on his tongues as he pulled out, dragging that massive length from your trembling, ruined body inch by inch. You gasped, nearly sobbing, empty in a way that made your insides clench desperately around nothing.

But before you could catch your breath, Jack’s claws wrapped around your hips, hauling you over like you weighed nothing, flipping you onto your back. The warm night air bit into your sweat-slicked skin, making you groan—then his shadow fell over you, huge and monstrous, his eyes boring down like twin bottomless holes.

You reached up, arms instinctively curling around his shoulders, holding onto the thick, corded muscle under his burning skin. His lean, powerful torso flexed with every breath, still dripping with sweat.

He lined up again, the fat head of his cock dragging through your slick folds, and you both moaned, bodies shaking with raw, hungry need.

“Jack,” you whimpered, voice small and cracked, “fuck me, c’mon—”

“Gonna—gonna put it back in, pretty—so warm—so good—” he rasped, leaning over you, three tongues lapping from his mouth and twitching as he stared down, almost mesmerized.

Then he pushed.

It was every bit as brutal, every bit as overwhelming as the first time, the massive length stretching you to your limit and then beyond, the head forcing your walls open until you thought you’d break.

Your back arched, a scream caught in your throat—but it didn’t get out, because Jack was already sinking deeper, deeper still, until you felt a tight, blunt pressure so far inside you that it made your vision white out.

His eyes went wide, hollow sockets somehow hungry, staring right at your stomach.

“Look,” he panted, a grin tearing across his blood-streaked lips, “look at you—”

You followed his gaze, and nearly broke—a distinct bulge pressing up under the roundness of your belly, obscene and impossible, shifting every time he moved.

“Oh my god—Jack—” you cried, eyes glassy, “that’s—fuck—”

“Inside,” he growled, voice reverent and broken, his claw pressing right against that bulge. You felt it, felt the way it shifted with the head of his cock, and a raw, helpless sob tore out of you.

“Can you feel me?” he crooned, barely human, claws stroking your hips, pressing harder against the bump in your stomach. “Can you feel me all the way here?—S-so deep, pretty girl—mine—”

You shook, nodding, tears slipping from your lashes as the pleasure spiked unbearably.

“Yes—yes, Jack—yours—yours—”

He let out a hoarse, ecstatic snarl and started pounding into you again, faster, harder, the force of each thrust making that stomach bulge jump under his hand. You wrapped your arms tighter around his shoulders, gripping for dear life as he rutted you into the dirt, tongues lapping at your face and neck, worshipping you. Each thrust knocked his cock against your g-spot.

“Never gonna—hah—let go—” he grunted between sloppy, punishing thrusts, “gonna fill you—make you full—of my babies—”

You couldn’t even answer, your body was on fire, arching and breaking under him, every nerve screaming for more as the woods spun around you.

It came faster than you could even register.

You couldn’t take any more—each brutal, slamming thrust was a lightning strike, fire rolling through your veins until everything inside you clenched, burned, and finally broke.

Your back arched hard off the ground, arms locked around Jack’s shoulders, mouth open in a silent cry as a devastating orgasm ripped through you.

“Jack—!”

Your walls squeezed him so tight he nearly lost his mind, your core fluttering and gripping him in pulsing waves, slick and scorching. Jack’s claws immediately wrapped around your back, holding you close against him as if he could fuse your bodies together.

He let out a strangled, desperate growl, eyes locked on you, breathing so ragged it almost didn’t sound human. Something in him seemed to snap—a feral instinct flooding through every monstrous inch of him.

“Pretty—so good—” he babbled, voice raw and cracking, “mine—mine—mine—”

Then he lurched down, seizing your mouth with a ferocity that stunned you.

His tongues plunged inside all at once, stretching your lips wide, thick and powerful as they explored every inch of your mouth. One curled under your tongue, another ran across your teeth, the third so deep it made you gag, stealing your breath.

You choked on the sheer overwhelming invasion, tears spilling down your cheeks, but couldn’t pull away—Jack’s hands were iron around your waist, crushing you to him, the feverish heat of him radiating through your trembling body.

His tongues moved with a filthy rhythm, tasting you, claiming you, drool mixing with your tears until everything was slick and desperate. He moaned right into your throat, rutting his hips hard against you while his tongues tangled deeper, worshipping you like you were air, water, salvation.

Your climax was still crashing through you, making your legs weak and shaky as you tried to breathe through the frantic kiss—but Jack wouldn’t let go, wouldn’t stop, lost in that blinding animal need to own you completely.

Your lungs burned as his tongues kept invading, every inch of you claimed and devoured. The taste of him—coppery, inhuman, mixed with the salt of your own tears—filled your senses until you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.

His cock was still pounding into you with a punishing rhythm, the tip punching so deep inside you that your stomach bulged again and again. Every thrust made your sensitive walls clench helplessly, overstimulated, still pulsing.

Jack moaned into your mouth, frantic, tongues twisting and licking and fucking into you while he fucked harder, losing any semblance of control. His claws dug into your hips, pinning you in place, pace stuttering as he chased the final edge.

“M’gonna—” he gasped, voice barely even a voice, just a devastating, hungry snarl against your lips, “gonna fill you—make you—mine—!”

You felt him tense, the length of him swelling impossibly inside you—then he buried himself to the hilt, the head smashing up against your cervix, and roared.

Hot, thick cum poured into you in heavy pulses, stretching you so full you could feel every gush, every wave crashing deep inside. Jack’s whole body shook above you, tongues still gagging your mouth, drool and tears mixing on your face as he pumped you full.

Your walls fluttered again, clamping down on him instinctively, milking every drop until he finally slowed, breathing ragged and wild.

He collapsed against you, still inside, still impossibly hard, arms curling around you protectively like he’d never let you go. His tongues finally pulled free of your mouth, leaving you gasping for air, lips bruised and slick with spit.

Jack buried his face against your neck, panting, lost and shaking, whispering in a hoarse, cracked growl, “Mine…always mine…”

You thought—prayed—he was done, but then you felt it: a new pressure, deep in your gut, stretching you wider from the inside.

Your eyes flew wide, panic spiking again.

“J-Jack? What’s happening?” you rasped, voice shaking, but he only whined into your neck, his hips rocking against yours, grinding in short, desperate ruts.

You felt it swelling—something solid, something burning, growing right at the base of him.

Oh god.

You tried to move, to shift, but his claws curled around your hips, locking you down hard.

“Stay,” he snarled, voice a warped echo against your throat, “don’t run.”

You gasped as that thick knot stretched you, forcing you even wider, burning with a brutal, almost cruel fullness. Your walls spasmed helplessly, trying to reject it, but Jack was stronger—so much stronger—and he held you down while he forced the growing bulb past the tightest part of your entrance.

It finally popped inside with a wet, obscene sound, lodging deep against your cunt, locking you to him.

You screamed, back arching off the ground, mind breaking under the sheer bruising invasion.

Jack moaned—moaned—a weary, needy cry, shoving his face against yours as if to soothe you.

“Can’t—can’t let go—” he babbled, voice dripping hunger and desperation, “mine—mine—stay—stay here—”

He ground his knot deeper, each tiny thrust making it swell even bigger until you felt like you’d burst. The fullness was blinding, overwhelming, his cock jerking and twitching inside you as another pulse of hot cum flooded you, trapped by the knot, locked away.

Your hips shook, pinned, no escape as Jack licked and bit at your neck, rutting slow, greedy circles against you even with the knot sealing you tight.

“Don’t—don’t run, sweet girl,” he panted, voice trembling, “can’t…can’t let you go…”

You felt every throb, every pulse, the unbearable stretch, your whole body trembling and on the verge of breaking apart under him.

Jack was still, but you could feel him trembling—muscles locked tight, claws flexing against your hips as though afraid you might vanish if he let go for even a second.

You squirmed, a whimper tearing from your throat as the knot shifted painfully, the pressure pressing right up against your cervix.

“Jack,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, “Jack, it’s too much—”

He whined, the sound broken and needy, burying his face against your cheek, tongues tracing clumsy, comforting patterns over your sweaty skin.

“Can’t—can’t let go yet,” he slurred, voice ragged and half-human, “feels too good—can’t—”

You felt him try to rut again, short, choppy motions that only made the knot grind harshly against every raw, sensitive part of you. A shocked moan escaped your lips, your body arching under him, pleasure and pain blurring together until you couldn’t separate them. You slammed your fist against his shoulder.

“Shh,” he crooned, breath hot against your face, “s’okay—s’good—so warm—so warm inside—”

His hips stuttered, forcing the knot to jerk inside you, and you could swear you felt another faint gush of heat flood your battered, filled-up core.

Your walls fluttered around him helplessly, milking every drop.

Jack whimpered again, as if even he couldn’t stand the feeling, and wrapped his arms fully around your waist, drawing you up against him until your chests were smashed together. You could feel his heart hammering through your skin, a wild, frantic rhythm that matched your own.

“Don’t leave me,” he begged, voice warbled and broken, “please—pretty please—don’t leave—”

You could barely breathe, dizzy from being stretched and locked in place, but you nodded, trembling, stroking through his sweat-slicked hair.

“I’m here,” you whispered, voice cracking, “Jack, I’m here, I’m not leaving.”

He made a sound like a sob—part growl, part weep—and curled around you, knot twitching inside you, sealing you so perfectly you could feel every tremor of his body through the hot, thick lock of him.

And there, under the hush of the woods and the silver light of the moon, you stayed tangled together, your breath mixing, no escape, no space left between you.

── .✦

The woods felt endless, but you clung to him like an anchor, your hands tangled in his hair, your cheek pressed against the rough planes of his shoulder. His knot still held you in place, keeping every inch of him buried deep, a constant, heavy pressure that refused to ease for what felt like an eternity.

Neither of you could move much, so you talked, your voices small and exhausted under the wide, quiet dark.

“Where…where did you go, Jack?” you asked, trying to steady your breathing as another aftershock rolled through you.

He rumbled softly, claws smoothing along your spine. “Didn’t know,” he rasped, sounding like himself again, raw and worn-out. “Felt…wrong. Everything was red. Loud. Inside my head.”

You nodded, heart twisting. “I thought you were dead,” you admitted, a tear slipping out, catching on the blood drying across your cheek. “When you didn’t come, I— I thought—”

His arms tightened around you, a protective squeeze. “Not dead,” he said, pressing his forehead to yours, “I couldn’t control much, but… I knew I had to stay away. Knew if I saw you I would hurt you.”

You sniffled, breathing in the rich, earthy scent of him, still faintly metallic from all the blood. It was terrible—but it was him, and that was enough.

“I came looking,” you whispered, voice breaking, “I couldn’t just sit there, Jack, I— I needed you to come back.”

A pained groan rattled in his chest, his claws dragging up to cradle your face as best he could. “Pretty girl,” he rasped, almost gentle, “mine…always mine. M’so sorry…”

You felt him shift, hips jerking, the knot giving a final, deep pulse inside you. It made you cry out softly, but then you felt it: the swelling finally, blessedly going down. Inch by inch, the brutal stretch began to ease, and you could feel the heavy, wet fullness slipping from your body with a messy, shuddering slide.

Jack grunted as the knot popped free, and you whimpered at the sudden emptiness, legs trembling uncontrollably.

For a moment you just lay there, both of you breathing hard, staring at each other. Then Jack leaned down, pressing a surprisingly sweet kiss to your cheek before sitting up, guiding you carefully.

“Come,” he murmured, voice steadier now, “let’s—let’s go.”

You nodded weakly, your body aching and filthy, but still reaching for him. 

Jack helped you with fumbling claws, reached for your jeans with shaky claws to help tug your them back onto your ankles and into place, grimacing at the mud-smeared fabric. He growled under his breath, pulling your ruined panties out of the way and scowling at the torn, limp scraps.

“Shit,” you laughed weakly, voice hoarse and a little hysterical, “Jack, those were my favorite pair.”

He shot you a look through his hollow sockets, a low, embarrassed huff.

“And my bra?” you added, smirking despite the soreness. “Guess that’s toast too.”

Jack shifted, claws fumbling with the remains of your bra, what was left of the cups shredded and hanging from one strap. “Didn’t—” he rasped, voice cracking, “didn’t mean to.”

You snorted, half delirious, letting him help pull your dirty t-shirt back down over your shoulders, trying to keep what modesty you had left.

“Yeah, well,” you sighed, “you owe me a shopping trip.”

A surprised sound rumbled from him—almost a laugh—before he bent to fix his own jeans, dragging them back up around his hips, claws clumsy from lingering adrenaline. He tried to tug his hoodie over his head, only to growl when it stuck to his sweaty back, the sleeves twisted.

“Hot,” he grunted, voice frustrated, trying to shrug out of it. “Too…tight.”

You had to bite your lip to keep from giggling as you watched him wrestle with the oversized, shredded hoodie, muscles flexing and straining as sweat dripped down the lean, scarred lines of his back and chest.

“Jack,” you teased softly, “you’re gonna rip that too.”

He shot you a sulky look, then finally tossed the hoodie aside, leaving his bare skin gleaming under the moonlight.

You spotted his mask in the dirt, cracked and stained, and you picked it up with a shaky hand.

“Here,” you whispered, offering it to him.

He stared at it, hollow eye sockets softening, then took it gently from you. Jack sighed, then leaned down and scooped you into his arms like you weighed no more than a feather.

You couldn’t help a startled little laugh, clinging to his neck. “Jack—!”

“My sweet girl,” he repeated, voice quieter now, more sure. “Taking you home.”

Your heart ached at that—so familiar, so safe despite everything.

He turned, stepping carefully through the underbrush, still clutching you close as if you’d vanish if he let go. You rested your head on his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed, hearing only the rhythmic pounding of his heart and the slow, steady steps through the woods.

The broken flashlight swung from his claw, the cracked mask tucked into the crook of his elbow, a battered promise that somehow, the two of you had survived one more night together.

The night air clung to your skin as Jack stepped carefully along the familiar path, carrying you easily in his arms. When you saw the glow of your porch lights through the trees, you almost sobbed with relief, clinging to him tighter—and he just kept walking, carrying you still. You could see the silhouette of your fence ahead, the place where, for so many nights, you’d waited on one side while he stayed on the other, the fragile, invisible line you’d both respected all this time.

