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[sixeyesonathiel]

holy week’s about to start, but i can’t stop fantasizing about yandere!gojo with a servant!reader who’s been his shadow forever so take this filth ive written on a whim<3 (if you've seen this earlier with a different age difference, no you didn't. did my best to reword/change everything because i changed the age tho kek, also made this more filthy as promised😼)

cw: heavy dubcon, yandere themes, manipulation, gaslighting, 3 year age gap, power imbalance, explicit sexual content (fingering, pussy slapping, nipple play, edging), dacryphilia, degradation/humiliation, corruption/dumbification, forced commitment, pseudo-sibling complex (not incestuous, just deep emotional bonds from shared childhood), 18+ only, minors DNI.

you’re his servant, three years younger, bound to him since your mother’s milk fed you both—her role was his wet nurse, his caretaker, tucking you into the same nursery, her lullabies stitching you to satoru like thread. you were his shadow in the gojo estate’s cold sprawl—a scrawny kid trailing his steps, offering him sticky candies, giggling when he’d lift you to reach the high shelves. he was the six eyes heir, a lonely boy with hair like starlight, locked away from the world. you’d crawl into his bed during storms, whispering stories to chase his fears, not knowing you were his anchor. he’d pat your head, call you his lucky charm, and you’d beam, too young to see the hunger in his eyes. it was innocent then—your adoration, his protection, a bond like siblings but not, woven from shared nights and secrets.

now you’re grown, or trying to be, with dreams of kyoto—books, freedom, a life beyond bowing. you tell him you’re leaving, voice small but brave, thinking he’ll pat your head like old times. satoru’s not that boy anymore. he’s taller, sharper, a god in human skin, his blindfold hiding eyes that could burn worlds. he leans against a pillar, smirking like you’ve told a joke. he asks for three days to “give you a proper goodbye.” you think it’s sweet, a nod to your childhood. you’re so fucking naive. he’s not saying farewell—he’s raging against you daring to take what’s his. you. his everything.

the night before your train, the bathhouse is a fog of steam, your shift damp, clinging to your thighs like a second skin. you’re rinsing your hair, humming, when the air thickens—electric, heavy. satoru’s there, lounging against the cedar wall, blindfold gone, his eyes a crazed blue, pupils dilated but still searing, like twin oceans swallowing the light. his white shirt’s half-open, collarbone sharp, hair damp, sticking to his forehead like he’s been pacing, plotting. his lips curl, boyish but venomous, a predator playing soft.

“you’re really gonna ditch me?” his voice is low, almost pouty, but there’s a razor in it, slicing through the steam. he steps closer, barefoot, silent, and your heart stumbles. his scent hits—clean, like rain and sugar, dizzying.

you try to laugh, to keep it light, like when you’d steal his mochi. “satoru, it’s not like that. i just… i wanna study, see things. you get it, right?” your words falter under his stare, those eyes—blue fire, pupils twitching, crazed but not lost. they pin you, strip you, like you’re glass.

he tilts his head, a silver strand falling over one eye, and his smile tightens, lips thinning. “you don’t sound convinced, pretty thing.” his hand lifts, slow, deliberate, catching your wrist. his fingers burn, too hot, and your pulse races under his thumb, betraying you. “think you can just walk out? after all i’ve done for you?”

“done for me?” you echo, voice catching. the steam’s choking, your shift’s too thin, and he’s too close, towering, his shadow eating yours. you step back, but the wall’s there, cool and slick against your spine.

his grip slides to your elbow, firm, pulling you flush against him. his chest is hard, warm through his shirt, and his breath brushes your cheek—mint, heat, sin. “you were mine from the start,” he murmurs, lips grazing your ear, sending shivers to your core. “all those nights, your stories, your sticky little hands. you think that was nothing?” his free hand slips under your shift, tracing your thigh, slow, teasing, until your breath hitches.

you should push him off. this is satoru—your satoru, who’d carry you when you fell, who’d sneak you sweets—but not like this, not with his fingers climbing, brushing the damp cotton between your legs. “satoru, stop,” you whisper, but it’s weak, trembling, and your thighs part, just a fraction, traitor to your will.

he laughs, soft, cruel, his eyes glinting as his pupils pulse, blue blazing like a storm. “stop? oh, sweetheart, look at you.” his finger presses against your core, light, testing, and you gasp, knees wobbling. “already wet through this flimsy thing. what kind of good girl dreams of leaving then soaks herself for me?”

“i’m not—” you start, but his finger slips past the fabric, grazing your slit, and your words choke into a whimper. he’s watching, always watching—jaw tight, lips parted, a flush creeping up his neck like he’s barely holding on. the boy you loved is there, but twisted, hungry, his beauty sharper, meaner.

“not what?” he taunts, sliding one finger inside you, slow, deliberate, curling just enough to make you clench. “not mine? not desperate?” he steps closer, pinning you with his hips, and his cock’s hard against your thigh, straining through his pants. “you’re a fucking mess already, and i’ve barely started.”

tears prick your eyes, hot, spilling fast, and he groans, low, animal, leaning in to lick a stripe up your cheek. “fuck, you’re gorgeous when you cry,” he breathes, voice fraying, like your tears are his drug. his finger moves, slow, deep, and you’re trembling, heat pooling where he’s stretching you. “makes me wanna break you, pretty thing. wanna see how many tears you’ve got left.”

“satoru, please,” you sob, clutching his shirt, damp cotton twisting under your nails. your body’s screaming—too much, not enough—and he’s everywhere, his breath hot, his touch burning. you’re barely even an adult, barely anything, and he’s unraveling you like it’s his right.

“please what?” his voice drops, mocking, and he pulls back, eyes blazing, pupils wide but still blue, crazed, endless. “please stop? please more?” his thumb finds your clit, circling, and your hips buck, chasing the ache despite the shame clawing your throat. “you’re humping my hand like a needy slut. think kyoto’s got this? think anyone else can make you this dumb already?”

“no,” you gasp, and it’s true, god help you—he’s carved himself into you, every soft moment now a blade. his finger curls deeper, joined by another, stretching you, and you bite your lip, tears streaming as the burn twists into need.

he coos, soft, sickening, his free hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your tears. “aw, poor thing, crying so pretty for me.” his voice is honey, but his fingers thrust harder, slick sounds loud in the steam. “you don’t need dreams, sweetheart. you need me, don’t you? always have.” his lips brush yours, a tease, then pull back, leaving you chasing air.

“i just… i wanted—” you try, chasing what’s remaining of your reason, but his thumb grinds your clit, ruthless, and your words fracture into a moan. his smile’s gone, replaced by something darker—jaw clenched, eyes wild, like you’ve hurt him.

“wanted what?” he snaps, yanking his fingers out, and you whine, empty, hips twitching. “wanted to leave? to forget me?” his hand slaps your pussy, sharp, sudden, and you cry out, the sting melting into heat that makes you clench around nothing. “look at this greedy cunt,” he sneers, slapping again, harder, watching you jolt. “making a fucking mess all over me. you disappointed me, you know that?”

“i’m sorry,” you sob, frantic, nails digging into his arms. your tears are rivers now, and he drinks them in, his tongue darting out to taste your cheek again, a low groan rumbling in his chest. his fingers plunge back in, three now, brutal, curling against that spot that makes you see stars.

“sorry’s not enough,” he growls, but his voice cracks, raw, like he’s the one breaking. “you did this to me, you know. all those years, following me, needing me—fuck, you think i wanted to crave you like this?” his thumb’s back on your clit, circling fast, and you’re trembling, so close it’s painful. “you’re mine, pretty thing. say it.”

“i’m yours,” you whimper, voice raw, and his eyes soften, just a flicker, before they harden again, pupils pulsing in that crazed blue sea. he kisses you then, hard, possessive, teeth clashing as he swallows your sobs, his tongue claiming every corner of your mouth like it’s his territory.

“good girl,” he purrs, pulling back, lips wet, swollen. “but you’re still a filthy little thing, aren’t you?” his fingers slow, teasing, keeping you dangling, and you whine, hips grinding against his hand. he slaps your pussy again, twice, three times, each one meaner, and you’re keening, slick dripping down your thighs, pooling on the floor. “won’t you look at this?” he laughs, mocking, holding up his hand, glistening with you. “you’re soaking me, sweetheart. what a dirty fucking mess.”

“satoru, please,” you beg, voice breaking, and he coos again, sickeningly sweet, his free hand sliding to your chest, yanking your shift down to bare your breasts. his eyes darken, pupils twitching, and he leans in, latching onto your nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing.

“fuck, these are perfect,” he mumbles against your skin, tongue flicking, and you arch, moaning, oversensitive. he pulls back, eyes locked on yours, and his voice drops, filthy, reverent. “your mom fed me, you know—gave me her milk. and now here i am, sucking on her daughter’s tits like a starving man.” he bites down, just enough to sting, and you scream, soft and broken, as he laves over the mark. “kinda poetic, huh? full fucking circle.”

you’re babbling now, incoherent—his name, please, more—lost in the heat, the pain, the way his fingers fuck you relentless, thumb grinding your clit until you’re teetering, body taut. “satoru, i can’t—i’m gonna—”

“not yet,” he snarls, yanking his hand free, and you wail, empty, aching, hips bucking into nothing. your knees give, but he catches you, pinning you to the wall with his body, cock hard and leaking through his pants, pressing against your belly. “you don’t come ‘til i say, you hear me?” his voice is low, fraying, and his eyes—still blue, but crazed, electric—bore into you, daring you to disobey.

“i’m sorry, i’m sorry,” you sob, frantic, hands scrabbling at his chest, his shirt wet with your tears, your slick. his skin’s fever-hot, muscles tense, and his breath’s ragged, hitching like he’s fighting himself.

he leans in, forehead to yours, damp hair sticking to your skin. “you’re not sorry yet, pretty thing.” his voice is soft, dangerous, and his hand’s back, four fingers now, stretching you wide, palm slapping your clit with every thrust. “but you will be. gonna fuck you ‘til you’re too dumb to want anything but me.”

you’re gone, body seizing, babbling nonsense—satoru, please, need you, yours—and he’s murmuring filth, fractured, unhinged. “that’s it, fuck, look at you—gushing like a whore for me. think your silly books can do this? think anyone else can wreck you like this?” his fingers twist, relentless, and your cries echo, too loud, obscene in the cedar haze.