But now—

Jack shifted you in his hold, reaching out with one clawed hand to unlatch the fence gate. It creaked open, spilling a pool of soft porch light across the grass. And just like that, he stepped through, crossing the boundary he’d never dared to cross before. It was almost ceremonial, the moment so huge it stole your breath.

He came through, you thought in a daze. He finally came through.

He didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate, just carried you straight toward the back door, nudging it open with his shoulder. The house was cool inside, smelling of candle wax and lemon dish soap—so normal, so safe compared to the horror outside. The floorboards were faintly warm from the day’s sun, and the air conditioners hummed, washing over your sticky, bruised skin.

Jack set you down gently, claws steady even if you could feel him trembling. Then, without a word, he guided you to the bathroom, flipping on the light with an awkward flick of his elbow. You winced at the sudden brightness.

You didn’t even have to ask, he handled everything. Undressing you again, running warm water over your washcloth, holding you tight. He knelt in front of you, running the damp cloth across your arms, your belly, carefully dabbing away the drying blood and mess between your legs. His gray skin was flushed darker in patches, his eye sockets soft around the edges, hollow but somehow tender.

“Stay still,” he mumbled, voice low and rough, so much clearer now.

You let him clean you, trembling, heart pounding at every careful sweep of the cloth. He undressed too, cleaning the still bloodied and slick-stained parts of his body, running the rag over his jaw and neck. When he was done, you leaned against him, boneless and trusting, letting him gather you back up into his arms.

This time he carried you to your room, the house dim and quiet except for the chirping bugs outside. He paused at the foot of your bed, as if making sure you really wanted him there, the question unspoken.

You reached up and cupped his jaw. “Jack… just get in,” you whispered.

His shoulders slumped in relief, and he eased you down onto the mattress, then crawled in after you—still completely naked, still warm with the sticky night air and smelling of earth and moonlight and something feral you couldn’t name.

The sheets tangled around you both as he curled protectively against your back, claws twitching, breath tickling your ear. You could feel every line of his strong, scarred body pressed to yours, his skin so hot it almost burned.

He buried his face against your shoulder, exhaling shakily. “No more gate,” he rasped, like it was a confession. “No more fence.”

You nodded, tears pricking your eyes. “No more fence,” you agreed, voice soft and breaking.

Jack’s breathing slowed at your back, his chin nestled against the crook of your shoulder as if he might melt right into you. The cicadas outside carried on their summer song, but your room felt impossibly calm, impossibly still.

He shifted, clawed fingers brushing across your ribs, a hesitant stroke. “…Missed you,” he rasped, the words broken but more human than you’d heard in days.

You swallowed hard, reaching down to lace your fingers with his. “I missed you too. I was so worried.”

A pained noise rattled out of him, somewhere between a whimper and a sigh. “Didn’t…know where I was,” he admitted, his voice cracking. “Felt…wrong. Everything smelled and looked wrong.”

You turned in his arms, close enough to see the faint scars along his lips, the smear of blood he’d missed near one temple. “Like…a haze?”

He nodded stiffly. “A dream. A bad dream.” His claws flexed in yours. “Couldn’t…stop. Needed—Need you.”

Your heart pinched at that, at how raw he sounded. You reached to smooth his damp hair away from his forehead. “That’s why you didn’t come to the fence?”

“Didn’t want you to see,” he rasped, ashamed, looking away for a second. “Didn’t…trust myself.”

You hugged him tighter, pressing your forehead against his. “Jack, I came looking for you. I wanted to see you. Even if you were… messed up.”

His body shuddered, swallowing a rough, pained sound. “Came…through the gate,” he mumbled, voice almost childlike, like he couldn’t believe it himself.

You smiled, despite everything. “Yeah. You finally crossed my fence.”

A huff of air against your cheek—maybe the closest Jack could get to a laugh. Then he shifted closer, pressing his hips into yours. You could still feel the heavy weight of him, even now, half-hard where he lay against you.

“Still…feel it,” he admitted, cheeks darkening, as if shy.

You gave a nervous little laugh, brushing your fingers through his sweaty hair. “Yeah, I can tell.”

He ducked his head, almost hiding against your neck, mumbling something soft.

“What, baby?” you asked, gentle.

His voice was so raw it cracked in the middle. “…Never gonna leave again.”

Your chest went tight, tears pricking your eyes. You cupped the side of his face. “Good,” you whispered, letting him hear how much you meant it. “Good, Jack. I’m not leaving, either.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding that breath for years, then buried his face against your shoulder again, arms banding around your waist. The two of you lay tangled together in the sticky summer night, hearts pounding, no fences, no gates, no walls left between you.

── .✦

You woke slowly, warmth and stickiness pulling at your senses before your mind could even register what time it was. The curtains glowed with that syrupy gold of a sunrise, a hint of last night still vibrating in the walls.

But what really forced you awake was the strange, achingly sweet pull deep between your legs—a wet, rhythmic swirl that nearly made you arch right out of the bed.

Your eyes shot open, breath lodging in your throat, and you gasped as you fumbled the sheets off your chest—only to see a dark, familiar shadow moving below the covers, a low, wet slurping sound vibrating straight through your bones.

“J-Jack—” you whimpered, voice a strangled mess as you dug trembling fingers into the sheets.

The shape below the blanket shifted, and then a sudden, precise flick of a tongue against your clit made your vision explode in white. You barely managed to shove your hands down to find his hair, grabbing at the strands, when your body snapped—the orgasm crashing over you so hard your knees tried to slam together, your hips twisting helplessly.

Jack didn’t even stop, if anything, his hands pinned your thighs down harder, clawed fingertips dimpling your soft skin as he let you ride the crest of that wave. You were writhing, shaking, trying to push him away, but he only rumbled deep in his chest—a possessive growl that left your body going limp.

When he finally surfaced, crawling up over your body, the blanket fell away to show his face—drool smeared his chin, along with your slick, and all three of his tongues curled out to lap at the air before sliding back behind sharp teeth.

He was panting, like he’d been starved all night.

“J-Jack,” you tried to breathe, grabbing his shoulders as he hovered over you, “didn’t we… didn’t we handle this last night?”

A pitiful, rough whine left him, one of his hands curling against the pillow beside your head. “Not enough,” he croaked, voice shredded, raw. “Need…more.”

His hips dipped against yours, and you felt the hard, achingly hot length of him, smearing against your thigh. A tremor shot through you, panic mixing with want.

“Jack, please—”

“Need you,” he repeated, lower this time, a snarl clawing through his words as his claws scraped the bedding beside your head, inches from your skin. “More.”

His body pressed you down into the mattress, wild, unstoppable, like the night had barely scratched the surface of what he needed.

Your breath caught in your throat, tangled between fear and something so shamefully eager you could hardly stand it. Jack loomed over you, the heat rolling off his body, eyes like pits of pitch and night, starved even after everything.

He lowered his head, nosing along your jaw, breathing you in like you were the only thing left on earth that could save him. “Pretty,” he rasped, tongues flicking out to taste the salt of your sweat, “smell so good…can’t stop…”

His hips rolled against yours again, grinding, thick and hard, and you felt him shiver all the way down to the bones. His claws dug into the sheets beside your ribs, trying to hold himself back, but you knew there was no holding him back.

A flicker of sunlight broke through the curtains then, kissing the two of you in the warm glow—him hunched over you like a beast out of a half-forgotten dream, you trembling and wide-eyed, your hands knotted in his hair.

You swallowed, voice breaking as you dared to smile through the haze.

“Then don’t stop,” you whispered, and you meant it—even if you were terrified, even if everything hurt and burned and ached, you still meant it.

His head bowed, shoulders heaving, and a relieved, broken sound fell from him, more human than you’d heard yet. He pressed his forehead to yours, panting, clutching you like you were the last tether to what was left of him.

And then he surged forward, capturing your lips, those monstrous tongues wrapping around yours, and in that feral, messy kiss you felt every unspoken word he couldn’t form—how he loved you, how he’d always come back, how he could never leave you again.

The world outside kept turning—birdsong and heat, soft light and the creak of old wood—but you were wrapped in him, in that terrifying, impossible devotion.

There was no fence anymore. No boundary.

Just the two of you, locked together, in all the ruin and the tenderness you’d built. Your Jack.

Thanks for reading! Comments and reblogs are appreciated!

๑ back to my masterlists

── .✦ rainrot4me2025, all rights reserved. ꩜ .ᐟ

[athenalvss]

Hi, I love your writing style, and I was hoping you could write a Jason Todd x reader? Where the reader is a sexual menace, even though Jason was her first. Jason hadn't really told his family he was dating anyone. So when Barbara was out one day, going about her day, she saw Jason shopping with a woman[reader], and so being the person she was, she followed them around and from what she could see, the woman was a kind and sweet person so she snapped a pick and left unnoticed. She showed the fam the picture when she got home. A few days later the mystery was eating away at them specifically Dick. So he decided to pay Jason a visit in the middle of the night, only to hear Jason and the mystery woman going at it.

HE RUINED THAT GIRL ( Jason Todd! )

Summary: The family is eager to meet Jason's sweetheart, but Dick is the first unlucky one to meet her.

pairing: jason todd x fem reader

tw: some smut

open request - Jason masterlist

You and Jason had been dating for less than a year, but he had fallen really hard the first day he met you. At that moment, you seemed to him a beautiful woman, with a gentle presence, a calm smile, and a sweet voice. A serene, elegant, almost angelic person. Jason thought that maybe he had finally found something normal in his life.

But when he really got to know you, he realized that you were the complete opposite of what your appearance showed, everyone saw you as an educated, sensitive and innocent woman, too pure for this cruel world, but you were nothing like that.

You were brazen, intense, unbearably provocative. Your constant double entendre jokes, your caresses that were far from pure, and every time you smiled innocently, it was right after you'd said something that left him breathless, uncontrolled, unable to keep his face straight.

Jason used to say you were a problem with your long legs and dangerous lips. But he never meant it as a reproach because he loved you for being that way; he truly enjoyed the relationship you had.

The truth was, Jason didn't know how he'd survived so long without you. Your energy contrasted absurdly with his: where he was tense, you helped him calm down; where he tried to maintain control, you knew exactly which button to push to tear him to pieces.

And you always did it with an innocent smile, as if you didn't know what you were doing. As if you weren't aware of how his eyes darted to you as he watched you walk by, or how his sighs escaped him every time you laughed and caressed the back of his neck with those fingers of yours that showed not a shred of mercy.

The funniest thing is that Jason had been your first everything, and you had turned out to be a sexual threat in an angel's disguise, you were a lethal combo.

"How can you be so damned if I was the first?" he'd once said to you, his breath coming in short bursts, after you'd dragged him from the kitchen to the couch as if he owned it.

"As if you hadn't seen my books," you had whispered in his ear, licking his earlobe before mounting him as if the world was about to end.

He kept you away from the family out of self-preservation. Because if they ever heard what you said when you had him up against the wall, the jokes would last for years. And if they ever saw him melt with just one look from you, he'd lose all credibility as the cold, tough guy of the group.

Too bad Barbara Gordon had perfect aim, or you guys just didn't have very good luck.

Barbara had just stepped out for coffee when she saw Jason. Or rather, she saw you. A pretty woman dressed exactly like Jason, a white blouse, black pants, and cute, delicate boots that she'd no doubt look up online later. You were leaning against Jason's big arm like it was your natural place to be. Laughing at something he'd said, your eyes were sparkling, your hand in his, and Jason had a grin that stopped Barbara in her tracks.

It was a soft smile, something the family didn't receive; they could only settle for that condescending smirk he show at family dinners.

Curious, Barbara followed them from a distance, watching and analyzing their movements in detail. Trying to figure out who the hell had managed to win Jason Todd over without him saying a single word.

She watched you two browse books, check out vinyl records, and end up at a coffee shop ordering pastries and cappuccinos. You seemed like a really sweet and kind girl, maybe too much so for a guy like Jason, but from what he was seeing, you didn't really know Jason at all.

Barbara took a photo from a distance and left unnoticed. She was going to use all her knowledge and training to learn more about you and what was happening.

That was three days ago.

▬▬▬▬▬▬

"Okay, I need someone to explain this to me" Barbara put her cell phone on the table in front of the boys, the screen lit up with the photo."Did anyone know Jason had a girlfriend?"

Dick leaned forward. “It can’t be.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “Is that… Jason?”

Damian frowned as if he were witnessing a crime. "What's that grimace on your face? Is he... smiling?"

"Yes, Damian. He's smiling." Barbara crossed her arms. "Smiling and holding the hand of a woman we don't know. And I swear, he looks... happy."

“He’s mesmerized,” Damian murmured.

Barbara sat down, resigned. "I couldn't identify her. I already ran a facial recognition search on the database, but nothing. She's completely clean, too clean."

"So why didn't he tell us anything?" Dick asked, frowning.

"Could it be that he knows how we are and that's why he's hiding it from us?" Tim raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms.

"You mean because we're invasive and emotionally dysfunctional?" Dick looked at him sideways.

"Exactly."

"We have to show her she can trust us, maybe that way she'll let us get to know her," Barbara commented, in that reasonable tone she used when she was trying to sound less nosy than she really was.

Damian snorted. “That’s not going to work. Jason doesn’t even trust his reflection.”

"He's right," Tim agreed. "The guy skips family gatherings, leaves the group chat every two weeks, and the last time I asked him how he was doing, he replied with a picture of a gun."

Dick jumped up, with that impulsive energy that always got him into trouble. "Well, that's all. I'm going to stop by her apartment tonight. Big brother surprise. Casual conversation, not at all intrusive."

“That’s invasive,” Tim told him.

"Not if he doesn't find out," Dick replied, already moving towards the door.

"You're crazy," Barbara muttered, shaking her head but not stopping him. "He'll kill you if he finds you."

"What if he doesn't find me?" Dick smirked. "I go in, take a look, see if he's with her, if he's okay... and that's it. Five minutes."

Damian followed him with his eyes, like someone watching a man headlong into his own funeral. "When you're done, be sure to send us your location, in case we need to recover your body. "

Dick winked at him and disappeared down the hall. He was going to find out; curiosity was eating him up. If Jason had a girlfriend who could make him smile like that, he needed to know what kind of woman could do it.

Even if that meant sneaking through his brother's apartment window in the middle of the night.

The city was silent as Dick climbed the fire escape with the same agility as always, moving through the shadows, barely breathing. Jason's apartment window was barely ajar.

Perfect .

He crouched down, peering carefully through the cracks.

Inside, there was no sound at first. Everything was pitch black. Not a voice, not a laugh, not even the sound of the television. And for a moment, Dick thought it had been a terrible idea. Maybe Jason was sleeping, or had gone out, or just...

"Fuck... baby, where did you learn to do that?" Jason's voice was barely a growl against your neck, deep, hot, ragged.

Dick froze. He didn't move, he didn't even breathe. Because that clearly wasn't the sound of friendly chatter. Not even remotely.

"I imagined it..." your voice came seconds later, muffled by gasps and laughter. "I spent weeks imagining what it would feel like to do this to you. And I wasn't wrong."

In response, he heard the mattress creak loudly. There was a wet sound, a raw gasp, and another shove. Dick closed his eyes, wishing he'd stayed home, or been born deaf.

“Fuck yeah, like that. You’re so good for me. So perfect. So fucking dirty with that innocent little slut face…” Jason growled through gritted teeth against your neck. “Every time you open that mouth, I want to see you taking my cock and those wet little eyes.”

Dick jerked away from the window, tripping over his own foot. His heart was pounding. He didn't know if he was hyperventilating, having a panic attack, or both at the same time.

"I can't. I can't be listening to this. It's not real. It's not real," she repeated to herself, while the sounds inside the apartment grew louder with each passing second.

"Please," you begged, slurring your words in the sweetest, most provocative voice, completely dizzy from how close you were. "Don't stop."

Jason groaned from deep within his chest. He gripped your hips with both hands, changing the pace, the angle, everything, only to hear you moan his name again, and you did so, your voice shaky, clipped, intense. “Jason… God, yes, yes, just like that.”

That was enough.

Dick left without looking back. He jumped two stories as if he were escaping a nightmare. He ran. He flew. He didn't stop until he reached the mansion.

When he came in, he was pale, disheveled, with a blank expression.

"Well?" asked Barbara, who was waiting for him on the couch next to Tim and Damian.

Dick opened his mouth… and closed it again.

"Did you meet her?" Tim insisted.

Dick just slumped back in the chair as if he'd been shot in the soul. His gaze was fixed on a fixed point on the wall, as if he saw something the others couldn't.

"Barbs," he murmured, his voice hollow. "You told us she was an innocent girl."

"Well... she looked like that," Barbara defended herself, crossing her arms uncomfortably. "She's very delicate and... smiley. She seemed... nice."

"She was... until Jason corrupted her," Dick said, still not blinking. "The things I heard can't have come from that poor girl."

"Dick, what the hell are you saying?" Barbara looked at him indignantly.

Dick turned toward him slowly, his eyes open, his voice low. "She seemed good..." Dick repeated, his voice low, like a traumatized echo. "She seemed good. Until she told Jason she wanted him to finish inside her while he growled that he wanted to see her on her knees, her eyes moist."

Absolute silence fell over the room.

Tim blinked several times, unsure whether to laugh or throw up. Damian turned his face toward the window, as if hoping someone would save him from being in that room.

And Barbara... well, Barbara needed a few long seconds before she found her voice again.

"Dick… did you hear that?"

“I heard everything!” he exclaimed, raising both hands as if he needed to defend himself from the images in his mind. “Every fucking second. Sound effects included, every word, every shove, every fucking obscenity Jason said.”

"Maybe she wasn't as innocent as we thought," Tim muttered, clearly struggling not to laugh.

"I refuse to believe that," Dick shouted, dramatic as ever. "She looked so sweet and delicate. She had an angelic smile, Tim. And now... now..."

"Now what?"

Dick looked at him, with a broken expression. "I'm going to sleep, I don't want to think about this anymore". Dick disappeared down the hallway, still muttering things like “watery eyes” and “damn mattress,” while the others watched him in silence.

▬▬▬▬▬▬

The next morning seemed like any other, the whole family was sitting at the kitchen table, ready to begin, until the door to the mansion opened.

Footsteps and laughter could be heard in the hallway, and a female voice, sweet, casual, almost musical “This house is huge! Does it always smell this good?”

"Yes, it's Alfred, he's going to love you," Jason replied, in a low tone, with a barely contained smile. "Try not to be scared of the rest."

The four in the room turned at the same time.

And there they were. Jason with a calm expression and a hand on your waist, you wearing a pretty dress, a bright smile, sparkling eyes, and that completely charming aura that made no sense given the things Dick had said to everyone last night.

Dick couldn't take his eyes off you, not Tim, not even Damian. Dressed simply, delicately, with a serene smile and a soft voice that said, "Nice to meet you."

"Is that her?" Tim whispered under his breath, completely shocked.

"Yes," Dick growled. "That's her, the one who said she wanted..."

"Dick!" Barbara cut him off in a quick whisper, kicking him under the table.

"What's wrong?" you asked with a smile, noticing the whisper. Your innocent eyes darted from one to the other, sparkling with curiosity.

"Nothing," Jason replied, tightening his grip on your waist. "They're just... nervous. They're not used to such pretty girls around here."

"Master Jason?" Alfred said, coming in, pausing briefly upon seeing you. "And this young lady?"

"My girlfriend," he replied with a calm smile. "I told you I was going to bring her."

"Oh, finally. Nice to meet you, miss," Alfred said with an elegant bow. "Would you like some tea or coffee?"

"Tea, please," you said, gently settling into the chair Jason offered you. "How kind of you."

Dick stared at her as if he were facing an optical illusion. "It can't be," he muttered, as he watched you and Barbara laugh at an innocent joke, take the cup with both hands, and thank Alfred for the tea as if you were a damn fairytale princess.

"Are you sure about what you heard last night?" Tim asked, lowering his voice to a whisper.

Dick glared at him. "I swear by all that is holy, that voice..."

Damian swallowed. "It can't be. She seems like she wouldn't break a plate."

"Exactly!" Dick burst out in a low voice. "And yet she destroyed Jason last night!"

Jason raised an eyebrow at them whispering, but decided to ignore them. Meanwhile, you leaned slightly toward Barbara, smiling. "Is Dick okay? He looks a little pale..."

"Oh, don't worry. He's just... digesting something," Barbara replied, swallowing a laugh.

Jason came up behind you and absentmindedly stroked your back as he talked to Alfred, not noticing that Dick was watching him as if he were watching a wildlife documentary.

"The traumas are fresh," Dick murmured. "He's touching her as if it were nothing. As if he didn't say he wanted to see her on her knees with wet eyes less than eight hours ago."

Tim nudged him. “Well, at least he’s happy.”

"He's obviously happy! He had a good night, the bastard," Dick said.

Barbara laughed softly. “Dick, I beg you. That girl can’t be…”

[jkwrites-m]

Daddy Kookie (3)

Pairing: idol!Jungkook x female reader

Genre: childhood lovers to exes to lovers, parents au, smut, angst, fluff

Word Count: 8k

Summary: After Jungkook dropped all contact, Y/N was left broken - and pregnant. Seven years later, fate brings them back together.

Warnings: MDNI, Explicit, 18+, smut, angst, abandonment, young (teenage) pregnancy, resentment, anger, heartbreak, cursing, struggle, co-parenting, long distance, growth, comfort, vulnerability, domestic, resistance, fighting/arguments, fear of reattachment, time skips, bad flirting explicit: praising, kissing, missionary, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, flirting

A\N: hiii bbys 🫶 i am (tentatively) 80% done writing for daddy kookie

MASTERPOST ♡ MASTERLIST

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═══════

I didn’t expect the message when he landed.

Jungkook: Wheels down. First thing I saw was a vending machine that had banana milk and I thought of you. I know you hate it. But I smiled anyway.

I didn’t respond.

But I smiled, too.

He sent a picture of his hotel room next. A messy corner, a pair of AirPods, a hoodie on the floor. Nothing special. Except it was.

Because it meant he was thinking of me.

Of us.

That night, he FaceTimed just before Eun Ae’s bedtime.

Her face lit up when she saw him.

“MR. KOOKIE!!”

He grinned like she’d just handed him the stars. “There’s my girl.”

I watched from the kitchen, one hand wrapped around a mug, the other pressed against my ribs where my heart felt too big for my chest.

He read her a bedtime story- one she picked out herself. She held the book up to the camera so he could follow along.

He stumbled over the voices.

She corrected him, dramatically.

They laughed.

I felt like I was watching something sacred I wasn’t allowed to touch.

After the call ended, I found myself staring at the empty screen like it had more to say.

The next day, he texted both of us good morning.

Jungkook: Hope today’s full of soft things and fewer meetings.

Jungkook: for Eun Ae- Don’t forget your snack. Eat the grapes. Not just the crackers.

She giggled when she read it.

“I like him,” she said casually.

My throat tightened. “Yeah?”

“He’s funny. And he knows I don’t like raisins. That’s cool.”

I nodded, fighting the part of me that wanted to cry.

Because this? This felt like the part I never thought she’d get.

A dad.

A person.

Someone who stayed.

And I hated how easy it was to get used to it.

═══════

By the third day, he called at lunch just to see what she was eating. She showed him her juice pouch and half-eaten sandwich. He pretended to cry dramatically about the lack of crusts.

“You cut the best part off!” he whined.

“You’re a crust,” she said, unimpressed.

He laughed so hard, she laughed harder.

Later that night, after she was asleep, he called again.

Just for me.

He looked tired. Makeup-free. A hoodie pulled tight around his head.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

Neither of us said anything for a second.

Then he whispered, “You looked really beautiful the morning I left.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

“I know you didn’t say anything,” he added. “But… you let me stay.”

“I did.”

“I just wanted to say thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do.”

I stared at him through the screen.

“You look tired.”

“I am.”

“Go to sleep.”

“Not yet.”

He didn’t ask for anything else.

Just watched me.

Just stayed.

And I let him.

For an hour.

Without speaking.

Just breathing.

Like maybe this wasn’t a screen between us.

Like maybe the world was a little bit smaller when he was on the other side.

═══════

Tour life was supposed to be a blur.

And it was.

Call times. Sound checks. Hair and makeup. Interviews I barely remembered giving. Airports I couldn’t name. Cities that blurred together through tinted windows and hotel glass.

But no matter where I was, what time zone, what country…

I called her.

I called them.

Every single day.

Sometimes twice.

Sometimes three times.

Didn’t matter if I’d just come off stage dripping in sweat with an hour of sleep. I’d FaceTime and wait for that little beep that meant she’d picked up. That meant Eun Ae would come into view with bed hair and peanut butter on her cheek and a smile big enough to make me forget how tired I was.

“MR. KOOOOOKIE!!”

She always screamed it.

Always made me laugh.

She told me what she ate, what she wore, who she sat next to in school. She told me what color her mood was and what new word she learned and that the moon was her favorite planet because it followed her home.

I wrote every word down.

Had a notebook I kept just for her.

Eun Ae: Day 5. “Do bees have moms?”

Eun Ae: Day 9. “I drew you in my picture. You have big ears but it’s okay.”

I’d stay on the call until her eyes drooped and she rolled into her stuffed tiger.

Sometimes Y/N would come on after.

Sometimes not.

I didn’t push.

But when she did… God.

Her voice in the dark was the only thing that made this feel real.

She’d tell me about her day. Her boss. Her stress. Her coffee order. Her favorite new nail polish.

And I’d listen like every word was a verse.

I didn’t flirt.

Not really.

I didn’t want to break this.

Didn’t want to scare her.

I just… showed up.

That’s all I knew how to do now.

And in the quiet moments, when the lights went down, the crowd noise faded, the crew packed up and the hotel room settled, I stared at my screen and whispered:

“Goodnight.”

Even if she’d already gone.

Even if it was just me.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight, baby.”

And sometimes, I swear…

I could still hear them say it back.

═══════

I wasn’t expecting much from the panel.

Just another industry event. A half-full auditorium. Stale coffee. Small talk with men who thought “event coordinator” meant I arranged party balloons.

But I’d been invited to speak- one of five women in venue management across the region. I had notes, a blazer I hadn’t worn since college, and a pit in my stomach that only grew deeper the closer I got to the podium.

I hadn’t told Jungkook about it.

It wasn’t a secret.

I just… didn’t think he’d care.

He had a stadium full of screaming fans in Singapore last night.

My keynote about budgeting for backline crew wasn’t exactly Billboard material.

But the morning of the event, while I was brushing my teeth with a knot in my throat and lipstick half-smeared on my palm, my phone buzzed.

Unknown Number: There’s something for you in the lobby. Happy Panel Day.

I stared at the screen.

My stomach twisted.

I almost didn’t go.

But I did.

And when I got to the front desk of the building, there it was.

A vase full of wildflowers.

No roses.

No lilies.

Just crooked stems. Sun-warmed color. Survivors.

And a note, scribbled on plain hotel stationery.

“First time I saw you, you were holding a bouquet of these. You’d just moved and it was your first day. You said they reminded you that growing was hard- but still worth it. You’ve been growing ever since. I see you. I remember. - JK”

I didn’t cry.

Not right away.

I carried the flowers to the greenroom, set them next to the bottled water, and stared at them like they’d speak first.

They didn’t.

So I did.

I sent him a picture. Then a message.

Y/N: Thank you. You remembered.

He replied almost instantly.

Jungkook: I remember everything.

I should’ve closed my phone.

But I typed again.

Y/N: It’s nice. Being seen.

Three dots flashed on the screen. Then stopped. Then flashed again.

Finally:

Jungkook: I’ve never stopped seeing you.

I didn’t know what to say to that.

So I didn’t say anything.

Not until the panel ended and I stepped offstage to applause, blinking under the house lights.

I checked my phone again.

One new message.

A voice note.

I almost didn’t play it.

But I did.

His voice filled my ear.

Soft. Breathless. Like he was recording in the dark.

“You looked incredible today. I know I couldn’t be there. But I’m proud of you. I hope you felt it. Because you should. You should feel proud every day. You’re… everything I wish I’d been brave enough to love right the first time.”

I closed my eyes.

The tears came then.