“no one,” you choke, and he rewards you with a kiss, softer this time, but still possessive, tongue tracing your teeth like he owns them. “only you, satoru, please—”

“damn right,” he growls, and his face shifts—jaw tight, eyes blazing, a flush painting his cheeks like he’s burning from the inside. “you’re mine—every fucking breath, every drop of you.” his fingers slow, dragging out the torment, and you’re begging, hips grinding, voice shot. he slaps your pussy one last time, so hard you scream, and you clench, leaking down his arm.

“come for me,” he finally rasps, voice raw, like it’s torn from his soul. “come all over my hand, show me you’re my good fucking girl.” and you do, shattering, gushing, body convulsing as you soak him, slick dripping to the floor. you’re babbling—satoru, yours, love you—words spilling without sense, and he fucks you through it, cooing how perfect you are, how you’re his, lips brushing your tears like they’re gold.

you’re limp, panting, but he’s not done. he kneels, yanking your shift higher, and licks a slow, greedy stripe up your thigh, tasting you. “fuck, you’re sweet,” he groans, eyes meeting yours—still blue, crazed, but softer, sated. “gonna eat you proper later, sweetheart. but not yet.” he stands, his tongue flicks your nipple again, teasing, and you whimper, oversensitive.

then he’s pulling you into his arms, strong, too strong, like he’s scared you’ll vanish. “you’re not leaving,” he says, quiet, final, his breath hot against your hair. “not tomorrow, not ever.”

you don’t fight. you can’t. a week later, a ring glints on your finger, his clan’s crest cold against your skin. he calls you his fiancée, voice dripping pride, and you smile, because he’s satoru—your satoru, who gives you silk, sweets, his endless obsession. you don’t need kyoto, or dreams. he’s burned them all to ash, and you let him, because he’s all you know.

[rodentluvrr]

Threads of love

Pairing: Law x reader Summary: Law watches as you go through your nighttime routine, unable to resist being close to you. CW: it's a little 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 touchy-feely but no smut (kissing, touching) Word count: 1523 A/N: I was brushing my hair after going to the gym and thought of this. I need to get locked up🧎‍♀️

The soft hum of the bathroom light filled the quiet space, blending seamlessly with the gentle swish of your toothbrush as you moved it in steady, practiced strokes, the repetitive motion so ingrained in your nightly routine that your mind wandered elsewhere. The air smelled of mint and soap, a familiar scent that wrapped around you in the stillness of the night. Everything about this moment was routine—brushing your teeth, staring into the mirror, following the same monotonous rhythm you had every evening before bed.

Your reflection in the mirror stared back at you, as you stared at yourself, lost in thought. The fluorescent glow of the light overhead casting an ethereal halo around your silhouette. You looked beautiful in the way only true relaxation could bring—the soft glow of contentment settling over your features, the tension of the day melting from your expression. There was something effortlessly radiant about you in this quiet moment, a kind of beauty that came not from perfection, but from simply being—unburdened, at ease, and entirely yourself.

The door to the bedroom stood ajar, a sliver of dim light spilling in from the bedside lamp. Beyond the open door, Law sat in the dimly lit bedroom. His golden eyes, sharp yet lazy with the heaviness of approaching sleep, following your every movement with quiet intensity. His presence wasn’t loud or demanding. He wasn’t making any noise, nor did he call out to you. He simply watched, content to do nothing but observe you.  The faint creak of his chair was the only indication of his presence as he rested his chin in his hand, observing you with an intensity that sent a subtle warmth crawling up your spine. He wasn’t in a rush; he never was. Law’s gaze was unwavering, a silent promise that he was waiting for you.

You could feel the warmth of his gaze on you, a quiet, steady presence even without looking directly at him. There was something about the way he watched you—patient and intent—that made even the simplest movements feel effortless, natural. The way you lifted your arm to rinse your mouth or how your fingers combed absently through your hair as you pulled the elastic free felt unhurried, almost graceful, as if, in his eyes, everything you did was something worth noticing.

The strands spilled over your shoulders, cascading in soft waves down your back. You ran your fingers through them, shaking them out as you absentmindedly searched for your brush. But before your hand could reach for it, a presence—familiar and steady—slipped in behind you.  

The heat of him pressed against your back, solid and reassuring. Strong, steady hands slid over your stomach, pulling you against his chest in an embrace that was both possessive and reverent.

 Law pressed himself close, his body fitting perfectly against yours. The touch was firm but not urgent, slow, and deliberate in a way that made your breath catch slightly.

Law’s scent enveloped you, something distinctly him—clean linen, ink, and a faint trace of salt from the ocean air that always seemed to linger on him. It was a scent you had come to associate with comfort, with home.

He didn’t speak right away. He didn’t need to.

His lips ghosted over the nape of your neck, brushing against your skin in the softest, most deliberate of touches. A soft kiss, more breath than contact, but enough to send a shiver down your spine. Then another, this time firmer, lingering just a second longer. The way his breath fanned across your skin sent a shiver rolling through you, the sensation both soothing and electrifying. He wasn’t just kissing you—he was savoring you, indulging in the quiet intimacy of the moment. His movements weren’t rushed—no, Law was never rushed. He took his time, pressing slow, deliberate kisses along the right side of your neck.

You exhaled, your body instinctively leaning back into him.

"Law," you murmured, the corners of your lips tugging into a small, knowing smile. "What are you doing?"

"Just holding you," he murmured against your skin, his voice low and velvety, laced with something lazy and indulgent.

"Liar," you teased, tilting your head instinctively, unwittingly giving him better access to your neck as your heart fluttered at the way he held you—so sure, so steady.

A quiet chuckle rumbled in his chest, the vibration pressing against your back. He tightened his arms around you slightly, fingers splayed against your stomach, his touch possessive but gentle. "Fine," he admitted, lips brushing against the sensitive skin just beneath your jaw between words. "You know I love your hair."

You rolled your eyes, "You're insane, you creep." you muttered playfully, though the way your heart fluttered at his words told another story.

Law hummed in response, a sound of amusement, before nuzzling into the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. "Maybe," he murmured, the faintest smile in his voice. "But you already knew that."

You sighed, though it wasn’t one of exasperation—it was one of surrender, of contentment. Your hands lifted, resting lightly over his where they held you, fingers grazing over his knuckles.

"I just think your hair is gorgeous," he murmured, his breath a whisper against your skin. "And you look beautiful when you let it down." His voice dipped lower; the hesitation laced within it making your chest tighten. "You have me under your spell. I can't resist you."

His words sent warmth flooding through you, not just over your skin but deep into your core, spreading like a slow-burning fire that curled in your stomach and pooled low within you. It wasn’t just the heat of his touch or the press of his body against yours—it was the way he spoke, the weight of his voice, the quiet reverence in his tone that made something inside you melt, dissolve, and reform entirely in his grasp.

"You say that like it's a bad thing," you whispered, turning your head slightly, enough to catch the corner of his jaw with your lips.

He let out a small exhale, something close to a sigh, though not of frustration—more like quiet resignation. His arms tightened around you, pulling you even closer, until there was no space left between your bodies.

"It is," he murmured against your ear, his voice dropping an octave. "Because it means I can't help myself."

You turned fully then, your hands sliding up to rest against his chest. His heartbeat steady beneath your palms, a slow and reassuring rhythm. His golden eyes met yours, no longer filled with amusement but with something deeper, something heavier.

"You make it sound like I mind," you said softly, searching his gaze.

Law studied you for a long moment before his fingers lifted, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. He tucked it behind your ear with a gentleness that made your breath catch. "Do you?"

You smiled, shaking your head. "Not even a little."

His expression softened—just barely, but you caught it. Law wasn’t someone who openly expressed emotion the way others did. His love wasn’t loud or obvious. It was in the way he watched you from across the room, in the way his fingers lingered on yours when he handed you something, in the way he pulled you close without words.

And right now, it was in the way he looked at you like you were something rare, something precious.

"You really are something else," you whispered.

"Mm." His hum vibrated against you, a sound of agreement, of satisfaction. His lips brushed against your temple, lingering there for a second longer than necessary.

A shiver ran down your spine, though not from the cool air or the dimly lit bathroom. It was from the way he stayed close, from the warmth of him, from the quiet certainty in his presence.

And you found that you did not mind one bit.

Not when it was Law. Not when it was him.

Not when you fit together like this—like something inevitable, like something true.

His hand, warm and steady, traced up your spine, stopping just beneath your jaw. His thumb brushed over your pulse, feeling the way it raced beneath his touch. He smirked, dark eyes glinting with something unreadable, something only you were ever meant to see.

"You're thinking too much," he murmured, his voice low, a quiet command wrapped in affection.

Before you could answer, his lips found yours—slow at first, deliberate, like he was memorizing the shape of your lips. Then deeper, more certain, as if sealing the moment between you.

You sighed against him, melting into the kiss, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. His other hand slipped to your waist, grounding you, pulling you closer until there was nothing left between you but the space where his breath ended and yours began.

When he finally pulled away, just enough to look at you, his smirk softened. "See? Much better."

And with another kiss—just as deep, just as consuming—you had to agree.

[sepherinaspoppies]

hunger

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ masterlist ✧₊⁺ AO3 ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ taglist

⟢summary: the things Michael does for a crunchie bar.

⟢pairing: michael gavey x reader

⟢warnings: 18+, MDNI, mentions of oral m receiving, oral f receiving, fingering, overstimulation, f squirting.

⟢wc: 2,366

She uses the pad of her thumb to collect the line of cum that had trickled down the corners of her lips. Bringing the digit back into her mouth to suck off the pearly white liquid, all while seductively gazing at the disheveled boy that sat on the edge of her bed. 

Michael let out a breathy moan, feeling his softened cock rousing back to life as he watched her throat swallow every bit of him again. She hums at the taste, salty with a hint of caramel from all those fucking crunchy bars he devours everyday when she’d seem him in class. 

She brings herself up from the floor, her knees starting to recuperate from the carpet digging amongst her skin. Standing, she begins to thread her fingers through Michael’s soft sandy hair, appreciating the silkyness of it and the faintest little whines that emitted from his lips before tugging his head back rather abruptly. 