Quiet and fast and real.

Because it wasn’t just the words.

It was the fact that this time, for once,  he was saying them when it mattered.

When I needed them.

Not too late.

Just… in time.

═══════

She was humming when I picked her up.

Big skip in her step. Hair falling out of her pigtails. Glitter marker smeared across both hands.

“Hi Mama!” she beamed, leaping forward like I’d been gone for a year and not just six hours.

“Hi baby,” I said, catching her as she wrapped her arms around my waist. “Did you have a good day?”

She pulled back, nodded furiously, then shoved a folded piece of paper into my hand.

“I drew our family.”

I blinked. “You did?”

“Uh-huh! It’s us. Me. You. Mr. Kookie. And Kookie Tiger.”

I unfolded the paper.

Crayons. All the colors. A stick figure with my hair. A smaller one with pigtails. A third with a lot of black swooped across his forehead and stars drawn around his head. The stuffed tiger was hovering next to him, smiling.

My chest squeezed.

“You even drew Mr. Kookie’s earrings,” I said.

“He has sparkly ears,” she explained. “And he’s tall. And he always says my name right even when the internet is bad.”

I knelt down.

“Baby… what did you say when the teacher asked who that was?”

She blinked at me.

“I said it’s my daddy.”

The air left my lungs.

“Oh.”

“She asked me if I had one. And I said yes. I have Mr. Kookie. He’s my daddy and he’s on the phone a lot, but he always says goodnight. Even if I forget to say it back.”

I didn’t know what to say.

So I said nothing.

We walked to the car in silence.

That night, I sat on the couch and watched her fall asleep on the video call- phone propped up, stuffed tiger under her chin, cheeks pink and eyelids fluttering.

Jungkook whispered, “Goodnight, my little star,” before ending the call.

He didn’t even know I was still listening.

When the screen went black, I stayed in the hallway for a long time.

Just watching.

Listening to her breathe.

And thinking.

About the way her arms flew open when she saw his face.

About the way her smile bloomed when he laughed.

About how fast she’d drawn him into her world.

And how easy it would be to follow.

═══════

It came in the middle of the night.

No warning.

Just a notification.

Video Message: Jeon Jungkook

I was still awake.

Still replaying Eun Ae’s words.

Still watching the ceiling breathe.

I almost didn’t open it.

Thought maybe it was another bedtime moment. Another drawing. Another “Hey, I miss you.”

But it wasn’t.

It opened with static.

Then a soft flicker of lamplight.

His hotel room.

The camera was set up on a chair.

He was sitting on the floor, cross-legged, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows. No makeup. No filter. Just him.

He cleared his throat.

And then he said:

“This is something I wrote right after I left. When I couldn’t stop thinking about you, but didn’t have the guts to reach out. I never recorded it. Never sang it out loud. But I found the notebook last week. And it still sounds like you.”

He picked up a guitar.

His fingers shook a little.

Then he started to play.

It was rough.

Unfinished.

But it was us.

Every word.

Every verse.

Lyrics about sidewalks and wildflowers.

About long-distance silence.

About the girl he loved before he knew how to love.

I pressed the phone to my chest halfway through.

And I cried.

Hard. Quiet. Shaking.

Because he didn’t have to do this.

Didn’t have to open this wound. Didn’t have to let me see what he never showed anyone.

But he did.

Because he meant it.

Every second.

When the video ended, I sat in the dark for a long time.

Longer than I meant to.

Then I opened our thread and typed one message.

Y/N: I’m proud of you. We are.

The dots blinked on screen.

Then stopped.

Then blinked again.

Jungkook: I love you.

I didn’t reply.

But I whispered it into the room.

Not for him.

Not for anyone else.

Just for me.

Just once.

“I love you too.”

═══════

I’d been outside her door for four minutes and twenty-seven seconds.

Not that I was counting.

Okay- I was.

I’d rehearsed this moment in every city. Every country. Every hotel bed where I lay awake listening to her voicemail on loop, wondering what it would feel like to knock again.

To be let back in.

I was sweating through my shirt. Holding a bag full of small gifts I picked out like a man on a mission- stickers for Eun Ae. Bracelets. A tiny globe. A t-shirt with a cartoon tiger on it. A notebook for Y/N. Local coffee she once told me she missed. Wildflower seeds. And a letter.

I hadn’t given it to her yet.

Didn’t know if I would.

I raised my hand.

Dropped it.

Raised it again.

Then knocked. Soft, twice, like muscle memory.

The door opened before I could breathe.

And there she was.

Hair pulled back. No makeup. A sweatshirt I’d left years ago wrapped around her waist like she forgot it wasn’t hers. Bare feet. A guarded expression that just slightly melted when her eyes landed on mine.

I opened my mouth.

Nothing came out.

She raised one eyebrow.

“Took you long enough.”

I huffed a breath. Half-laugh. Half-collapse.

“You counted the seconds too?”

She didn’t answer.

But she stepped aside.

And I walked in.

Her apartment hadn’t changed.

Same chipped tiles. Same coat hooks. Same coffee smell.

Except now it had toy dinosaurs on the counter and a child’s jacket hanging beside her own. And a pair of little shoes by the door.

She caught me staring.

“She’s at school.”

I nodded. “I brought her something.”

She gestured toward the table. “You can put it there.”

I set the bag down gently like it might explode.

She moved to the kitchen.

I followed her with my eyes, not my feet.

She poured coffee.

Sipped it once.

Then leaned against the counter and said, “You look tired.”

“I am.”

“You look good too.”

I blinked.

“So do you,” I said, too fast.

Her lips twitched.

Not quite a smile.

But not not a smile either.

Silence settled between us like something sacred.

Then I took a step closer.

“I missed you.”

She didn’t flinch.

“Good.”

That made me pause.

“Because I missed you too,” she said.

Something cracked in my chest.

She took another sip. Set the mug down. Then walked past me, slow and steady, until she reached the table.

She picked up the bag.

“You got her another tiger shirt?”

“She calls me Mr. Kookie. I figured it was time to commit.”

She laughed. Soft. Real.

I could’ve cried.

But I didn’t.

I just watched her.

Watched her fingers run over the handles of the bag.

Watched her shoulders drop by a fraction.

Watched the smallest piece of her let go of something she’d been gripping for too long.

“You’re staying for a while?” she asked.

I nodded. “If you’ll let me.”

She turned.

Met my eyes.

And whispered:

“I think we both know I already have.”

═══════

It was weird how fast it became normal.

Him being here.

The sound of the front door unlocking at 3 p.m. right after Eun Ae got dropped off from school.

The way she sprinted down the hallway yelling “MR. KOOKIE!” like she hadn’t seen him the day before.

The way his jacket hung next to mine now.

I told myself not to overthink it.

He wasn’t staying over. That was the rule.

He left at night. Always.

No lingering. No wandering into my room. No lines crossed.

But every morning, he brought coffee.

Every night, he made dinner.

He loaded the dishwasher like he’d done it a thousand times. Played background music from his phone while he stirred pasta. Let Eun Ae sit on the counter even though she wasn’t supposed to.

He laughed when she dropped carrots on the floor.

Groaned dramatically when she told him she liked Yoongi’s part better than his in a song.

He helped her with homework, even when the math confused him.

He held her hand crossing the street.

He braided her hair one morning - terribly - and she wore it proudly all day.

And at night, when she fell asleep on the couch, he’d carry her to bed with the same careful touch he used when we were kids sneaking out at midnight.

I pretended I didn’t see it.

Pretended I didn’t melt when I caught him humming the song he wrote for me under his breath.

Pretended it didn’t feel right- him here.

Like he’d never really left.

Like this was the version of us we were always supposed to be.

But I still didn’t let him stay.

He’d gather his things by the door, hoodie over one shoulder, keys in hand.

“Thanks for dinner,” I’d say.

He’d nod. “Thanks for letting me cook.”

And every time I watched him walk down the hall, I’d wonder why I didn’t ask him to stay.

One night, I found him asleep on the couch.

Eun Ae had already gone to bed.

I came out to grab my laptop and there he was, curled up with a storybook half-open on his chest. His mouth slightly parted. Eyelashes brushing his cheeks.

He looked younger.

Softer.

Like someone who still had pieces to offer.

I pulled a blanket from the armchair and covered him gently.

He didn’t stir.

I stood there a moment too long.

Then whispered, “You’re doing better.”

And walked away before I said more.

═══════

She held my hand the whole time.

We walked out of her school building and she didn’t even hesitate- just latched on like it was something she’d always done.

Her backpack bounced. Her little braid was crooked. And she talked so fast I barely caught half of it.

“Okay so today we got cupcakes and they were chocolate but the frosting was vanilla and I don’t like vanilla but I ate it anyway ’cause Mr. Peters said no wasting. oh! and I told Maddie I was gonna go to the zoo with you and she said that’s cool and I said duh because you’re cool and she said cool people wear leather jackets and I said you have a lip earring so you win.”

I blinked. “You said what?”

She giggled. “Never mind.”

We stopped at the park first. She made me push her on the swing for twenty full minutes. Then the slide. Then the monkey bars, which she insisted she was a champion at, only to fall dramatically into the sand.

I caught her. She laughed harder.

We ate sandwiches under a tree. She stole my chips.

Later, we went to the library.

She picked three books. I picked one. She said mine was boring and I said hers were brilliant and she looked at me like I’d just given her a trophy.

Then came the bakery.

She marched to the counter, slammed two crumpled dollars on the glass, and said, “One tiger cookie and one smiley face for my daddy.”

I froze.

The cashier smiled.

My heart did something I don’t know the name for.

When we sat down, I asked her- quietly, gently- “Do you know who I am?”

She took a big bite of her cookie and nodded.

“You’re Mr. Kookie. But you’re also my dad.”

I couldn’t speak.

“I think you are,” she said, licking frosting off her fingers. “You look like me. You smile like me. You laugh like me, y’know?”

I blinked fast.

“Are you okay?” she asked, suddenly concerned.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “Just… happy.”

She grinned.

Then reached over, tiny fingers sticky with sugar, and grabbed my hand again.

That was it.

No fanfare.

No tears.

Just a six-year-old who already knew love when she felt it.

═══════

When we got back to the apartment, she tugged me to the living room, pulled out a coloring book, and curled up beside me like she belonged there.

And she did.

Y/N stood in the hallway, watching us for a long time.

She didn’t say anything.

But when I met her eyes, I knew.

Something had shifted.

Not just in me.

Not just in our daughter.

But in her, too.

═══════

It was getting too easy.

Too natural.

Too good.

He knew how I took my coffee now. With oat milk. One sugar. No questions.

He made it before I got out of bed, without staying the night. He’d come by early, just to start the day with us. Pretended it was for Eun Ae. We both knew better.

He made space without asking.

Claimed a drawer.

Bought the kind of cereal she liked and refilled it when it ran low.

Cleaned without being told.

Listened when I vented. Laughed when I snapped. Stayed when I went quiet.

It was good.

And that’s what scared me most.

Because I remembered what good felt like before it broke me.

Tonight, the apartment was quiet. Eun Ae was asleep. The dishes were done. The lights were low. It was just the two of us on the couch, a movie playing, barely watched.

He sat close.

Not too close.

But enough that I could feel his warmth seeping through the space between us.

I was curled in the corner, legs tucked under me. He had his arm resting along the back of the couch, fingers inches from my shoulder.

Neither of us said anything for a long time.

Until I did.

“What do you want?”

He turned.

“Right now?”

I nodded.

He didn’t hesitate.

“You. Still you.”

My breath hitched.

It wasn’t said with expectation. Or desperation. It was just the truth.

Like it had been sitting in his chest for years, waiting to be named.

I looked at him.

Really looked at him.

The curve of his jaw. The dip beneath his eye. The scar on his lip that only showed when he was tired. The way he always looked like he was about to ask permission, even when he wasn’t saying anything.

And I wanted to kiss him.

God, I wanted to kiss him.

But I was still afraid.

Afraid that if I let myself want it - really want it - I wouldn’t survive losing it again.

I shifted.

Closed the space between us.

Let my hand drift to his.

He looked down.

Met my eyes.

And leaned in.

Just enough.

Just close enough that his breath hit my cheek.

I held mine.

Then I pulled away.

Stood up.

And whispered, “Goodnight.”

I didn’t look back.

Didn’t see the way his shoulders dropped.

Didn’t hear the breath he let out when the door to my room clicked shut.

But I felt it.

All of it.

Pressed tight against my ribs.

Too full to carry.

Too heavy to ignore.

Too late to stop.

═══════

He was gone before I woke up.

No text. No call. No mug on the table with a bad pun on the side.

Just quiet.

And a note.

Folded once.

Tucked beneath my coffee cup like he’d hoped I’d find it before I noticed he wasn’t here.

I stared at it for a long time.

Didn’t touch it.

Didn’t want to.

Because I already knew.

It wasn’t an apology.

Wasn’t a plea.

It was him- leaving something behind.

Eventually, I picked it up.

His handwriting was messy. Familiar. Like he’d written it fast, before he could change his mind.

Y/N,

I’m not writing this to ask for anything.Not forgiveness. Not answers. Not even hope. I just needed to say a few things. Without waiting for the right time. Without hoping you’ll say anything back.

You’ve always been better than me. Stronger. Smarter. Braver. You kept going even when I disappeared. You kept your heart beating while mine hid behind silence. You didn’t need me. But I need you to know. I always needed you. I just didn’t know how to say it.

I still don’t, sometimes. But I see you now.

Not just the girl I loved. But the woman you are.

The one who raised our daughter alone. The one who learned how to laugh without me. The one who still makes my chest hurt when she smiles.

I’m not here to fix the past. I’m just here now. And I’ll keep being here. Even if it’s just as someone who brings coffee and folds laundry wrong and says the wrong thing at the wrong time.

I’m here because I love you.

Not the memory. Not the version of you I broke.

You.

Right now.

If that’s all I ever get to say- fine. But I meant it. And I’ll mean it every time you wake up and I’m not at the door.

Always,

JK

I read it three times.

Then a fourth.

Then I folded it back the way he’d left it. Carefully, like it might tear.

I didn’t cry.

Not this time.

I just placed the letter inside my notebook. Poured my coffee. Sat at the table with my feet tucked under me.

And breathed.

Because for the first time in years, I didn’t feel like I was waiting for someone to come back.

He already had.

═══════

She asked me when we were brushing our teeth.

One of those moments where your guard is down, where the day is done and the world is quiet, and suddenly your six-year-old asks a question that guts you.

“Why wasn’t Daddy Kookie here when I was a baby?”

I froze.

The toothbrush in my hand stopped mid-circle.

She stared at me in the mirror, foam on her chin, eyes wide and waiting.

Not angry.

Not sad.

Just… waiting.

I rinsed my mouth. Toweled her clean. Sat us both on the edge of the tub like we were about to plot something secret.

And then I said the words I’d been avoiding for six years.

“He didn’t know how to stay.”

She blinked.

“But why?”

I breathed deep.

“Because we were young. Because we were scared. Because sometimes people don’t know how to do the right thing, even when they love you.”

She frowned.

“He left because he was scared?”

“Yes.”

“Did he stop loving us?”

“No,” I said immediately. “No, baby. He didn’t stop. He just… forgot how to show it. For a long time.”

Her little mouth twisted, processing.

Then she asked, “Are you still mad?”

That one took longer to answer.

“Yes,” I admitted softly. “Sometimes.”

“But you still let him come over.”

“I do.”

“Because you love him?”

I looked down.

At her small feet swinging under the tub’s edge. At her tiny fingers curled in her lap.

“I don’t know,” I said.

And that was the truest thing I could say to her.

She nodded, like that made sense.

Then leaned into my side and rested her head on my shoulder.

We sat there for a while.

No more questions.

No more stories.

Just silence.

And the quiet strength of a little girl who somehow already knew that love didn’t have to be perfect to be real.

═══════

She confirmed it.

I don’t know how I knew.

Y/N didn’t say it.

Eun Ae didn’t say it.

But something in the air shifted- subtle, sharp. Like the sound of a glass cracking under pressure before it actually breaks.

Eun Ae looked at me different the next morning. Not bad. Not cold.

Just… clearer.

Like she’d connected something in her head. Like the puzzle finally made sense.

We were sitting at the table. She was eating cereal.

And she said, “I think Daddy Kookie just didn’t know what to do when I was a baby.”

I blinked.

She took another bite.

Then said, “But it’s okay now. ’Cause you’re here. And I like when you make the dinosaur eggs.”

I smiled, because what else could I do?

But inside, I was splitting open.

Y/N passed by behind her, brushing her hand gently across Eun Ae’s hair.

Our eyes met.

She didn’t look away.

And I knew.

She told her.

I didn’t sleep that night.

Didn’t go to the hotel either.

I just walked.

I ended up at the river, hoodie pulled up, air sharp in my lungs.

I sat on a bench and opened my phone.

Scrolled through our message thread.

Watched a couple of the videos Eun Ae had sent - her singing off-key, showing off her school shoes, giggling uncontrollably while calling me “Banana Kookie.”

Then I opened my Notes app and stared at a blank screen.

I wanted to say something.

To her.

To Y/N.

To anyone.

But what could I say?

That I’d earned it?

That I understood?

I didn’t.

I just felt sick.

Guilty.

Heavy.

Like I’d been borrowing time I didn’t deserve.

The sun came up and I was still there.

Still writing nothing.

Still waiting for a peace I wasn’t sure would ever come.

By the time I made it back to their apartment, my chest was tight with apology.

I didn’t even knock.

I texted.

Jungkook: Can I come up?

A pause.

Then:

Y/N ❤️: She’s waiting for you.

I swallowed hard.

Stepped into the elevator.

When the door opened, Eun Ae was already running down the hall.

She launched herself into my arms like she’d never questioned me. Like she didn’t care about mistakes or time or what I should’ve said six years ago.

“Daddy Kookie!”

Two words.

So loud I couldn’t miss them.

And they hit harder than anything I’d ever heard.

I closed my eyes.

Held her tight.

And whispered back:

“Hi, baby.”

═══════

It started with something small.

They always do.

He offered to pick up Eun Ae from her sleepover and take her to the museum Sunday morning. Just the two of them. Said she’d been begging to go and she’d love the new dinosaur exhibit.

He said it casually. Smiling. Warm. Hopeful.

And I froze.

“Just you?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said, still smiling. “I figured you’d want a break.”

A break.

Like that’s what I’d been doing this whole time- waiting to clock out.

I set down the dish I was washing a little harder than necessary.

“I don’t need a break.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, confused. “I just thought-”

“You thought you could just pick up like nothing fucking happened?” I snapped.

The words came sharp. Loud.

He blinked.

“No,” he said carefully. “I thought I could help. You’ve been doing everything for years-”

“Because you weren’t here!” I cut him off.

Silence.

Then he stepped back, hands raised slightly, voice lower now.

“I know I wasn’t.”

“Do you?” I said, breathing hard. “Do you really understand what that did to me?”

His face shifted, not anger, just ache.

“Y/N…”

“You left,” I said, voice cracking. “You didn’t just leave me. You blocked me. You fucking vanished. You didn’t wonder if I was okay. You didn’t care. I was pregnant and alone, and every day I woke up and hoped maybe you’d remember-”

“I did remember,” he said sharply.

“Not enough.”

He swallowed.

“Not soon enough,” he admitted. “But I never forgot.”

I crossed my arms, cold all over now.

“I still don’t know how to forgive you,” I whispered.

He looked at me like I’d pulled something out of him he wasn’t ready to name.

“I don’t know how to forgive me either,” he said.

And that-

That stopped me.

Because there was no defense in his voice.

No plea.

Just… shame.

Heavy. Real.

He looked away. Then back.

“I think about it all the time,” he said. “What I missed. What I ruined. What she could’ve had if I’d just been better. You… you could’ve had a different life. And I ruined that too.”

“You didn’t ruin me,” I said softly. “But you broke something. And I’m still finding the pieces.”

He nodded. Slow. Like that hurt more than yelling ever could.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he said. “I’m just asking you to let me stay while you figure out if you ever can.”

I looked at him.

And for once, didn’t know what to say.

So I didn’t.

I just walked to the bedroom door.

Opened it.

And whispered, “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

His eyes widened.

“I won’t leave.”

“I mean- ” I hesitated. “Stay. But don’t go to the couch.”

═══════

I followed her.

Not because I expected anything.

Not because I thought this would fix it.

I followed her because I’d follow her anywhere.

She didn’t look at me when she closed the door to her bedroom. Just stepped to the window, tugged the curtain slightly, checked the streetlight like she needed the outside world to stay still for one night.

Then she turned.

Met my eyes.

And in that moment, I knew.

This wasn’t forgiveness.

This wasn’t closure.

This was her choice.

Right now.

Not because she owed me anything. Not because I deserved her.

But because she wanted me.

Still.

She crossed the room slow, her bare feet silent against the hardwood floor. The air between us crackled with the weight of unspoken words, of years apart, of mistakes and regrets. I stood there, rooted to the spot, my heart pounding in my chest like a drumbeat calling her name.

She lifted the hem of her sweatshirt over her head, tossing it aside without a second glance. 

No fanfare. No tease. 

Just skin. 

Real. Warm. Familiar in ways that made my breath stutter. 

I stepped forward, my hands shaking more than I wanted them to. 

She didn’t stop me. 

Didn’t rush. 

Just let me reach for her. 

My fingertips brushed her waist, my palm cupping her cheek. Our eyes locked, and in that silence, I saw everything- the pain I’d caused, the love she still carried, the question of whether we could ever truly come back from what I’d done.

Then-

She leaned in.

And kissed me.

Soft.

Certain.

Like the space between us had finally run out of time.

I kissed her back, pouring every ounce of regret, every whisper of longing, into that touch. Let her press me into the edge of the bed, her hands sliding beneath my shirt, her nails scraping my skin in a way that felt both punishing and forgiving.

I whispered her name against her jaw, my lips brushing the delicate skin there. She moaned quietly, her hips tilting into mine, a silent plea for more. 

I wanted to give her everything- to make up for every missed call, every unspoken apology, every night I’d spent wishing I could take it all back.

With a gentle push, I flipped her onto the bed, her hair spilling across the pillow like a halo. She looked up at me, her eyes dark with desire, but also something else. A vulnerability that made my chest ache. I kissed her again, slower this time, savoring the taste of her, the feel of her lips against mine.

I kissed my way down her body, tracing the lines of her collarbones, the curve of her breasts, the dip of her stomach. Her skin was soft under my lips, her breath hitching as I sucked gently on her nipples, teasing them until they pebbled against my tongue. 

She arched into me, her hands tangling in my hair, her moans filling the room like music.

I kissed her hips, her thighs, my fingers brushing the edges of her panties. She was already wet, her scent intoxicating, a reminder of how perfectly she fit me, how perfectly I fit her. 

I hooked my fingers into the lace and slid them down her legs, tossing them aside without breaking eye contact.

“Jungkook,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

I didn’t answer. 

I couldn’t. 

Not yet.

Instead, I settled between her thighs, my hands resting on her hips as I kissed her inner thighs, my breath ghosting over her core. She squirmed, her legs falling open wider, inviting me in. I teased her, my tongue tracing lazy patterns along her folds, my lips brushing her clit before pulling away.

“Please,” she begged, her fingers digging into my shoulders.

I smiled against her skin, then finally gave her what she needed. My tongue plunged deep, lapping at her eagerly, savoring her taste, her sounds, the way her body trembled under my touch. 

I fucked her with my mouth, relentless and worshipful, my fingers joining in, sliding inside her as I sucked her clit into my mouth.

Her orgasm hit her like a wave, her body arching off the bed, her cries echoing through the room. I held her there, drinking her in, my tongue never stopping, even as her body shook with release.

When she finally stilled, I kissed my way back up her body, my lips brushing hers softly. 

“I love you,” I whispered, my voice hoarse with emotion.

She looked at me, her eyes shining with unshed tears, telling me to keep going without saying a word.

I didn’t need to be told twice.

I kissed her deeply, our tongues tangling as I positioned myself between her legs. She was still trembling, her body open and willing, her trust in me a gift I didn’t deserve. 

I pressed the head of my cock against her entrance, teasing her, my lips never leaving hers.

“Jungkook,” she murmured, her hands gripping my shoulders.

I thrust into her slowly, savoring the way she enveloped me, the way her walls clenched around me like a promise. She gasped, her head falling back, her chest heaving as I filled her completely.

I held her there, my forehead resting against hers, our breaths mingling. 

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

She wrapped her legs around my waist, pulling me closer, her lips brushing mine. “Show me,” she whispered.

I began to move, slow at first, each thrust deliberate, each withdrawal agonizingly slow. I kissed her, touched her, praised her, my hands roaming her body as I fucked her with a desperation born of years of longing.

Her nails dug into my back, her moans growing louder, her body meeting mine with equal fervor. I sped up, my hips snapping against hers, my cock pounding into her relentlessly. She was tight, so tight, her walls milking me, her clit rubbing against mine with every thrust.

“Kook,” she cried, her body tensing as she neared the edge again. “I’m-”

“Cum for me,” I growled, my voice rough with need. “Cum on my cock, baby. Let me feel it.”

Her orgasm ripped through her, her body convulsing around me, her cries filling the room. I followed, my own release crashing over me like a wave, my cock pulsing deep inside her as I whispered, 

“I love you,” against her neck.

We lay there, tangled together, our hearts pounding in unison, our breaths slowly syncing. I kissed her shoulder, her cheek, her lips, unable to stop touching her, unable to stop apologizing.

She curled into me, cheek pressed to my chest.

I wrapped my arms around her and held her like I never had the chance to before.

And when she whispered, “Don’t leave,” into my skin-

“I’ll never leave you again,” I promised, my voice thick with emotion.

I kissed her forehead and said:

“I couldn’t if I tried.”

═══════

The sun woke me before he did.

It stretched through the blinds like a whisper, soft and gold, warming the blanket tangled around my legs.

His arm was still draped across my waist.

His nose was tucked behind my ear.

And the rhythm of his breath was the calmest thing I’d felt in years.

I stayed still for a long time.

Not because I was afraid to move.

But because I didn’t want to.

Didn’t want to break the spell.

Didn’t want to face the real world when this one- this quiet bedroom, this borrowed peace- felt like something I could actually believe in.

Eventually, his fingers flexed against my hip.

A slow inhale. A stretch. A groggy hum.

Then-

“Morning,” he whispered.

“Mm.”

“That’s all I get?”

I smiled against his skin. “You’re lucky I’m giving you that.”

He chuckled.

The sound vibrated through me. Calming. Familiar. Right.

I rolled over to face him. His hair was a mess. His smile wasn’t.

“You hungry?” I asked.

He nodded. “For food, yeah. Also for you.”

I snorted and smacked his chest. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m honest.”

In the kitchen, I pulled out pancake mix. He tried to steal it. I smacked his hand with a spatula.

“You’re not allowed to mess these up,” I warned.

He raised his hands in surrender. “I only flip when I’m told.”

“You’re lucky I’m letting you eat.”

“I already ate,” he said with a wink.

I threw a towel at him.

We laughed.

Really laughed.

The kind that felt like it came from a version of us that still believed in soft mornings and shared sunlight.

He burned the first pancake.

I made fun of him.

He blamed the pan.

I called him a liar.

He kissed my cheek when I wasn’t looking.

And for a second…

For one suspended moment in the middle of a too-quiet apartment with pancakes on the stove and sunlight through the blinds-

I forgot we’d ever been anything but this.

I didn’t say “I love you.”

He didn’t ask.

But when he reached across the table and took my hand…

When his thumb brushed over my knuckles like he could still feel me from the inside out…

I knew he already knew.

And I knew that someday…

I’d say it again.

And I’d mean it.

═══════

Eun Ae came home from her sleepover mid-morning, bouncing through the door like she hadn’t slept at all and telling stories at a mile a minute.

“Daddy Kookie!” she shouted when she saw him, dropping her backpack to barrel into his legs. “You missed everything! They had a movie and pizza and a game and I won and I told them you’re my dad and they said you’re famous and I said ‘Duh’- ”

He picked her up and spun her once.

“Whoa, slow down! You’re gonna run out of breath.”

“I already did!”

I laughed from the kitchen.