“Would you like a taste of me, Gavey?” She asks, even though she knows the answer. It was why they were here, settled at her dorm. 

Michael nods zestfully, his eyes trailing to her covered core as if he was already undressing her with his eyes. She grabs his hand and doesn’t fail to notice it was a bit clammy with nerves, and it almost made her feel slightly bad about continuing but the way his blue eyes darkened when she directed his hand toward the hem of her floral dress, made her think differently. 

His fingers work at lifting up her dress. A deep shade of crimson floods his perfectly sculpted cheeks as he awkwardly and neatly folded her dress on the side of her nightstand. She giggled at his adorableness, she wasn’t as gentle as he was with her clothing. After, when they made their deal about what they wanted from each other, she clawed out his clothes and scattered them somewhere across her room, having no regard for them.  

Once she made quick work at getting rid of her bra, Michael’s eyes widened in amazement as if had just received the perfect gift he always wanted. His fingers twitched, longing to touch what was right in front of him but she knew deep down he was holding himself back. 

“I-um- I don’t know what to do” he admits sheepishly. 

She knows this, having it heard and confirmed by Felix and Oliver when they were at the pub with a group of their friends. 

She gives him a reassuring smile before straddling his lap, “I’ll teach you” 

Michael’s face reddened even more if it was possible. His gaze lingered on her lips, then a back up to her eyes giving her a silent look for permission to kiss her lips to which she nodded fervently. 

He wastes no time to crash his lips to hers, leaning his head forward to deepen the kiss. She moans, unsure if Michael knew how to kiss but even then she was willing to teach him if it need be. She moves her knees to get closer to Michael, her bare breasts scraping tightly against his chest as she wraps her arms around his neck desperately needing him to be closer than they already were. 

She whines softly into the kiss as she swipes her tongue over Michael’s bottom lip. Michael moans in response, parting his lips open to let her gain access and she seizes the opportunity to dance her tongue against his own. Michael furrows his brows in concentration, taking mental notes on how exactly she liked to be kissed by the way he strokes his tongue synchronously with hers and the soft little moans that follow out of her lips. 

She pulls away, a hint of chocolate and mint lingering on her lips, as she yearns for more of him between her legs. She almost wants to continue kissing him as she watches Michael’s blue eyes slowly flutter open and his lower lip curling into a pout, mewling at the loss of contact. 

“We can kiss more after, if you want. Right now, I need you to return the favor” She pants, out of breath. Michael mends his pout into an eager smile that makes her chuckle. For such an arrogant know-it-all he sure had a way of being cute. 

She lifts herself up by the help of Michael’s shoulders, crawling over the middle of her bed to rest her back against the duvet. “Ready?” She asks, wiggling her brows enthusiastically, already feeling giddy deep in her stomach. 

Michael nods as he slowly adjusted to sit between her legs, his curious eyes never leaving her damp covered center, his pink tongue sweeping over his lips quickly practically already tasting her. 

“Take of my panties, Gavey” 

She hears Michael audibly whimper as his quivering fingers hook to the waistband of her underwear, sliding it off and causing her to release a shudder over the coolness of his fingertips. 

Michael brushed his fingers against the garment of her underwear, studying it before he brought it to his nose, deeply inhaling the juices that were caused by being in the mere presence of him, from having him inside her mouth, around her hands, his kiss…

There was something so hot and erotic about it, seeing the guy who always picks on her for not being as smart as he was, sniffing her juices like he was a starved man. She moaned at his actions even more so when he quickly bent over the bed and stuffed her underwear into one of the pockets of his cargo shorts, probably saving it for later. 

She bites back a protest. Those were her favorite pair but she supposes she can spare them for now. 

Michael resumed his previous position in between her thighs. This time his face laid just centimeters away from her glistening core. She can feel his hot ragged breath fanning over the little patch of curls above her cunt, and very faintly she can hear Michael murmur “christ” under his breath. 

She props herself on her elbows, “Give me your hand” Michael releases another shaky breath before he allows her to direct his hand to cup her mound. 

“Do you feel how wet I am for you, Michael?” 

Michael groans, desperate for some friction he grinds his cock on the bed. He can feel it. He can feel his hand soaked with her arousal. Michael wants to pull back and lick everybit clean off his hand. 

“That’s- that’s my clit” She informs Michael with a strain voice as she runs his index finger through her folds. Michael stares at her engorged bud, having remembered studying it from his anatomy class and how it brought him great curiosity. Now, he was face to face with it and nothing could prepare how much excitement it brought him. 

“The clit is very important. It’s where most of our pleasure comes from. Just pay adequate attention to it and gently circle it-” 

She isn’t sure of the noises that leave her mouth, only feeling Michael beginning to circle her bud in a manner where not even most guys she’s been with have done so. It’s unhurried, unsure and gentle but it’s enough for her to feel waves of pleasure up her spine and her toes curling against the duvet. 

“Oh! Michael” She moans, arching her back and unintentionally caging Michael’s head between her thighs. 

Michael pulls his finger quickly like lightning away from her bud, his face showing a bit of concern. “What? What’s wrong? Was this not to your liking? I can try-” 

“No, no. You’re doing great, really. I-I just, well, I like it and I meant it in a good way” She reassures him with a smile, a slight warmth shoots to her cheeks. 

God, was she blushing at Michael fucking Gavey? Fuck. This wasn’t supposed to be part of the plan or the agreement! 

“Oh, I see” Michael smirks before lowering his head, “Can I use my tongue?” She almost wants to desperately scream ‘YES’ and grind herself against his face but she instead nods and that was enough of a response for Michael as he flattens the tip of his tongue where her clit was.  

Her back arches again, instinctively, feeling Michael’s tongue circle her bud and sweep through her folds all while he keeps his lustful gaze on her, watching the way her face contorts into different forms of pleasure and the audible moans and gasps he hears when he flicks his tongue in a rhythm he notes she likes. 

Michael soon also finds himself moaning at the way she tastes. It was a flavor so sweet. Sweeter than the chocolate of his crunchy bars he so religiously ate. How could he ever tire of her taste? 

Her chest begins to heave, her stomach feeling fuzzy and tight. She was nearing her first orgasm in weeks. 

But then suddenly something unexpected happens. Michael hooks her thighs under his arms, bringing her cunt closer to his face. His red and swollen lips closed in around her clit, tenderly sucking. His actions along with the vibrations of his moans, sends hot shocks of pleasure that she feels the band in her stomach about to snap. 

“Michaelllll. I’m about to-to cum” She cries, feeling orgasm seconds away from releasing. 

“Really?” Michael mumbles with an exciting look in his eyes. She hums, her hands no longer fisting the duvet but instead gripping Michael’s hair. 

Michael continues to lap at her core at the same rhythm he notices she likes, working his tongue quicker until he feels the meaty flesh of her thighs close in on his head and tremble. 

“Michael! Yes! Yes!!!” She chants so loudly that both her and Michael know everyone in the dorm floor would listen. She couldn’t bring herself to care about everyone listening. The genius math nerd in all of Oxford just gave her the best head in the world. 

Michael drinks in her release and this time he is able to pinpoint what flavor she reminds him of. 

Honey. 

She mewls softly. Her body feels weak and tired like she had just ran the longest marathon in her life. “So good, Michael. You did such a good job” She praises, giving the cunt-drunk man between her thighs a lazy smile as she brushes the damp hair away from his face. 

A blush creeps into Michael’s cheeks, a sense of pride fills his senses. He knows he wants more now that she let him taste her. Michael supposes she could give him another taste to satisfy his hunger. She was right there for the taking. Why not? 

“What are you doing?” She curiously asks, peering over as Michael dips his head again making her eyes widen in amazement.

“Michael, wait. We agreed just… Oh fuck!” Her back arches, hands gripping her breasts and a series of gasps leave her lips as Michael redoubles his efforts and works his tongue at an incredible speed that makes tears leave the corners of her eyes over the sensitivity. 

Michael was getting skilled at this. Too skilled with tongue. 

The thin metal of Michael’s glasses dug at her thighs, his face tightly pressed at her core as he growled devotedly. Had she just accidentally created a feral animal? Fuck. 

This time she feels herself ascending closer to her peak more than usual. Her legs involuntarily begin to tremble and her mind feels fuzzy as she has no more strength to fight the waves of pleasure Michael was awarding. 

“Michael” She cries, unsure why. 

Michael, however, lost in his pleasure instinctively comes up with an idea. He unhooks one of his hands around her thigh and brings one of his fingers toward her entrance, plunging inside her walls in and out and curses at the way she clenches around his finger. 

“No, no, no. Stay” Michael mumbles as her hips buckle away from his ministrations. 

This was all getting too much for her. But she does what she’s told and stays and her body violently trembles one last time until she feels the pressure deep in her belly explode and her vision going absolutely blank. 

Has she died and gone to heaven? Cause fuck!

She doesn’t seem to remember how to breathe or pick up the surprise yelps from Michael. She was absolutely drained and spent. 

“Are-are you okay down there?” She asks, panting, gathering whatever strength she had left to peer down between her thighs. Michael’s round blue eyes look up at her in shock. His face, coated with much of her juices. Even his glasses had not been spared. A palm sized wet patch soaked her bedding. 

Did Michael fucking Gavey make me squirt? 

“I’m sorry that's the first time that ever happened to me. Wait here, let me get a towel to clean you up” She stammers as she begins to crawl out of her bed but Michael’s hand wraps around her ankle, preventing her. 

“No need. I quite liked it” He blinks as cleans his face with his fingers, licking away her arousal like the embarrassing thing she did not happen. 

He plops himself next to her on the bed, landing with a heavy thud. “So” Michael trails with a smirk, his head resting on his elbow. “Did I earn my reward?” 

She scoffs playfully. How could she forget their deal? 

She was walking to her class earlier on the day when she spotted Michael pouding and cursing at a vending machine for eating the last cash he had on him. She evilly laughed at him before she nonchalantly walked over to the vending machine and purchased the last two crunchy bars while waving it on his face. Truthfully, she did not find chocolate as pleasing as he did. Michael had scoffed before he followed her like a lost puppy, telling her he’d pay her back the next day. A wicked plan forged inside her head in a way he could pay her back. 