═══════

We spent the afternoon at the park.

Eun Ae insisted on sitting between us on the swings. Then made us race. Then sat on Jungkook’s shoulders for the entire walk back.

He carried her like it was nothing.

She fell asleep on the couch before dinner even started.

We let her stay there.

Jungkook helped me plate the food, just something simple. Rice. Fried eggs. Kimchi from the corner store.

We sat on the floor in front of the coffee table, legs crossed, sharing chopsticks.

“I’ve missed this,” he said.

I glanced at him.

“This?”

“This… life. This ease.”

I didn’t answer right away.

But I reached out.

Took his hand across the table.

He didn’t flinch.

He just laced our fingers together like it was natural.

Like we hadn’t fought. Like we hadn’t broken.

Like maybe - somehow - we had always been coming back to this.

═══════

I almost didn’t say it.

Almost kept pretending we had forever- that my time off didn’t have an end, that the clock wasn’t winding down on this borrowed miracle of a life.

We’d had a good day.

A perfect day.

And I didn’t want to ruin it.

But when I saw her brushing her teeth beside me- head tilted, foam at the corner of her mouth, one of my old shirts hanging off her shoulder, I couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“Y/N,” I said quietly, setting my toothbrush down.

She looked at me in the mirror.

Not startled.

Just waiting.

I stepped into the hallway as Eun Ae’s door clicked shut behind us. She was already asleep, full from dinner, exhausted from laughter. Safe.

“Can we talk?” I asked.

She nodded, drying her hands.

We sat on the edge of her bed. Not touching. Not tense. Just… not easy.

I cleared my throat.

“My break ends in a week.”

She didn’t look at me.

“I know.”

“I have to go back to Seoul.”

A pause.

Still no eye contact.

“I know that too.”

I swallowed hard.

“I’ve been thinking…” I hesitated. “I wanted to ask if you’d ever consider moving there. You and Eun Ae.”

That did it.

Her head turned sharply.

“What?”

“I mean- not right now,” I said quickly. “Not even soon. Just… if it’s something you could ever see. For her. For you.”

She stared at me.

Like I’d just kicked the legs out from under a table we’d been building together.

“Jungkook…”

“I’m not asking you to decide anything,” I said, softer now. “I just- I want to be a father. Fully. I want to come home to her. To you. I’m not asking for marriage or moving in. I just want to know if - someday - you’d think about it.”

She stood up.

I froze.

She walked to the window.

Opened it.

Let the night air in.

Then whispered, “You waited until everything felt good to say this.”

I didn’t respond.

“Do you know what it feels like to hear that the second I trust you again, you want to take me away from everything I rebuilt?”

“I’m not trying to take you,” I said quietly. “I’m trying to give us somewhere to grow.”

Her shoulders tensed.

And just like that, the perfect day was gone.

═══════

I didn’t sleep.

Not even for a second.

I stared at the ceiling while he breathed beside me- slow, steady, unaware that my mind was tearing itself apart in real time.

Seoul.

I shouldn’t have been surprised.

But I was.

I thought we were safe here. In this apartment. On this couch. In this version of life where things were small and quiet and real.

But maybe that was naive.

Because Seoul meant everything we weren’t.

Cameras.

Schedules.

Airports.

Secrets.

Distance.

It meant the version of him that ghosted me. The version of him that chose ambition over love and couldn’t even say goodbye.

I watched him sleep for an hour before I finally moved. 

Slipped out of bed. I walked barefoot to the living room and curled up on the couch with a blanket and a hundred racing thoughts.

═══════

By the time the sun rose, my chest ached.

When he padded in wearing a hoodie half-zipped, hair wild- I was still curled there, staring at nothing.

He sat on the floor beside me, quiet.

Then:

“I’m sorry.”

I turned slowly.

“For what?”

“For saying it last night. For how I said it. For not asking if you were ready.”

I nodded once.

Then said the thing I’d been avoiding for hours.

“What happens when the spotlight comes back on?”

He blinked.

“What?”

“What happens when the fans scream louder than me? When you’re booked for twenty hours a day and Eun Ae forgets what your voice sounds like? What happens when I ask for more and it’s inconvenient?”

His face fell.

“I’m not that person anymore.”

“But you were,” I whispered. “You were, and I forgave you for me. But now I have to protect her. And I don’t know if I can trust you not to break her heart the same way you broke mine.”

He looked down.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t fight.

Just… let it hit.

“You want me to move across the world for you,” I said, voice shaking. “And I’m still trying to figure out how to stay in the same room as you without crying.”

That one landed.

Hard.

He looked up.

“I don’t want you to move for me. I want you to move because it might give us a chance to build something together. For her. For us. But I’m not asking you to pack a bag.”

I closed my eyes.

“I’m asking you,” he continued softly, “to think about it.”

I stood.

Backed away.

Then said- because it was the only thing I could say:

“I need space.”

He nodded.

“I’ll pick her up from school,” he said gently. “You rest.”

And then he left.

No door slam.

No fight.

Just quiet.

Too quiet.

═══════

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MASTERPOST ♡ MASTERLIST

♡ requests are welcome ♡ taglist ♡

These characters are fictional and do not represent any real-life individuals. Their likeness is used solely for visual inspiration and does not reflect the actual person or their story.

═══════

Posted: 06/29/2025

Taglist: @mar-lo-pap @lovingkoalaface @whoa-jo @kiliskywalker666 @sucker4jeon @annpeachy @kaiparkerwifes @nikkinikj @elithenium @asyr97 @heyinwluv85s @jjkluver7 @bammbi-jeon127 @kookoo-kachoo @angelsdecalcomania @kayswatanabe @granataepfelchen @kelsyx33 @tatamicc @blubird592 @llallaaa @chromietriestowrite @k1ll1ngcl0wns @jahnaviii @mfsitscho @traumaanatomy @mellyyyyyyx @yu-justme @bangtaniess @mygukkiebaby @xmiaacxio @emmie2308 @magicalnachocreator @suker4angst @dragonflygurl4 @taetaecatboy @somehowukook @iiamnotsure @lavender2ari @busanbby-jjk @prilnextdoor23 @ecomidnight @annpeachy-blog @cuntessaiii @jungshaking @nbjch05 @baechugff @jakiki94 @songbyeonkim @gigi4evr @jjk970901 @bangtanily @vtaehybts @smoljimjim @welcometomyworld13 @aaliy89 @marihoneywk @fiddlebiddls @battlingmyowndemons @superstarfishsandwich @rinkud @withluvjm @Strxqrd1 @singingjk @nia197 @ficluvr613 @roseidol @jungkookswifeeeeeee @uli_o7 @looneybleus @ermno97 @carobrekker @bunnyjk97 @mochisabs @rainandmatcha @katie-tibo @cheolwoo

[sweethoneyjays]

when you baby them ᯓ★

❀ ◦ paring ◦ enha x reader ❀ ◦ genre ◦ fluff fluff fluff (and a bit of crack) ❀ ◦ word count ◦ 2.3k

❀ ◦ masterlist

❀ ◦ note ◦ back with another banger. personaly riks got me real good for this one (screams) thanks to @lovegreenie for beta reading once again <33 ❀ ◦ taglist ◦ @kristynaaah @beenusflytrap @nari-roll

heeseung ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You had just stepped out of a nice, relaxing hot shower, feeling warm and ready for bed. as you walked toward the bedroom, you spotted heeseung sprawled out across the mattress, one hand on his stomach, the other stretched lazily across his side. his head was tilted back slightly, mouth parted, soft snores filling the room.

Normally, eyes-closed, open-mouthed, slightly-drooling sleep wasn’t cute. but with heeseung?

Absolutely adorable.

You padded over and carefully laid down beside him, curling up into the curve of his arm.

Instinctively, he pulled you close and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“you’re finally done, angel” he mumbled sleepily, his voice low and raspy with exhaustion. the way his arms wrapped around you, so clingy and warm? it was your breaking point in the best way.

You propped yourself up slightly, your face level with his. “did I wake my baby up?” you whispered with a soft chuckle, pressing a kiss to his nose.

Heeseung smiled, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. you gently stroked his hair, cooing sweetly, “my tired, tired baby.”

“Mmm..” he hummed, clinging tighter like he had no intention of letting go.

You leaned in and began placing kisses all over his face. “mmm… angel” he giggled, trying to turn away but too sleepy to fight back.

“Why is my baby so adorable, hmm?” you teased, giggling between kisses. “my baby. all for me.”

Heeseung groaned playfully and tried to hide his blushing face. when he looked at you again, his half-lidded eyes looked so soft, like he could fall asleep all over again.

“All for you…” he murmured with a sleepy grin. “only for you.”

Then he pulled you back in, holding you close as if you were the only thing that mattered in the whole world.

jay ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Here you were, sitting in jay’s office as he whined and complained about his custom-made guitar pedal having the slightest scratch. he was clearly irritated, but you just found his pouty lips absolutely adorable.

“I just don’t understand how it even got there” jay mumbled, resting his head dramatically on your shoulder.

“Well, you’ve had it for a while. It’s bound to get a few scratches, baby.” you chuckled, fingers gently petting his fluffy hair.

He let out an exasperated puff and sat back up, examining the pedal. slouched in his office chair, brow furrowed, he stared intently at the tiny blemish, while you simply rested your chin on your hand, admiring your ridiculously handsome (and overdramatic) boyfriend.

You reached out and tucked a soft strand of hair behind his ear. jay froze. his eyes flicked toward you, heart fluttering at your delicate touch.

Oh, how down bad he was.

“How long have you had this pedal anyway?” you murmured, fingers idly playing with his hair. a shiver ran up his spine, the sensation sending tingles through him in all the right ways.

“I, uhm… maybe around, like, two or three weeks?” he answered softly, completely entranced by your touch.

“Mmm? that’s already a pretty long time, baby…” you whispered, gently caressing his cheek. “you look so cute when you’re all pouty.” you added, smiling.

Jay looked up at you with those perfect puppy-cat eyes. you couldn’t help but giggle and lean in to tease him a little more.

“Aww, my poor lil baby” you teased, cooing as you pulled his head into your chest. “it’s okay, my pouty little baby, don’t be sad.”

Jay laughed, voice muffled against you. “okay, honey. whatever you say” he grinned cheesily.

“You love it when I baby you” you giggled, pressing a soft peck to his cheek.

“Only because it’s you” he murmured with a giddy smile, before burying his face deeper into your shoulder.

jake ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Here you were, sitting on the couch trying to enjoy your show… trying being the keyword. it was difficult when jake was latched onto your side, whining and begging for your snacks.

Your special snacks. the ones you bought for both of you… except he always finished them too fast.

“Pleeeeaaaseee” jake whined into your side, his limbs wrapped around you like a koala. his face was buried in your arm. “i promise to replace them this time.”

“You said that last time too, yunie. and the time before that. and you still didn’t replace them.” you pouted, looking down at him.

Jake looked up, full-on pouting now, his big, adorable puppy eyes blinking at you.

Irresistible.

Dammit.

You sighed, a small laugh slipping out. “aww, does my baby jakey want the snacks that bad?” you teased, your voice going soft and babyish, like you were talking to a puppy… which, in this case, was basically the same thing.

Jake instantly knew what you were doing and got all shy. he acted like he hated it, but you both knew the truth.

he lived for it.

“You gotta answer me, yunie” you chuckled, gently patting his fluffy hair.

“Yes, please…” he mumbled quietly.

“What was that, baby yun?” you teased further, squishing his soft cheeks between your hands.

“I said please!” he whined, voice high as he buried his red face in your arm again.

You let out a loud laugh at his ridiculously cute reaction. “okay, okay- go get it” you grinned, rolling your eyes fondly.

Jake perked up immediately, bouncing off the couch and rushing to the cupboard like you’d just handed him the key to eternal happiness.

“Happy now, yunie?” you smiled as he returned with your snack in hand, already munching away like a satisfied gremlin.

“No. I’m sad.” he huffed dramatically, settling beside you again. “you were mean to me.”

“Oh no!” you gasped, pretending to be horrified. “should I kiss it better?”

Jake plopped himself down with an exaggerated pout. “yes. yes, you should*.*” he declared with a cheeky grin spreading across his face.

sunghoon ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You were minding your own business in the bedroom when your perfect, handsome boyfriend stepped out of the bathroom.

He looked so clean, damp hair clinging softly to his forehead, body toned, skin glowing under the warm, ambient lamp light.

honestly, how did you even manage to score this hottie?

“You look so good, hoon” you said, propping your head on your elbow as you admired him.

“Oh- thank you, love” sunghoon chuckled shyly, a soft blush creeping onto his cheeks. he knew he looked good, sure… but he always folded at your compliments.

Boy was down bad.

And of course, you noticed that blush right away. so naturally, you couldn’t resist teasing him just a little more.

“My handsome baby, come here” you cooed, patting the empty space beside you.

Sunghoon let out a bashful laugh, rubbing the back of his neck as he made his way over and plopped down beside you.

Without hesitation, you clung onto his arm and looked up at him with that teasing smirk of yours.

“Look at you…” you said, resting your cheek against his bicep. “my baby’s so, so good-looking.” You gave him those cute, wide eyes, the move that always, always made him fold.

“Thank you, lovie…” he mumbled, face already buried in his hands as he smiled like a total fool.

You gently pulled his hands away and squished his cheeks between your palms. “such a handsome man” you grinned.

And that? That finished him.

Sunghoon let out an adorably flustered giggle and turned away from you entirely, his back now facing you as he tried to hide the deepening blush.

“Heyyy, where are you going?” you laughed, delighted at his reaction.

“Just... here…” he muttered, trying to calm himself down.

“Aww, you adorable baby” you giggled, wrapping your arms around him from behind in a soft back hug.

He let out a tiny, flustered scream before laughing, squirming a little as he rolled around on the bed with you.

“Only you can make me fold like this” he sighed between chuckles, finally settling down beside you again, still smiling at you.

sunoo ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You were chilling on the couch when your sunshine boyfriend walked into the room… except this time, his vibe felt… different.

He wasn’t radiating that usual cutesy glow. instead, he strolled over with this oddly cool energy and plopped down beside you, throwing a firm arm over your shoulders like he was auditioning for a kdrama lead.