“Here” She slams the two golden bars against his chest after she retrieved them from her bag. Michael smiles and mutters a ‘thanks’ as he unwraps his treat and brings her body to rest against his chest. 

general taglist: @dreaming-for-an-escape @marvelescvpe @omgisrdj @ramsip @silentf @thenightmistress @dixie-elocin @namelesslosers @gigi-panecillo @laureeedn @watercolorskyy @seabasscevans @kittendoll05 @fullmoonworshipper @smayhem @bunbunbl0gs @summerposie @dusicapopilic @tulips2715 @kckt88 @chaoticwinnercupcake @imsoshygirl

empty is who I couldn't tag sorry :/

if you'd like to be tag on my general taglist click here

[alive-gh0st]

❝Hearts Don’t Miss❞

Omni!Mark Grayson x Cupid!Reader➶

•♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡˚₊‧ ꒰ა 💗 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡•

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

❤︎ summary: you survive days in exile with nothing but silence, sarcasm, and the occasional protein supplement. the cabinets are wrong. the tea is judgmental. and the man keeping you alive keeps looking at you like he’s trying not to feel anything at all. but then he takes you outside. and holds you close. and watches you smile in a mall full of chaos and lace and very cute underwear. you laugh. you tease. you try not to fall. and for the first time, he slips. just a little. just enough to wonder what your hand might feel like if he reached back.

❤︎ contains: sfw. celestial exile continues. emotionally repressed supervillain x emotionally exhausted divine being. omni!mark. cupid!reader. slow-burn tension. sarcastic affection. unhinged cabinet logic. mall chaos. dressing room runway antics. casual flirting in dangerous proximity. flying scenes that feel like confessions. emotional repression vs soft lingerie. mutual denial. protective body language. heavy glances. pinky touches. quiet thank-yous. and one terrifying glimpse of wanting more.

❤︎ warnings: emotional repression. mutual pining. vague past violence/genocide. trauma recovery. captivity. unspoken grief. avoidance. denial. reference to exile (ongoing). feelings disguised as insults. intimacy framed as a threat. and the quiet devastation of being wanted by someone who doesn’t know how to want gently.

‪❤︎ wc: 2847

prologue, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: did i write 2.8k words just so omni!mark could get absolutely derailed by lingerie and emotional vulnerability in the same day? yes. did i enjoy it? also yes. anyway, this is your sign to traumatize your local war criminal with kindness and lace. see you in part three—where the denial gets louder.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

It’s been 20 days.

Not that you’re counting.

Not that you’re pacing, either. Or talking to yourself. Or re-folding the same shirt for the eighth time just to feel like you’re doing something.

Okay. Maybe you’re doing all of those things.

But it’s hard not to when every second stretches thin—like thread pulled too tight and just about to snap.

There’s no sun to track. No breeze. No open windows.

Just artificial light, sterilized air, and the hum of a home that still doesn’t feel like yours.

Even if you’re grateful. Even if you’re safe.

Still, you think you might go mad if you spend another hour with your own thoughts and nothing to rearrange but Invincible’s horrifyingly disorganized cabinet system.

The freaking cabinets are still wrong.

You know that. You knew it by the third reorganization. Probably sooner.

(Or was it the fifth?)

Either way, the system still makes no sense.

Why are the protein supplements next to the bandages? Why does the tea have its own drawer but not the coffee? Why is there a drawer for knives labeled “emergencies”?

You don’t even drink tea.

And now you’re sorting it by vibe.

This one’s a divorcee. That one’s a passive-aggressive therapist.

You haven’t slept.

“This one feels judgmental,” you mutter to yourself, holding up a box of chamomile and staring into its tiny soul.

“You go next to the sleepytime mint. You need each other.”

A soft sound from behind you. A sigh.

Deep, tired, on the edge of done.

You spin around just in time to see him lean against the doorway—arms crossed, wearing that sleek, impossibly clean suit like it’s his second skin.

His expression is unreadable.

Invincible stares at the cabinet. Then at you. Then back at the cabinet.

“You’re losing it.”

You beam at him.

“Correction—I lost it. Somewhere around hour thirty-six of isolation, I think.”

He doesn’t argue. Just rubs his temples and mutters, mostly to himself, “You need clothes anyway.”

Your eyes widen. Your whole body lifts an inch off the ground—hopeful, puppy-like, definitely sparkling.

“Wait—are you serious?”

He doesn’t answer.

Just turns and walks away like that wasn’t the most exciting sentence you’ve heard all week.

You scramble after him, socks sliding on the floor. “Don’t play with me, space tyrant. You’re serious, right? This isn’t a joke?”

No answer.

An actual squeal leaves your throat. “Oh my god! You’re really really letting me outside?!”

So you make a very dramatic sound of joy and throw your arms out, launching yourself toward him—

Invincible sidesteps.

Utterly.

You nearly trip over yourself while spinning on impact, stumbling through empty air like a tragic cartoon character. Your arms hang in midair, half-hugging a ghost.

You stare at him like he just slapped your favorite rom-com protagonist mid-confession.

“Did you just dodge affection?”

He glances over his shoulder.

Deadpan.

“Instinct.”

You place a hand over your heart and clutch the space dramatically. “I’m wounded.”

“Good. Maybe you’ll stop reorganizing my med supplies by moon phase.”

You puff your cheeks. “No promises.”

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Apparently, Invincible’s original plan involved clearing out the entire shopping center.

No civilians. No lines. No wandering eyes.

Just you, him, and a completely empty commercial space sterilized of all human life.

You find this out mid-putting on some worn-out shoes.

“Wait—you’re serious?” you blink, yanking the shoelace tighter before skillfully tying it into a perfect bow.

“Like, everyone gone?”

He doesn’t blink—not that you can see because of his black goggles.

“Yes.”

“You’re really gonna throw every shopper out just so I can pick some shirts?”

“…Yes.”

“Okay,” you say sweetly, “no.”

Invincible stares.

You stare back.

And then—before he can lift a single finger or radio in some absurd planetary-level clearance protocol—you grab his wrist and start marching.

“I want the chaos. I want the crowd. I want the sock bin rummage experience, Invincible.”

“You don’t even know my—”

“Yeah, yeah, real identity. Don’t care. You are not kicking out innocent bargain-hunters for my clothing.”

He lets you drag him.

Begrudgingly.

With his jaw clenched like he’s preparing for war.

Which is fair, considering what’s coming.

The flying here should’ve been his first warning.

You thought it would make you feel better—free, maybe. You hadn’t flown in weeks.

You missed it.

Missed the wind in your hair, the rush, the view.

But it wasn’t the same.

You weren’t flying.

Invincible was.

You weren’t even gliding. You were carried—in strong, unrelenting arms, wrapped in a flight path that didn’t belong to you.

The air felt heavier than it should’ve. The sky too far away.

You didn’t say anything.

Just leaned in closer. Gripped a little tighter.

Not because you were scared.

But because you felt hollow.

And he noticed.

You could feel it in the way his hand shifted—curling firmer around your waist, anchoring you just a little closer.

In the way his descent slowed, just barely, like he was buying you more time.

You didn’t speak.

And neither did he.

But when your feet hit the ground, he held on for a second longer than needed.

Just one.

You pretended not to notice.

Invincible didn’t let go until you started walking.

And even then, his eyes followed your back for too long.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

The mall is alive.

Not just in the literal way—with sound and people and flickering sale signs—but viscerally alive.

Buzzing. Bright.

A sensory overload of synthetic smells and shoe store pop music.

You love it.

Invincible does not.

He’s walking behind you like a bored bodyguard, arms folded, expression unreadable beneath his goggles.

You’re pretty sure he’s been silently cataloguing every nearby exit. And possibly every shopper’s dental records.

You, meanwhile, have been bouncing from store to store like an unleashed pinball.

“I like this one!” you shout from inside a changing stall.

He doesn’t respond.

You fling the curtain open dramatically, striking a pose with one hip jutted and a bright orange sweater dangling halfway off your shoulder like a model on a discount poster.

“Rate it. One to ‘marry me in the food court.’”

Invincible blinks once.

“…It’s orange.”

You gasp, offended. “So is the sun. So is joy. So is orange juice, which I’m pretty sure you drink at least twice a day.”

He just lifts a brow.

You huff and disappear back behind the curtain. “Okay, no taste. Noted.”

Another outfit. Another dramatic reveal.

A spin.

A finger gun.

A blowing kiss.

A very committed runway strut that almost ends in tripping over your shoelace.

He doesn’t react to that either.

No laughter.

No eye-roll.

Not even a twitch of that annoyingly chiseled mouth!

You stop mid-turn and squint at him like he just told you romance is dead and fuzzy socks are optional.

“Are you even looking?”

He’s standing rigidly still, arms crossed, eyes facing your direction but giving absolutely nothing away.

Like a statue.

A very hot, very exasperated statue.

You walk up to him, still in the latest outfit—a pastel crop top and high-waisted jeans that actually fit.

“I need feedback. Emotional investment. Commentary. Where’s the supportive energy?”

Invincible tilts his head.

“You look good in everything.”

The words fall out flat. Honest. Zero hesitation.

You blink.

Your stomach flips.

Oh.

Oh no.

That was… weirdly sincere.

Your hands tug nervously at the hem of your shirt. “That’s… not helpful.”

“It’s accurate.”

His gaze flickers over you briefly—quick, neutral—but there’s something unreadable in it.

Something that presses against your chest like a weight you didn’t know you were carrying.

You turn around before your face can betray anything.

Just nerves, you tell yourself.

Just being out again.

Just fresh air and open spaces and praise from a man who could punch the moon in half.

It’s fine.

You’re fine.

But when you glance back and catch him still watching—even after you’ve turned away—

You pretend not to notice.

He pretends he wasn’t doing it.

And neither of you says anything.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

You’re almost done.

Your arms are full of shopping bags, your legs are sore from outfit montages, and your dignity is mostly intact—despite nearly flashing the entire dressing room twice and almost face-planting into a clearance bin.

Invincible, on the other hand, looks like he’s aged ten years.

You nudge his side as you walk past him toward the escalator.

“So,” you chirp, too casually, “we still haven’t gotten any underwear.”

His footsteps stutter.

You keep walking.

You don’t turn around, but you hear it—the faintest hitch of breath. The tiniest pause. The mechanical reset of a man short-circuiting in silence.

He says nothing.

And you bite your bottom lip to hide a cheeky grin.

A few stores later, you find the right one.

Bright lighting. Racks of lace and satin. Mannequins posed like they know what they’re doing.

You step through the entrance like you own the place.

Invincible hesitates at the threshold like it’s radioactive.

“You coming?”

You glance back.

“I’ll wait outside.” He looks at the floor.

You blink. “Suit yourself.”

But five minutes later, you catch him loitering just inside the store—hands clasped stiffly behind his back, pretending to be deeply interested in a wall of sports bras.

You hum as you rifle through a rack.

Satin, cotton, mesh.

Pastels, florals, deep cuts.

But it’s the lace that makes you stop.

White.

Delicate. Almost sheer.

With a tiny red bow at the center of the bra and the waistband of the panties.

It’s sweet. Flirty.

Absolutely criminal.

You hold it up, tilt your head, then glance over your shoulder.

“Thoughts?”

He doesn’t respond.

So you lift it higher—press it gently against your body, just below your shirt.

“This one’s super cute, right?”

His head turns—slowly. Like he’s dreading what he’ll see.

His eyes land on you.

On the set.

On the delicate lace. The tiny red bow.

And then his brain breaks.

It’s not obvious.

But it’s there.

His entire body goes still.

Jaw clenched more than usual. Shoulders locked. Eyes unreadable.

Like someone yanked the emergency brake on his nervous system.

You blink up at him—too innocently.

“Well?”

Invincible swallows.

Hard.

Then—without lifting his gaze—he gives you the faintest nod and turns sharply toward a rack of completely unrelated flannel pajama pants.

He doesn’t even realize his hands are fists.

You watch his back as he stares at absolutely nothing.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, grinning. “You’re blushing under that stupid mask, aren’t you?”

He doesn’t respond.

Doesn’t even look your way again.

Not once.

Not even when you hold up a matching set in black with a little ribbon in the back.

Not even when you tell him to rate it from one to cardiac arrest.

From that point on, every time you ask for his opinion, he just stares at the floor and mutters a barely audible “fine.”

Which is probably the most fun you’ve had all day.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Mark doesn’t speak when you step beside him again, bags in hand and that satisfied, smug little hum slipping past your pretty lips like you didn’t just emotionally compromise the most dangerous man on Earth.

He should’ve flown you home faster—cut through the clouds like usual.

Sharp.

Efficient.

Clean.

Instead, he’s hesitating.

You’re standing close. Too close.

Looking up at him with that same soft, victorious glint in your eye.

Like you know.

Like you planned this.

And maybe you did.

You say nothing.

Just tip your head and wait.

So he steps forward, wraps an arm around your waist, and lifts off.

You don’t flinch. Don’t tense. You never do.

That’s the problem.

You fit too easily against him now. You lean in too naturally. Your fingers curl into the front of his suit like they belong there.

Like you’re the one holding him steady.

Mark flies slower than usual.

Lower, too.

He tells himself it’s for safety.

You don’t say anything for a while. Just rest your cheek gently against his shoulder and let the wind tangle your hair.

And god—he can feel you smiling.

Not the loud, chaotic one you wear when you’re teasing him. Not the fake one you use when you’re trying to act fine.

No.

This one’s small.

Tired.

Maybe a little too soft around the edges.

He doesn’t know what to do with it.

Doesn’t know what to do with the heat curling under his skin either.

With the way his brain keeps flashing back to white lace and red bows and the ghost of your voice asking, “This one’s super cute, right?”

He grits his teeth.

Tries to focus on flying.

But you shift just slightly in his hold—settling in closer—and suddenly his brain’s looping again.

That damn red bow.

That voice.

That smile.

By the time you reach the house, you’re quiet. Still humming something he can’t name.

He lands gently, sets you down even gentler.

Your hand lingers on his chest a second too long before you step back.

He should say something.

He doesn’t.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

But when you start walking toward the front door, he follows.

Silently.

It’s been 20 days.

And somehow, this feels more dangerous than any of them.

Mark’s still thinking about the way you looked in that shop light.

Still pretending he isn’t.

Still not sure what he’ll do when he stops.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Back inside.

No more noise. No mall music. No wind.

Just quiet—thick and still and a little too loud in your ears.

Invincible drops the bags by the door without a word.

You watch him start to leave—turning slightly, like he’s about to retreat to whatever broody superhero man-cave he disappears into every time things get too real.

You don’t blame him.

But before he can fully step away, your hand moves without thinking.

Just a touch.

Just your pinky—hooking gently around his.

His body stills.

No dramatic reaction. No flinch or jerk or sharp inhale.

Just stillness.

Like maybe that soft little touch short-circuited him harder than all the lace in the world.

You don’t say much. Just—

“Thank you.”

It’s quiet.

Real.

Tucked under your breath like a secret not meant for the air.

Invincible doesn’t turn.

Doesn’t pull away either.

For a second, the world feels like it’s holding its breath with you.

Then, slowly, you let go.

The warmth fades.

He walks away a moment later.

Slower than before.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

˗ˏˋ 𝓴𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓶𝒆 ˎˊ˗

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌Mark stares at the ceiling.

There’s no light. No sound. Just that same old hum from the vents and the quiet weight of everything he’s pretending not to feel.

He should be asleep.

But sleep never comes easy anymore.

Especially not after today.

Especially not with the ghost of your touch still curling along his skin like it belongs there.

It’s too much.

You’re too much.

Too soft. Too familiar. Too dangerous.

Too willing to look at him like he’s not a weapon.

Too willing to smile like he’s not something dangerous. Something sharp. Something wrong.

And god, the way you touched him—

Just a pinky. Just a tug.

But his body had frozen like you’d cracked straight through it.

Nobody touches him like that.

Not anymore.

Not gently.

Not without fear.

And you?

You keep doing it without even realizing.

Like it’s natural.

Like you don’t know what he is.

And that’s the problem.

Because you don’t know.

Not really.

You don’t know what he’s done.

What he’s capable of.

You’ve never watched a planet die. Never watched someone you loved die by your hands.

You don’t know that when he closes his eyes, sometimes he sees Nolan.

And sometimes he sees you.

Not broken. Not bloody.

Just… close.

Too close.

”Thank you.”

You whispered it like it was safe to say.

Like he was safe to say it to.

And he let you.

He let you touch him like that.

Let you mean it.

Mark’s jaw tightens.

He turns sharply, grips the pillow tight, squeezes his eyes shut like it’ll erase the way you touched him.

It doesn’t.

Because all he can see is that damn mall.

You.

Spinning in front of him. Smiling. Twirling.

Teasing.

Clothes hanging off your frame like you were modeling just for him—and maybe you were.

The way you posed. The way you asked him to rate you.

Mark breathes out slowly.

It’s reckless.

Dangerous.

Not because you’re soft.

But because he’s not.

And it’s getting harder to pretend.

Harder to act like you don’t matter when you keep showing up in places you shouldn’t.

In his thoughts. In his space. In that damn lace—

Mark sits up sharply.

Rubs a hand down his face.

“Ridiculous.”

His voice is hoarse. The word doesn’t land.

Because it’s not just the lingerie.

Not just the teasing.

Not just your damn grin when you know you’ve gotten to him.

It’s the fact that you’re not afraid.

And maybe that’s the most dangerous thing of all.

He doesn’t want to need you.

Doesn’t want to reach.

But god, if you held out your hand again—

Mark clenches his fists.

He won’t.

He can’t.

But still—

Mark doesn’t sleep.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

ᯓ❤︎ requested by: @lycheee-jelly

taglist sign up: 𓊆ྀིhere𓊇ྀི

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

[rainylana]

“Well, damn.”

Eddie Munson x female reader

summary: eddie finds you in the bath.

warnings: smut in the bath, language?

This was what you needed after a long day. Relaxation. The water was hot and full of bubbles, candles were lit and the lights were off. Your eyes were closed in pure bliss, the smell of your mint bubble bath wafting through your nostrils. You smirked when you heard Eddie’s can pull in, hearing the crank of the wheel and squeak of the tires, his metal music booming through your speaker, interrupting your peace.

You lifted your arm out of the tub to rest on the linoleum, white plastic, sighing as the cool air raised bumps on your skin.

“Baby cakes!” Eddie sang, slamming the door on his way in.

“In here, Ed!” You called back, chuckling to yourself at the endearment. You closed your eyes again, settling back into the water, rising up to your neckline.

“Well, damn.” You heard his voice, the creak of the door coming to a halt. “This is what I like to see after a long day.”

You opened your eyes and smiled when you found him. Black jeans, black tee, black, wild and curly hair and covered in jewelry. He had a goofy smile on his face that you matched.

“Hi, baby.” You you wiggled your fingers out to him. “Kiss me.”

He hurriedly fell to his knees and placed a loud muaw of a kiss on your lips, sitting cross cross on the bath mat in front of the tub. “Got any room in there for me?” He wiggled his brows, adjusting himself on the floor.

“No.” You gave him a pointed look. “You always climb in during my bath time. I’m trying to relax! Take a bath on your own time.”

He pursed his lips, faking annoyance. “I don’t like baths.”

“Yes, you do!” You chuckled. “You always take them with me.”

“Honey, it’s not the bath I like it’s the wet naked lady in there with me.” He flicked water at your face, making you flinch.

He flicked water at you a few more times before going in for another kiss, placing a hand on your glistening, wet breast and squeezing it. He massaged it as he kissed you, your wet tongues dancing together and slobbering up each other’s mouths. He let his hand slide down your stomach until it was underwater, a familiar heat between your legs starting to spark like a singular match.

His slender, ringed fingers ghosted and teased over your pussy’s entrance, sucking on your mouth and making you moan into him. “Still- want me t-to leave?” He said in between kisses.

“Huh?” He grabbed your hair and lifted your head back. “Answer me, baby.”

“No.” You batted your lashes. “Stay with me.”

“Uh huh, and what is it you want me to do?” He placed a sweet kiss below your ear, his tongue licking the warm skin.

“Touch me.” You breathed out, the warmth of the water and his teasing making you lightheaded. “Please, Eddie.”