“Hey, babe” sunoo said, flashing a soft smile.

You raised an eyebrow at the nickname, playfully scrunching up your face in confusion.

“You okay? is the weather off or something?” you chuckled, leaning into him. “you feel... different today.”

“Different? i’m doing perfectly fine, babe” he replied, puffing out his chest ever-so-slightly like he was trying to channel a broody action hero.

You saw through it instantly. he was trying to act like one of those stereotypically “tough guy” types- and honestly, it was adorable*.*

“Okay then, handsome tough baby” you teased, giggling as you leaned into his side and rested your cheek against his chest. you looked up at him with a grin. “so, so handsome today.”

“Th-thank you, babe” sunoo chuckled, a soft blush creeping across his cheeks.

You brought a hand to his face and gently caressed his cheek. “my tough, strong baby…”

And just like that, his whole act crumbled.

“AhH, I can’t do this anymore!” sunoo squealed, immediately breaking his cool-guy facade. he wrapped his arms tightly around you, burying his flustered face into your neck.

“What happened to my tough-tough baby?” you teased, giggling as you squished his cheeks.

“Being tough is too much work” he laughed, snuggling deeper into your warmth like the human cinnamon roll he truly was.

“I mean, I could get used to big tough sunoo” you mused playfully. “i love every version of you. cute, sexy, sassy, clingy, pouty-”

You went on and on while sunoo just laughed softly, absolutely melting at your affection.

“Thank you, sweetie” he whispered, placing a gentle kiss on your cheek. “i love every version of you too.”

jungwon ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You were watching tv on the couch when your adorable kitty boyfriend peeked his head around the corner, eyes full of mischief, a smirk already tugging at his lips.

You looked over at him, narrowing your eyes as you tried to predict what chaos he was about to unleash.

“Can I help you, wonie?” you chuckled as he stepped fully into view, feet planted wide in an stance.

He just kept smirking.

Uh-oh.

Without another word, he marched up in front of you and broke into the most ridiculous little dance. you raised an eyebrow, barely holding back a snort before finally laughing.

Then he leapt onto the couch and nuzzled his face into your shoulder, letting out a soft laugh of his own.

“Looks like someone has their zoomies” you said fondly, ruffling his hair as he settled down, resting his head on your lap and leaning into your warmth.

You couldn’t help but melt a little.

“You’re so cute, wonie” you giggled, squishing his panting, flushed cheeks in your hands.

His naturally rosy skin only added to how absolutely adorable he looked.

“Why are you so cute?” you squealed, overcome with cuteness aggression as you continued to play with his face.

Those soft, squishy features and that ridiculously fluffy hair were simply too much.

Jungwon giggled, letting you squish and poke to your heart’s content.

“If you keep this up, you might just rearrange my face” he said between laughs.

“How can I not? my baby’s just too adorable” you cooed, switching to gently run your fingers through his hair.

He smiled at you, a soft pink blush rising on his cheeks.

“My cute, cute, cute cat” you giggled again.

Jungwon laughed and teased, “you are so down bad for me.”

You raised a brow. “like you’re not blushing right now?”

“Only blush like this for you” he grinned.

ni-ki ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You and riki were chilling on the sofa, your body curled into his lap, facing him like a sleepy little koala. his arms wrapped around you gently, one hand rubbing slow circles against your back. everything felt calm, no chaos, no noise, just the two of you sharing warmth in the quiet.

You pulled back slightly to take a look at him. his head was tilted back, eyes closed, completely peaceful. undisturbed. and so, so good looking.

“Mmm?” riki hummed, sensing your gaze on him. he cracked one eye open to peek at you, a soft smirk pulling at the corner of his lips.

“Admiring your handsome boyfriend?” he teased, his voice low and easy, his thumbs still tracing lazy shapes on your waist.

You brought your hands up to gently cup his cheeks. “well yes, I am. my handsome baby duck” you replied with a cheeky smile.

“Aish, not you too-” he whined, letting out a playful groan. “i’m a puma. P-U-M-A” he spelled, gesturing dramatically to himself.

“But you’re my baby duckie” you cooed sweetly. “you can’t tell me you’re not a duck with those soft, kissable lips,” you added, placing a gentle peck right on them.

Riki groaned and sat up straighter, now eyeing you with seriousness. “look, look. my eyes scream puma. i’m not a duckie.” he pointed at his eyes with a pout.

But you could barely hold back a giggle. he was trying so hard, and yet the tips of his ears were already flushed pink.

“But baby duckie…” you said with a playful little pout of your own.

He let out a soft chuckle and met your gaze… and instantly folded.

His expression crumbled as he threw his head back, covering his face in dramatic defeat.

“Are you not my baby duckie?” you teased again, arms wrapping around his waist as you rested your chin on his chest, looking up at him with your sweetest gaze.

He looked down at you and just melted.

Going completely limp in your hold, riki sighed like a man who knew he was completely owned. his cheeks were a shade of red he’d deny later.

“Yeah, yeah…” he muttered, smiling as he hugged you back tightly. “i’m your duckie… just your duckie.”

will never get over this riki T-T

[vivwritesfics]

The Teammate Situation

You have a bit of a reputation for fucking your brothers teammates. You don't expect the latest one to be the love of your life.

Oscar Piastri x Norris!Reader, ex!Carlos Sainz x Norris!Reader, ex!Daniel Ricciardo x Norris!Reader

Warnings: smut, 18+, oral, fingering, p in v, age gaps, thigh riding, cream pie, let me know if I missed any

Oscar traced his fingers over your knuckles. He moved your hand and opened your fingers, laying your hand flat and tracing every line.

"I'm so lucky," he mused, still staring at your hand.

You hadn't taken your eyes off of him since he fell into bed beside you. Your breathing had calmed down since the events of this evening, but you were still aware of the stickiness between your thighs.

Oscar had tried to clean you up, he really had. Utilising both his tongue and a wet flannel, he had tried to lick every drop of cum from between your legs. It had still been seeping out of you as he cleaned you, so he didn't get it all.

You didn't mind, though. He had been giving you the Princess treatment since you walked through the door of his Monaco apartment, quite literally sweeping you off your feet. He kissed you like you were the only thing that mattered.

He carried you to the bed and laid you down, lips still on you. You didn't have to do anything, just lay there while Oscar brought you to orgasm again and again and again.

"I know, right?" You giggled as you wrapped your arms around his neck and laid your head on his chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath his ear.

Before Oscar, you were a little... wild. Your brother was a big shot, always had been. Growing up you couldn't help but feel as if he was the favourite. Good at sport, his hobby was actually going somewhere. And then your baby sister started riding horses... and she was good.

You were just there.

That was why your parents asked your brother to take you to work with him. Show you the world, make you feel important.

You hated it. You hated that your parents thought you needed this. At nineteen you were doing nothing but following your twin around. You, the older twin, relying on your baby brother.

Your wild streak was to be expected.

Oscar was the calm you didn't know you needed.

He wrapped both arms around you and kissed the top of your head. "I love you," he whispered, squeezing you against him.

'I love you.' Oscar wasn't the first man to say it to you, but he was the first man to mean it.

You stared up at him and kissed his chin. "I love you too, Oscar."

And to think, a year ago you were forbidden to go near him. All because your brother thoughts he couldn’t be trusted.

Maybe because, as history proved, you couldn't.

1. Carlos Sainz - 2019/20 (The experimental phase)

At nineteen years old, you were incredibly proud of your baby brother. Baby by only five minutes, but you had held that five minutes over him for your entire lives.

For his first year in Formula One, you were to be by his side. Watching him, following him, meeting his incredibly attractive fellow drivers.

Lando's teammate was something else.

Carlos Sainz. Older than you and incredibly attractive. You hadn't spoken many words to you, but you hung onto every one of them.

Fuck, you wanted him.

Your brother wasn't like other nineteen year olds. He didn't want to do any of the things you wanted to, didn't want to go out partying or drinking, like you would have if you had gone to university.

That was the only reason you wanted to go, for the party aspect of it. But instead you were following your brother from F1 track to F1 track.

Another one of the young drivers, another rookie, invited yourself and Lando to the club after a race. George Russell, you knew him. Lando had been racing against him for years.

Lando went to say no, but you clamped you hand over his mouth. "We'll see you there," you said. Lando glared at you as you released his mouth.

The club was the first time you kissed your brothers teammate. No words were exchanged between you, and anything you said would have been lost to the music thumping in the club.

His lips were soft against yours, hands warm on your hips. You wrapped your arms around him and pressed yourself against him. Carlos held you as your body moved, grinding on him. His hands slipped down from your hips, fingertips grazing the bottom of your dress as he held your ass.

It was the alcohol clouding his judgement, that was how Carlos justified it to himself. He wouldn’t touch his teammates twin sister under any other circumstances.

The rest of the season was spent ignoring you.

Lando's second season in Formula One and you were still following him around. It had become your job, of sorts, to post content of you travelling the world and attending races.

You were living the dream.

Things were tense between yourself and your brothers teammate. He refused to talk to you, refused to look at you, but you could still taste him. A year later and you still knew the feeling of him on your lips, remembered his hands holding your bum.

It wasn't fair.

You wanted him, his attention. But he didn't want you.

With every race, you only got hotter. It was becoming harder and harder to look away from you, and it wasn’t just Carlos Sainz that thought so.

The entire grid started looking at you. Attention you revelled in. If somebody got too close, looked at you a little too long, Carlos would come swooping in to save you. The attention from the rest of the grid was nice, but this was the attention you wanted.

Of course, Carlos tried to justify it. He was looking out fir the sister of his teammate, of his friend. But the look in his eye told a different story.

The catalyst had been Charles Leclerc. He was cute in every way a person could be cute. The worst part was the way you clung onto him, squeezing his bicep and giggling at every unfunny joke.

Watching you flirt was his future teammate pushed Carlos over the edge.

That was how you found yourself standing in his hotel room. As soon as he sent his room number through Instagram, you were there.

And now you were standing in his hotel room, staring at him. "Seriously? Flirting with my future teammate?" He stepped closer to you. "You think that's going to get my attention?"

Folding your arms over your chest, you raised your chin in defiance. "Well, it worked," you said as you looked at him. But then you dropped your arms and let a sly smile cross your face. "I think I've got all of your attention now."

Your back hit the door as he pressed his lips against down. It was different to how it was a year ago in the club. He was a man starved, the only thing that could satiate his hunger being you.

You raised your leg and Carlos grabbed your thigh. He held it against himself and pressed against you. Fuck, you could feel all of him through his shorts, your skirt doing little to separate the both of you. You moved, just a little with how he was holding you.

Carlos pulled you away from the door. You followed him, whimpering as he pushed you down onto his bed. You watched as Carlos fell to his knees in front of you. He pulled off your shoes and socks and pulled them to one side.

On his knees, he could see everything. Your thighs, the underwear beneath your skirt. His hands touched your thighs, travelled beneath your skirt. Your breath hitched as he touched your underwear.

"Fucking hell, Carlos," you said through a breath. "Just touch me."

He obeyed. Swiftly pulling your underwear down your legs, Carlos finally touched you. Light touches, not enough for you. You didn't realise when your hips began moving, pushing against his hand. "Please," you whined, not quite enough to make you moan.

It was so damn frustrating. And it was all intentional.

Finally, Carlos took pity on you. He pushed just two fingers inside of you. A cry left your lips and you threw your head back. "Is this what you wanted?" He asked, his voice almost mocking you.

You nodded your head, still rolling your hips against his hand. This thumb pressed against your clit and your eyes squeezed shut. "Yes," you said through a breath, your lips shaking.

Never before had a man touched you like this.

Carlos moved his fingers inside of you. His other hand rested on your thigh, fingers brushing your skin. It was like he could tell how inexperienced you were. Not a virgin, but inexperienced. No man had taken the time to do such things fingering you before.

He added a third finger and you tried to squeeze your legs shut around his hand. But he opened your legs and slotted himself between them, keeping them open.

Too much. Too full. His fingers were skilful, curling inside of you. He muttered something, a praise you would later realise. But your moans were too loud and desperate, waiting on that ledge for a moment that would never come.

Carlos pulled his fingers away. "No!" You cried, but you watched as he placed his fingers between his lips.

He closed his eyes and moaned around them as he tasted you. "So sweet," he muttered and stood up. He wiped the mixture of spit and you onto his jeans and reached for his shorts.

As Carlos dropped his shorts, you pulled your shirt from your body. You threw it onto the floor and reached back to unhook your bra.

Sweet Jesus, he was big. Hard in his boxers as he stood at the end of the bed. Getting onto your hands and knees, you crawled towards him. You looked up into his pretty brown eyes as you reached for his boxers, felt him through the material.

A hiss left his lips. Your hands weren't on him properly, only touching him through his boxers. But then your mouth was on him, kissing him and sucking him through the boxers.

Carlos wrapped his fingers around your hair. He moved you away, tugging at your hair slightly. "Don't tease," he growled and you pouted up at him.

But you obeyed.

Pulling down his boxers, you watched him spring free. His cock hit his stomach, your eyes following it as if you were in a trance. "C'mon," he said.

No, you hadn't done this before. You breathed in, shaking off the slight nerves, and wrapped your lips around him.

The moan that left Carlos's lips was enough to get you moving. It was so pretty, so damn deep, going right through you.

Here was the thing, your lack of experience left you unable to breath as you sucked his dick. Carlos used your hair to pull you off of him. "Breathe," he said, and you did just that. "Breathe for me."

You nodded as best as you could in the way you were behind held. After sucking in a few breaths, you went right back to it. One hand moved up and down his dick, following your mouth as your other hand held you up.

But then, he pulled you off of him. Neither of you had finished yet and you were desperate for him. "Please," you whined as he laid you back.

There was something so sweet in the way Carlos Sainz fucked you. He held your hips as he pistoned his cock in and out of you. Every moan and whine and cry that left your lips, every time your back arched off of the bed, spurred him on.

You came several times that night. You came around him, not allowed a moment of reprieve before he began again. Sweat stuck to your skin and you gripped the sheet, Just needing something to hold onto, something to ground you before you floated away in ecstasy.

You lost count of how many times you moaned out his name, voice hoarse by the time he pulled out of you. Desperately you tried to catch your breath, unable to move from the bed.