He groaned at his name and lifted your lips back out to his, shoving his fingers inside tour pussy it made the water splash. He barely gave you time to adjust, fingering you roughly in the tub. You broke apart from the kiss, gasping and laying your head on his chest to lean against, your wet hair dampening his t shirt.

“Oh, God!” You cried.

“Try again.” He smirked, his fingers flexing inside your gummy walls. “Say my name again, sweetheart.”

You chorused his name in song, mewling and writhing in the water it splashed out the sides and soaked up the bath mad and his jeans.

His thumb found your clit, massaging in circles that sparked white hot threads of pleasure up into your body. He dipped his head and took your breast in his mouth, sucking on it and biting your nipple, the ends of his hair becoming wet. You coiled over, leaning against his body as you whimpered deeply, crying out for him as your body began to shake. “I’m gonna cum, Eddie!” Your voice shook, tears burning your eyes as you began to see stars.

His thumb pressed on your clit like a button, adding pressure that made your coiled stomach snap. You let out a sob, and he continued fingering you in the water until your body was slack.

[salty-tang]

favours owed (three-shot pt1)

Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Congresswoman!Reader

Summary: Congressman Bucky Barnes does not like owing favours, least of all to you.

congressman bucky x congresswoman reader (set just before, and crosses into the beginning of, Thunderbolts*)

Warnings/tags: EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, Porn With Plot, Explicit Sexual Content, Oral Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Teasing, Massage, Begging, Cunnilingus, Semi-Public Sex, Political Drama, No established relationship, Enthusiastic Consent, Female Orgasm bucky barnes may not know how to politic but he does know how to eat a lady out, Congressman Bucky Barnes, Congresswoman Reader, mild thunderbolts* (the movie) spoilers

A/N: this is the one that started it all! Pt 1 is mostly fluff, while Pt2 is explicit, please be guided accordingly! Despite this, tags and warnings apply across the board

favours owed masterpost || AO3 || congressman bucky masterpost

“I believe congratulations are in order, Congresswoman, on your re-election,” says newly minted Congressman Bucky Barnes, plucking two champagne flutes from a passing tray and tilting one towards you in offering. You almost jump – you hadn’t heard his approach, but you don’t let that show. Instead, it is with a smile that you take the offered glass by the stem and gently clink it against his.

“And to you, Congressman,” you return smoothly, taking a sip, letting the tart wine fizz across your tongue.

Your former conversation partner takes the cue and politely excuses himself, and you let him go without a second thought. Your attention is now fully on Bucky, who leans against the balustrade with practiced ease, raising his glass to take a sip. You watch as his Adam’s apple bobs with the swallow – an involuntary flicker of interest.

The mezzanine level of the Library of Congress’s Great Hall stretches out all around you. The marble underfoot, polished to a mirror sheen, is lit by golden sconces and towering chandeliers. The rotunda above bears frescoes and flourishes carved to evoke the gravitas of empire. Below, conversations thread like silk through the air as the new class of Representatives mingle with the old guard, moving through the space like dancers in a slow, deliberate waltz – close enough to brush shoulders, never close enough to trust. Every gesture choreographed, every smile part of the performance.

You’ve been circulating the room for the past hour, exchanging pleasantries, returning congratulations, keeping your distance where needed. Tonight is, nominally, a celebration of electoral wins. But you know it’s an early reading of the next session’s power map.

And now, here Bucky is – slipping in just before dinner.

What curious timing.

You wonder what angle he’s playing at. A bit of buttering up before a policy ask, perhaps? You’ve heard whispers about the shaky start he’s had adjusting to Capitol life. If you had to guess – committee placements, town halls, or the Affordable Housing bill. All things that could use a co-sponsor with a bit of reach. He leans casually against the balustrade and tips the glass back, and again your eyes catch the movement, smooth and deliberate.

He cleans up well, you think, as your gaze openly roams – his classic three-piece suit is cut to perfection, the dark fabric hugging his broad frame, coming to a taper at his trim waist, the tie just slightly loosened. Under the glittering light of the chandelier, his arctic blue eyes sparkle with something unreadable – mischief, perhaps. Ambition, more likely.

You are no slouch either, having been poured into a structured black Bottega Veneta gown with a sculptural one-shoulder neckline by your campaign manager cum personal stylist. The contour pipping down the front does most of the heavy lifting to imbue you with curves. An evening clutch, gold jewellery, and a pair of towering heels complete your look. You’re both dressed like the winners you are.

“I’ve heard great things about your campaign,” you say, when he doesn't immediately press the conversation forward. Curious. “The people of New York made a smart choice.”

Though his face does not red, you can tell he is not used to sincere praise by the way he splutters and fishes around for a suitable reply. You catch yourself hiding a faint smile behind the rim of your glass.

You are not praising him lightly.

When James Buchanan Barnes – of ex-Avenger, ex-Winter Soldier fame, a national security nightmare turned hero – announced his run for Congress, the reaction was predictably skeptical. Yours included. You, of all people, understand just how fickle New York voters can be on a good day. How could someone so publicly broken, so historically complicated, win their confidence? How could a man whose past made him part of the problem stand before Congress and claim to fight for the under-served and overlooked?

And yet, his team pulled off a near-miracle, reshaping a war relic into a viable candidate. He traded his tactical gear for tailored suits, and his blasters for policy briefs. Hit the ground running and didn’t stop until he got what he wanted.

Still, the polish never quite stuck. No amount of media training could sand down that roughness completely. He stumbled through press interviews, struggled to stick to talking points, lacked the finesse to spin when it counted (you’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little bitter about the double standard – you stammer once on an unplanned street interview and Fox News publicly castrates you. He stutters, and it’s endearing).

But that rawness? That was what made him dangerous. And likable. It’s hard not to root for an Avenger, even a reformed one with ex-Russian ties and a checkered past.

Eventually, as your paths kept crossing on the campaign trail, your scepticism gives way to something like respect. You decided his heart was in the right place; that when it came down to the bones of it, you actually didn't hate him.

(It also didn’t hurt that when asked which member of Congress he was most excited to work with, he’d said your name first)

And it definitely doesn’t hurt that he’s distractingly handsome, with a crooked smile that could destabilize nations.

You watch him now, still sipping his champagne, eyes scanning the mezzanine as if looking for something – or someone. You wonder why he came over at all if his mind is elsewhere. You're seconds from teasing him about who else in the room could possibly be more interesting than you – when he answers that question for you.

His gaze lands squarely on CIA Director Valentina de Fontaine, sweeping into the room flanked by her usual coterie of upper-echelon intelligence officers.

You’re standing so close to him, you feel the shift in his energy. He’s no longer just casually leaning on the balustrade – his posture has gone all stiff and alert. The spluttering shyness of a new Congressman vanishes, replaced by a freezing cold bloodlust that has alarm bells going off in your head. How did you forget that you were just casually trading compliments with one of the most dangerous men in the world?

You drain the rest of your champagne in one swift gulp as you try and plot out how to extract yourself from this situation.

Then, something clicks.

Snippets of gossip – months old whispers, really – about Valentina de Fontaine’s rumoured black-ops program she supposedly has been running under the guise of national security – suddenly align with whispers you’d brushed off at the time, that Bucky Barnes didn’t run for office to legislate, but to infiltrate.

Involuntarily, you suck in a breath at the magnitude of your realization.

Bucky’s head turns sharply at the sound, piercing gaze snapping back to land on you. You resist the urge to flinch (you’ve done nothing wrong). But the look in his eyes tells you your instincts are probably much sharper than you give them credit for.

If your suspicion is correct – and it’s hard to doubt yourself now – it would be the height of stupidity to stand between Bucky Barnes and his target.

Unfortunately, that’s when Valentina herself chooses to glance over, and curiosity flashes across her expression. You can see the wheels turn in her mind.

And just like that, your Irish exit evaporates.

Steeling your resolve, you place your now empty glass on the nearest ledge and gently pry Bucky’s half-finished one from his grip. He turns to look at you, caught off-guard.

Now, the best way out is through.

His confusion deepens when you sidle right up to his side as if this were just another networking chat and say in a mild, almost bored tone, “you’re acquainted with CIA director de Fontaine right? Would you mind introducing me? I’ve been meaning to make her acquaintance.”

He must be showing great personal restraint by not flinging you across the room for the sudden intrusion into his personal space, but there's still a frown on his face when he looks down at you and replies, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” you challenge lightly. “It would be good to say hello, for the future.”

He levels you with a look. “Trust me, you don’t want her in your future.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” you say, a little too breezily. “Oh look, here she comes.”

As if summoned, Valentina and her assistant break away from their entourage and head directly towards the two of you. You feel Bucky stiffen by your side, but a wave of calm washes over you. Verbal spars are your territory.

“Representatives,” she greets the both of you with a wide smile that does not reach her eyes as handshakes and hellos are exchanged all around. “Isn’t this cozy? I look forward to seeing more of you both.”

You open your mouth to issue insincere platitudes about maintaining warm and friendly relations, but Bucky is quicker – barely a breath ahead edging forward with quiet finality to plant himself between you and Valentina, blocking her from your view.

A beat of silence.

And then another.

You note the way his metal hand flexes slightly, all restless energy itching to be unleashed.

“I can’t wait,” he deadpans, and you watch with your heart in your throat as the two continue to stare at each other for longer than is reasonably polite.

This confirms it for you.

The standoff continues and you wonder (absurdly, briefly) if Bucky is going to slit Valentina’s throat where she stands, or maybe throw her off the balustrade, consequences be damned.

“Well,” you say when the tension becomes unbearable, “it is very nice meeting you, Director. Unfortunately, dinner’s about to start, and Congressman Barnes was just escorting me to our table. I’ll have my people contact yours – I’d love to speak with you about cybersecurity amendments.”

“Of course,” she says faintly, but she’s still studying you both, searching for whatever it is she’s missing. Mel steps up to hand you a card with her contact details.

Bucky’s still frozen in place, visibly confused by the entire exchange.

“Shall we, Barnes?” you say sweetly, flashing him a tight smile and giving him a look that urges him to play along.

Nothing has ever made less sense to him, but ever the gentleman, he obediently offers up his left arm for you to take. You slide right into the crook of his elbow, and you don’t miss the way Valentina’s eyebrow lifts, ever so slightly.