Carlos said back. He himself was breathless as he looked down at you. "Fucking hell," you gasped out, staring at him. "That was..."

But there were no words for what that was. Incredible didn't do it justice.

But the night didn't last much longer. Carlos cleaned you up and send you on your way, helping you to get dressed before you left for your own hotel room.

Carlos was what you liked to call your experimental phase. There were several things you tried with him that you never expected to try with anybody. He was the first man to eat you out, the first man you tried anal with. He had black fluffy cuffs around your wrists one day, had you tied up like a pretty present the next. Just a testament to how good he made you feel, you were willing to try anything with him.

But then he left for Ferrari.

When Daniel Ricciardo started driving with your brother, you didn't know how to feel.

It was an odd time with you. You had stopped seeing the first man to make you really feel alive. Not that you were really seeing him, anyway. No, you were just fucking him.

(You should have known it was just fucking. But the dinners and the presents made it seem like it was so much more. To Carlos, it wasn't. He was just fucking you, just finding entertainment with you. But his move to Ferrari was his chance to get serious about his career, and he couldn't have any distractions. At least, that was how he justified it to you).

Daniel Ricciardo tried with you. But, for the first time in three years, you were rarely at races.

Your first job proper job. Not just a content creator promoting things for her sponsors. You had a proper, proper job (not that content creation isn't a proper job, as you had explained to your parents).

But you hated it. You hated being stuck in an office, hated answering to a boss who was a total perv. But, as you promised your family you would, you stuck it out.

For six months.

Six months after you started your first proper job, your Instagram started up again. It was immediately a hit, immediately getting hundreds of thousands of likes per post. Your first post back was flooded with comments welcoming you back to the social media site.

You didn't tell your family about your career move until you were back at the attending races. And you didn't exactly tell them, waited for your twin brother to do it for you. The moment you appeared in Hungary to watch your brother race, he was texting your family group chat.

Daniel really tried with you. He was kind, always saying hello whenever he saw you. The thing was, you were still bitter about Carlos. You missed having him in the garage, missed sneaking away to his drivers room. Instead, you had Daniel here.

He was hot, that much you could tell. Older than you, but that seemed to be your type.

But he was a lot older than you, ten years older than you. So old that you didn't even consider it.

One day, Daniel was just sitting there, drinking his coffee before practice. Sitting in the sun with his McLaren hat on his head, just enjoying his time alone.

"Can I look at your tattoos?"

He looked at you, stood there in a sundress. You were beautiful, that was obvious to him. But you were ten years younger than him and his teammates twin sister.

"Sure," Daniel said and you sat opposite him.

He stretched his arms out. You started with his hands, looking at the tattoos he had on his fingers. You traced over him, your every touch sending a shiver up his spine. "I like the one on your leg," you said as your fingertips followed the lines of the cupid on his arm.

"Which one?" He asked and laughed. He had a pretty laugh.

That was how your friendship started. And that was all that it was, a friendship. The two of you spend more and more time together, company while you once again attended every race.

Nothing happened between you and Daniel during his first season as Lando's teammate. You got close, but that was it. No kissing, no sex, nothing like what happened with Carlos.

At first, you were trying to make him jealous. In your head, Carlos was the best thing that ever happened to you. (When future you looked back at it, you were dead wrong. He was a fun time, but that was about it. There was nothing real between the two of you).

Even after winter break, you and Daniel were just a close. Your friendship was taken off of the track, watching movies together in the hotel during race weekends, when neither of you wanted to be alone in an unfamiliar area.

That was the first time you kissed him. The movie had gotten a little steamy and the popcorn in his lap had been forgotten. The bowl was pushed to the floor, spilling the popcorn across the hotel room carpet as you climbed into his lap.

Daniel kissed you back, a mess of tongues and teeth before he pulled away. "Are you sure?"

It had been so long since you'd had any fun. It was pathetically desperate, the way you nodded and moved forward for another kiss. "Please, Danny." You pouted against his lips.

He took pity on you, hands travelling down to hold your ass. You whined as he moved you, rocked you against his bulge. He swallowed each of your whines and squeezed your flesh between his big hands.

You had ridden Carlos's thick thigh in the past. Pulling off Daniel's trousers, you looked at all of the colour he had, the ink on his thigh. You touched him, ran your fingers over it. "Can I?" You asked, and Daniel asked.

You pulled off your pyjama shorts and dropped them to the floor. Your hips shook with every step as you walked towards him and climbed back onto his lap. Naked from the waist down, you sat on his thigh.

Your naked cunt touched his skin. Hands on his shoulders, you began moving yourself. Back and forth, wriggling against him, anything to create friction. Daniel tensed his thigh, lifted it slightly and pressed it against you.

Moans and cries filled his hotel room. "Fuck," he grunted as he watched you, painfully hard in his underwear.

Your hand slipped down his chest and into his underwear. You touched him, felt how hard he was. "Daniel," you whined, eyes squeezed shut and head thrown back.

It was such a sight. You were so damn gorgeous as you rode his thigh, brought yourself closer to orgasm. His fingers came to touch you, did all he needed to do to push you over the edge.

And he succeeded. Your body shudders as you came on his thigh. Your body slumped forward and Daniel grabbed hold of you. His hand was warm as he rubbed your back. "You did so good," he said and kissed the top of your head.

The both of you were still half clothed when you pulled him from his boxers. He was so pretty, leaking from his tip. You swiped your thumb over it and pulled it up to your lips, sucking it into your mouth.

"Can I?" You asked and looked down as his cock.

Daniel scooted down the bed. He held you, scooting you down with him to get himself into a better position. You threw one leg over his other, seating yourself fully into his lap.

Your eyes went wide as you sank down onto him. "Fuck," You hissed, shutting your eyes as you pressed your forehead to his shoulder. "Jesus, Daniel."

"I know," he whispered, his voice gentle. "I've got you."

And he did have you. He began moving his hips, fucking up into you. He was so damn big, filling you up completely. Every thrust had a moan leaving your lips.

Your hands gripped his shoulders, nails digging into him. You cried his name against and again and against, getting closer and closer to the edge. Already sensitive from your earlier orgasm, it wasn't long before Daniel sent you over the edge.

But he kept going, kept fucking you. "Squeezing me so damn tight," he grunted, wrapping his arms around you to hold you up.

He scooted further down the bed, his grip growing tighter to keep himself inside of you. He kept you on top of him and let his hands travel down, holding your ass as he fucked you. So damn close, he couldn't get enough of you.

His hips stuttered. Every thrust he made was punctuated with a grunt. And, finally, he came inside of you.

"Shit, fuck," he cried as he pulled you off of him. "Fuck, I didn't mean to."

You blinked at him, head a little foggy. But then it all started to make sense. "It's okay," you said and laid down beside him, your hand on his chest. "I'm on the pill."

He blinked at you, searched your face. "Seriously?" He asked, but the look on your face told him everything he needed to know. You were telling the truth. He pulled you close and kissed the top of your head.

It never went further than that. You fucked again, giggling as he ate you out (like seriously, that nose?).

You weren't going to fuck Lando's next teammate. He was younger than you, and that alone made him not your type. He was cute, sure, but that was it. Just cute.

Just like you had with Carlos, you found yourself missing Daniel. Pouting as you walked around the garage, pouting as he walked around the paddock. It wasn't like you could just go and hang out with him. No, he was gone.

But then Red Bull brought him back. And they kept him busy. Too busy for him to hang around with you.

Here you were again, sitting in the McLaren garage, lonely while your brother became a star. 2023 and 2024 really were the year Lando became a star. Watching him grow was incredible, but it was easy to want something more for yourself.

At first, you avoided Oscar. Well, not exactly avoided, but you had no reason to seek him out. He was a rookie who definitely looked up to your brother. And there was nothing wrong with that, but you had dealt with too many people trying to become your friend for the sake of getting close to Lando.

But that wasn't Oscar.

You didn't know that wasn't Oscar. You weren't willing to find out. Lando wanted you to stay way, too. Especially after what happened with Carlos and Daniel.

But Oscar was sweet. He was the kind of guy who would see you sitting alone and bring you a coffee. Not because he wanted anything, just because he didn't want you to be sitting alone.

You took the coffee, nodding when he asked if he could sit. You didn't make conversation with him like you did with Carlos and Daniel, didn't want to make conversation with him. It wasn't flirty and touchy like it had been between Carlos and Daniel.

He made the conversation. It seemed effortless, the way he got you talking when you were unwilling. But, before you knew it, your coffee had gone told because you were too busy chatting to him.

This didn't spark a friendship, not like it did with Daniel and Carlos. The more he spoke, the more you learned about him, the cuter he became. You just couldn't help it.

Soon, Oscar had you a mess. The next time you saw each other, you stumbled over your words and your face was hot. Lando watched as you struggled to get three words out to Oscar, eyebrows pinched together in a frown.

He knew what it was instantly. Somebody had a crush. (And that somebody was you).

Oscar asked you out. It wasn't like how anything had happened before. No, he approached you with flowers and asked you to dinner. A date. A real date. Part of you couldn't believe it. The more you got to know about Oscar, the more you didn't believe about Oscar.

He was just too good to be true.

Oscar Piastri was the first man to walk into the paddock holding your hand. He kissed your head in the garage and pulled you close after races. He hugged you, the barrier between you when he was on the podium and showed you the best night of your life after.

You didn't expect one of your brothers teammates to be the love of your life. But he was.

He was the most incredible person you had ever met. He cared for you in a way you didn't think any other man would, loved you more than any other man could.

And you loved him too.

[silentcaps]

The most intimate thing in bed

tags: soft nsfw, emotional intimacy, demons in love, tenderness after sex

cast: huntrix, saja boys (abby, mystery, romance) × reader

Mira

Mira stretches lazily in bed. Her legs are tangled with yours. She doesn’t bother covering her bare body — no point hiding from you. After all these nights, you know every inch of her skin — from freckles to faded scars.

She’s so easy with you like this. No makeup, hair a mess, that hoarse morning voice. A sharp contrast to the version on stage — bold, fierce, fire in her eyes. And you lose it over her, either way.

You move, trying to get up. She’s got training early tomorrow. But Mira, like always, catches your wrist.

“Don’t be stupid. Stay.”

She wraps her legs around you, keeps you down. That smirk, like a dare: “Go ahead. Try.” She doesn’t say it out loud, but her eyes make it clear — you’re no longer just a secret fling. You’re closer than family.

And if that bond weren’t real — if for even a second she felt out of place — Mira wouldn’t ask you to stay.

Rumi

Rumi is sitting in your lap. Her fingers tremble slightly as she ties fabric over your eyes. You don’t ask why. You don’t press her for an explanation.

And when you can’t see anymore, she lets out a quiet breath — and starts taking off her clothes. For the first time, she reveals her tattoos in front of someone else.

You feel warm thighs tighten around yours. Hear her uneven breathing. You stay still.

And Rumi, raised in the flash of paparazzi from childhood, suddenly believes — without doubt — that you won’t try to peek. That the thought hasn’t even crossed your mind.

She’s not hiding anymore, because she knows: you don’t want to take anything from her by force. Not like the demons who stole beloved fans. Not like her foster mother, who simply told her she was now a hunter.

You let her choose. And she chooses to stay.

Zoey

Zoey is lying on top of you. Sweaty, sticky. Her hair’s a mess. Lips swollen from kissing.

Silence fills the room. Usually, this is when she asks, “Well? Am I still good?” Cracks a joke even if she’s tired, makes a cute face, laughs. Then grabs her phone to check socials, sees missed calls from her manager.

But right now — she just lies there, settling into your breath. Not performing, not dazzling. Not watching your face for approval.

You take her hand — she doesn’t pull away. Run your fingers through her hair, nuzzle into the top of her head, shift her to rest more comfortably on you. She melts completely.

Little by little, Zoey starts to believe that maybe there’s no need for questions. Because the answer’s always the same: you love her not for the performance, but simply for her.

Abs Saja

Abby is all muscle. Big, solid, with the kind of abs that drive his fans wild.

And you press into him softly, trustingly, like he’s not a dangerous demon who could break you with a single move. You breathe against his cold neck and hold onto his shoulders, trying to match his rhythm.

Abby freezes. He wants to be gentle with you. Not fuck — but protect. Even if it’s from himself, or the world he was born into. That feeling is completely foreign to him.

But now that he’s realized it, you can feel the shift. He holds, not squeezes. Pulls you close, but carefully. And when he whispers your name in your ear, it’s not to turn you on — it’s to calm you down.

To remind himself that with you, it has to be different. That you’re something precious.

Mystery Saja

Mystery told you right away he was a demon. First date, over cocktails, no buildup. You either accept it, or there’s no romance here.

You still can’t tell if he was trying to push you away like some obsessive fangirl — or genuinely chose to open up. Maybe he just needed to know you loved him, not some sugar-coated fantasy.

But really, it wasn’t a test. For him, trust is the only way to end up in bed with someone. Not just physical, but emotional nakedness too.

Mystery notices how at first you flinch when claws trace your spine — then start to enjoy it. You used to turn away from kisses, scared he’d suck out your soul through them. Now, after a few times, you chase his dry lips, demand tongue.

Mystery would never hurt you. And that slow-growing trust — in tiny, wordless ways — that realization that it’s truly safe with him? That means more to him than sex ever could.

Romance Saja

Romance flirts and teases. He reaches for attention like a gentle cat for a pair of hands. He poses with fans, waves into cameras, winks with a smile.

But in his demon form, he’s exhausted. Truly. So worn out he can’t even lift his hands to form a heart for the crowd.

And maybe that’s why he values — though he’ll never say it aloud — that with you, things can be slow and relaxed. Arching his back with a sigh, lazily brushing his hair aside.

And you know Romance isn’t human. He just said “I’m a demon” when he leaned over you. Wanted to see how you’d react. If you’d be scared he’d steal your soul, or maybe laugh it off. But your simple “I know” made him flinch — and then quietly smile.

Because people think if it’s a demon, it must be wild sex. Clothes torn off, thrown on the floor, shoved up against a wall before even making it to the bed.

But Romance never fit into those expectations. He likes it slow and deliberate, after a long, tired day, ideally with you on top. And the fact that you don’t expect anything else — that’s a gift to him.