And then, just like that, you’re gone.

⁕⁕⁕

You lead him down the grand marble staircase toward the floor level, far away from Mel and Valentina. Round tables gleam under golden uplighting, each one meticulously set with crystal glassware and heavy cream linens. The soft murmur of conversation drifts upward from the crowd below, punctuated by the occasional clink of silverware and bursts of polite laughter. It’s a room built for history and performance–and you're walking through it with Bucky Barnes on your arm.

For a fleeting moment, the absurdity of it all hits you like a champagne high. Just hours ago, you were prepping talking points and rolling your eyes at fundraising targets. Now you're arm-in-arm with the most dangerous man in the room, playing escort like it's the most natural thing in the world.

But what draws your focus more than the terrible optics of this situation, more than the flash of cameras or the curious eyes tracking your descent, is the feel of him beneath your touch. You are too aware of him – too aware of the way your arm is looped through his.

You’d expected the cybernetic arm to feel alien – hard, cold, unyielding – but through the layers of tailored fabric, it’s warm, solid and heavy in a way that steadies, grounding you with quiet strength.

And Bucky?

Bucky is reeling.

He’d offered his arm without thinking–on instinct, maybe politeness–and then you took it, just as naturally. Now you’re walking beside him like you belong there. Like you’ve done this before.

And it’s killing him.

He doesn’t dare look at you, not directly. Not with the press watching and certainly not with Valentina’s gaze still burning between his shoulder blades. But from the corner of his eye, he watches you steady yourself against him, fingers tightening ever so slightly on his sleeve.

You trust him. Enough to walk beside him like this. Enough to let the world see it.

He tells himself it’s just strategy – optics and misdirection, a necessary performance. Still, deep down, a quiet part of him, the part he thought had long been dead and buried, lingers. It doesn’t speak loudly, but it quietly wonders if maybe, just maybe, this could mean something more.

It wants you to be more.

Your fingers twitch, tempted to press just a little harder. Maybe just to see if the strength you imagine there is real. Maybe to anchor yourself in a night that suddenly feels like it's spinning out of control too far and too fast.

You stop yourself, just barely. Because squeezing Bucky Barnes’ bicep like a nervous debutante at a cotillion would be wildly inappropriate.

So instead, you glance up at him from beneath your lashes, stealing one breathless second to admire the line of his jaw, the tension in his expression, and the sharp clarity in his eyes.

Your fingers twitch again, and for half a heartbeat he thinks you’re about to squeeze his arm.

Shame, he thinks, and almost hates himself for it. He has to force himself to keep his expression neutral. His jaw’s already too tight and his thoughts too loud. You’re close enough that he can smell the warmth of your perfume, catch the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Close enough to kiss.

And what really kills him is that you don’t even know what you’re doing to him.

At the bottom of the stairs, a photographer spots you both. “Representatives! Over here!” He calls out at the two of you.

You jump apart, as if suddenly slapped by the same chapter of media training. The camera clicks rapidly as the photographer bounces around the two of you, eager to capture the moment. You just know that he also managed to snap a picture of the two sharply dressed politicians descending together, side by side, looking uncomfortably like a couple.

Your left eye twitches just a bit. This will turn the Capitol’s gossip wheels for ages.

Bucky winces beside you. He already knows the chewing out he’s going to get from his communications director, but it’s hard to feel particularly regretful, especially not when for the most fleeting of moments, he got to have you on his arm.

Some people would say he’s stupid, and there are many days he’s inclined to agree with that, but he’s never ever been blind.

You’re so breathtakingly attractive (he’s ashamed to admit that he spent the better part of the actively avoiding you – talking to everyone but you – because he has no idea what to say). He can’t stay away; there’s this gravitational pull to you, and he can’t help to want to just spin around in your orbit.

He sees you trying to slink away, walk off into the crowd, but he has other plans. Pretty as you may be, there is something downright confusing about how you’re acting tonight, and he would like to hear explanations, quickly. The open floor is not the right place to have this conversation, and he gently catches your elbow –not hard, not tight, just enough force – and jerks you towards a quiet alcove off by the south corridor.

“Fewer eyes,” Bucky says quietly, tilting his head ever so slightly, and you follow the direction of the movement to see Mel watching the both of you with open curiosity from the balcony you had just vacated.

You hadn’t noticed that she was still standing there before, so focused were you on the moment and Bucky’s presence beside you.

It reminds you of how second nature this constant vigilance must be for Bucky – tracking bodies, cataloguing exits, watching every shadow. It must be exhausting to live like this, you think, as you glance up at him again.

He pulls you behind a large marble bust – some long dead president – and comes to a halt, satisfied that the both of you will not be seen or interrupted.

“Are you going to explain what that was?” he asks, jerking you from your reverie. “One minute you want to be introduced to Valentina, the next we’re running from her.”

“I should be the one asking you that,” you say, aiming for levity. “You two look like jealous exes sizing each other up.”

His stare shuts down your joke immediately. Not the time.

You sigh, arms crossing. “I want no part in your fight with Valentina.”

“How do you –”

You hold up a hand, silencing him. “I can do math, Barnes. And I’m willing to bet I’m not the only one. Congressman Gary’s numbers are better than mine, and he’s been looking at her sideways for months.”

He is blessedly quick on the uptake. Realization blooms swift and fast across his features, but then they narrow into deep suspicion. “I don’t get it,” he says. “You just said you don’t want in on this. but you ask to meet her. You’re telling me things you shouldn’t be saying out loud. Why?”

Your heart drops straight down into your stomach. Bucky can be incredibly intimidating when he turns the full force of his suspicion on you.

“I think it’s reasonable,” you say slowly, “not to want to make an enemy of the CIA. And I’m not ashamed to admit I’m a coward. If she puts a target on me, I won’t walk out of this unscathed. And…” you force yourself to hold his gaze and keep your voice steady, “I like the idea you’ll owe me.”

His lips flatten into a hard line. “I don’t like owing people favours. I can handle this my own way.”

“I’m sure you could,” you shrug. “But now that you know, wouldn’t it be smarter to use that knowledge instead of pretending you don’t have it? Or are you afraid of what I’ll ask you to do in return?”

Something in his jaw ticks, and you see that your comment has hit the mark.

For some absurd reason, it makes you laugh, a bright sound that is also sharp and self-depreciating. “Come on, Barnes. Have you seen yourself? Do you really think that I of all people could make you do something you didn’t want to do?”

“I think you vastly underestimate your persuasive abilities,” he mutters, and something in his gaze finally softens.

You snort. “Call it an occupational slip of the tongue then. The Capitol runs on favours, after all.”

Your words hang between the both of you, cynical and sharp, but not untrue. And you’ve been here long enough to know how to spend yours wisely. He’s still watching you, weighing up your words against some kind of scale. It makes you want to upset the balance entirely.

So you do.

“Let me share with you another a little fun fact. About myself, so don’t give me that look. Melissa Gold – Valentina’s assistant? We went to college together. She was a hell of an activist. Way more principled than me. She cared deeply about immigrant rights, if I remember right…”

He sighs again, scrubbing a hand down his face. The lines on his forehead wrinkle as he shakes his head. “I don’t like this.”

“I surmised.”

“I’ll find a way to pay you back.”

“You don’t have to,” you say gently. “If Valentina is doing what I think she is…this will be for the greater good. And I still believe in that – the greater good. Though,” you pause, “I’d like to think that if I ever get into enough trouble in the future to have to call in favours, you’d be a man of your word and come through for me.”

His eyes narrow again. His gaze is not unkind – just sharp, as if he’s trying to cut through all the layers of what you’ve just said to get to whatever is real beneath them. You meet his gaze, steady as you can muster, even though you are wound tighter than a spring.

You’re not sure when this conversation stopped being political, but you know you’ve crossed a certain point of no return.

“I don’t leave debts unpaid,” Bucky says finally, his voice low and certain.

There’s a weight to the promise that makes your breath catch. The atmosphere between the both of you settles into a kind of uneasy stillness. Not uncomfortable exactly, but suspended – like something’s shifted, just slightly, and neither of you are quite ready to name it.

You nod with a small smile of understanding. “Then let’s just hope I never have to collect.”

That was all you had to say on the matter, and you were going to broker no argument on it.

From somewhere nearby, the live ensemble begins a classical piece you can’t quite place. The music drifts softly through the room, muted but insistent. It softens the edges of the moment and briefly makes everything feel gentler than it is.

Dinner is about to start. You have only minutes before your absence draws attention.

You glance back at him. “We should go.”

He doesn’t move. Not immediately. But then, as you start toward the corridor –

“Thanks,” he says, quiet. Almost like an afterthought.

You don’t look back. “Don’t mention it.”

And you don’t.

Not yet.

⁕⁕⁕⁕⁕⁕⁕⁕⁕

-START-|| AO3 || pt 2 >>

[melestasflight]

mel i SO misunderstood the assigment

vinyamar, maglor, fingon, idril. <-prompt that follows the vibe

Turgon, Fingon, Idril & Maglor, summer festival in Vinyamar. Rated G, 550 words. By @polutrope and @melestasflight. On AO3.

“Of all our kin, did you have to bring him along?” Turgon growls at his older brother.

“Vinyamar shall be a city for all, a cultural melting pot of Beleriand, did you not say so yourself?” Fingon says in perfect imitation of Turgon’s own voice, moving his arms about as he does at public speeches, then laughs out loud when Turgon lifts his eyebrows in warning. “Oh come, little brother, cheer up! You well know that none can bring more life to a party than Makalaurë. Half of these people are here to see him perform.” 

“They are here because they take interest in building something new where we can prosper and grow as people.” Turgon has worked hard to ready the halls of Vinyamar for the summer harvest festival, the first to be celebrated in his new city, and he will be damned if a son of Fëanor steals the show. 

“Yes, yes, as you say,” Fingon waves a hand dismissively.

Unappeased, Turgon releases his grip on his brother’s shoulder and glares across the hall at the bodies clustering around the pavilion. The musicians expressly hired for the festival have cleared a space; Maglor directs them as though each were connected by a thread to his fingers, having them arrange his set-up just so. 

“Do at least attempt to look pleased, father.” Turgon starts, and looks back. Idril smiles wide, handing him a short glass of his favourite mint cordial, cleverly disguised as the much stronger liquor others have begun to pass around. “Vinyamar’s first summer festival is proving to be a much greater success than I ever imagined!” She takes a sip of her own drink, eyes crinkled and bright with amusement.

“Thank you,” he says, then: “Yes, I am sure, by the small hours of the morning when all are thoroughly besotted with drink, all will be singing my brother’s praises for ‘turning the mood around’.”

But Idril is only half-listening, watching the performance with glee, and Turgon follows her eyes. Fingon has joined Maglor on the stage, and has brought out some unusual Grey-elven instrument, the horn of some great beast, gilded and marked with holes like a pipe. Fingon blows a first sequence of notes, a fierce vibration of sound. He draws the instrument from his lips, laughing, and Maglor laughs with him. When they resume playing, it is to the accompaniment of stamping feet and, soon, the crowd clapping and singing along, swept up in the rhythm and merriment.

It is contagious, and Turgon cannot keep the smile from dancing over his face. 

“That is better!” Idril cries. “Here, will you keep this for me?” She shoves her drink in his hand; as she runs and leaps towards the pavilion, she hikes her skirts to her knees, baring the glittering silver filigree of her ankles, and dances joyfully before and around Fingon and Maglor’s playing.

Turgon may not understand his brother’s spirited excesses; he may resent Maglor’s enduring popularity; but, he finds such frustrations melt off his shoulders at the simple sight of his daughter dancing, so full of mirth and life.

He looks around, and finding no one is truly paying attention, Turgon downs his cordial, the rest of Idril’s drink, and strides over to join Idril on the dance floor.

[dhampling]

sunburn dadstarion, <1k

She runs in with cheeks flushed, head wet with a thin clad layer of sweat. Remnants from some form of cool treat dry on her chin. Plaits - neat this morning - loose now with tangles and damp as she beelines straight for his workroom. 

Face scalding as she buries it in his abdomen. 

“You’re getting muck on my shirt, little one.”

She mimics his words with a cutting tone as she burrows deeper, wraps even tighter around him. Smells like cloves and hot paving and the dry-sweet musk of city dust. As he presses a kiss to her head he feels the sun lingering in her hair. Little white cowlicks brushing his nose.

If he stills he can hear you out on one of the cast-iron chairs with a glass of red in hand, talking to a friend of some parental variety in the early evening heat. 

“You’re so cold” 

His heat comes from woodsmoke and yours from the sun. Both familiar to her. He could light a fire but you’d moan at him for it.

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

He pokes at her clammy arms with a fat laugh and she winces away, pulling a face.

“It’s hot.” She sneers. He quirks a brow.

“Sounds like a you problem.’

He lifts the last of her plaits and looks round at the ruddy blush beginning to bloom at the nape of her neck. She squirms at the ice of his fingers.

‘Run up to the washroom and get the cream. Quick.” 

You sit just beyond the window - he can hear your laughter, the muffled lilt of your voice by the climbing ivy. He imagines the ornate carafe - left to aerate all afternoon - rich and ripe as the wine within soaks on your tongue and darkens your teeth. Your loving grin. The little wave you’d do; the light clothes he’d spent all winter designing for you to sit out front and feel comfortable in, in spite of the sweltering sun. 

To throw a casual look through open shutters and see you out there again. A wink. A little sign that he’s thinking of you. 

Maybe he’ll head out, when the stars are newly minted yet the sun still lingers. Feel the iron sear his skin through his clothes. The warmth of your palm as it wraps around his forearm. 

It’s not until the youngling returns that his gaze shifts from the dark to her, a tired furrow on her brow. 

“I’m too hot.”

Her mouth hangs open in a wide pant. Astarion kneels before her.

“Have you had any water?’

No.

‘Right then.”

-

Hours pass and you shuffle back in with a thick-knotted shawl draped lazy over your shoulders, the singe of a giggle still whisper-light in your breath as your friend shouts their farewells.

“She burned today, you know.” 

He’s quiet as he stitches, merely an observation; thread between teeth. You sigh fondly in the doorway.

“She’s a child. It’s what children do.”

You bring your warm chalice to his mouth and he lifts his head to take a sip, humming softly. He looks up at you with a raised brow. 

“Get burned?”

“You morose bastard. Sun-burn. Children get sunburned.”

She’s lounging on his worn chaise, hair wrapped in towel, with a small bowl of plums at her side and a drawing pad atop her knee. Contented in new pyjamas and the cool dim of her father’s workroom.

The cream has seemingly worked. The cool bath you heard her splash about in not so long ago must’ve been some clever placebo work.

“Found some pretty beetles today, but wasn’t allowed to bring them in.” She speaks as usual with Astarion’s theatrical whine, riddled with fatigue. You roll your eyes affectionately.

“What were they like, darling?”

He’s preoccupied, stitching something small in the gilded embroidery he works at; but there’s the persistent glimmer of interest in his tone. The slightest tilt of his head as his eyes find her in the periphery.

“Really pretty. Different colours. All pinky and greeny.” She waggles her fingers and sighs with a start.

“Draw them for me?”

She looks at him warily as you watch on.

“Will you keep it if I do?”

At that, Astarion stops. A gentle halt. The needle and thread in hand gently tucked into the stitchwork. 

“I keep everything you do.”

You scoff. She looks at him with a tiny glare.

“Where is it then?”

“What?”

“All my drawings?”

“It’s where are they, darling.’ He chides, the smallest chit of his fangs.

You move to sit and your daughter lifts her head from the chaise, so it rests on your settled lap when dropped once more. The hint of a grin plays at his mouth.

‘And I keep them somewhere safe so when you’re old - like me - you’ll be able to look back on you now. You’ll be able to remember the beetles.’

He shuffles over to where you both sit, cross legged as he rests his chin on the chaise. Brings the back of a hand to her forehead and swears a sizzle as he pulls away.

‘Plus. I can’t see these beetles now, can I? My sunburn gets a fair bit more serious than yours in nature. I’d like to see them.” 

She pauses for a moment.

“Okay. But ONLY because you can’t go and see them for yourself.”

[emkayewrites]

Chapter 40 of my slow-burn, friends-to-lovers Lukola fanfiction. It's a few months before the Bridgerton S3 press tour and their relationship is getting interesting.

26th August 2023 – London (UK)

“Oh, Jaysus. I’m starting to take this weather personally,” Nicola muttered as she slid into the plush booth, her jacket slipping off her shoulders as she exhaled. The warmth of the bar wrapped around her, a welcome contrast to the crisp evening air outside. She had just returned from a sun-soaked winter in Sydney, only to find London already tipping into autumn.

“You definitely missed the standard three days of British summer.”  Camilla said with a sympathetic shrug, already halfway through her cocktail.

Around them, a soft hum of conversation filled the bar, muffled by the golden glow of pendant lights that swayed gently above each table.

“Anyway, you’re late,” Camilla added, nudging a menu across the table.

“It’s these bloody heels. Why do I do this to myself?” Nicola lifted one foot, revealing a pair of deep velvet platforms that were as beautiful as they were impractical.

Camilla laughed. “Because you have taste. And a flair for drama.”

She was effortlessly chic in high-waisted black trousers and a cream silk blouse that shimmered with every movement. A delicate gold chain rested at her collarbone, perfectly paired with bold red lipstick she wore like a signature. Nicola, by contrast, had chosen a midnight-blue wrap dress woven with subtle silver threads—a quiet mix of comfort and elegance.

“So,” Nicola said, reaching for the cocktail Camilla had already ordered for her—something citrusy with a hint of spice. “Tell me everything. What’s the latest on your side of the world?”

“Nah, we’re not talking about my mildly chaotic collaborations or my eternal battle not to check emails after ten,” Camilla said, shaking her head. “Not when the plot twist of the season is happening right here.”

Nicola laughed.

“I’m sorry, but I’m still digesting the absolute wildness that is your life right now,” Camilla continued. “You and Luke are basically imitating art.”

Nicola grimaced. “Can we not say that?”

“What?” Camilla arched a brow.

“Imitating art just makes me feel... weird.”

It was funny how some realisations hit you all at once.  As the words left her mouth, it dawned on Nicola that it was hard to confront the fact that their very private love story was also a very public love story.  Although she and Luke had not explicitly spoken about it, she knew the thought of their on-screen romance being compared to their off-screen relationship would not sit right with him either.

“Hmm.” Camilla pursed her lips thoughtfully at her best friend. “I was wondering how you were feeling about that side of it. I don’t imagine it will be easy to navigate.”

In that moment, Nicola felt more grateful than she had ever felt before for Camilla.  To have such a close friend who knew you so well but also shared the same industry as you and just understood your dilemmas was invaluable. 

“Understatement of the century.” Nicola took another sip of her drink.

“Well, is there a world in which your boyfriend being your on-screen boyfriend makes your life easier?” Camilla teased, flashing a mischievous grin. “Think of the brand potential! The collabs! Social media gold! That’s where the real money is anyway.”

Nicola narrowed her eyes. “Don’t.”

“What?  Look at Mollie Mae and Tommy Fury – minted and happy.”

She was clearly joking, but the image alone made Nicola queasy. She knew that she was feeling a deep love for Luke, and she was sure he was feeling the same thing for her.  She also knew that they were not interested in the idea of celebrity, they were both serious about wanting to be known for their craft and their craft alone. 

“I know you’re trying to be funny right now, but I might actually throw up and if I do, I’m aiming at it you.” Nicola grimaced, making Camilla chortle.

“I think you’re going to need laughter to get through this.”  She shrugged. “That and a bit of advice from the old Shondaland PR team.”

Camilla was right.  The production of Bridgerton was a very well-oiled machine, and every moving part was accounted for with some contract or another.  As season leads, she and Luke had signed and notarised a hefty tome that had every kind of stipulation you could think of – everything from ‘no physical alterations’ to ‘morality’ clauses.  There was a prominent section in there about dating one another which stated that it was something that had to be reported to showrunners immediately. 

Although she and Luke were already starting to feel apprehensive about publicly presenting as a couple, and the pressures that would place on them – neither of them had really thought about their contractual obligations.  Would the Bridgerton team even support them dating?  It was not unusual that a network might ask actors not to date especially when it might affect promotional tours and even more so when it might affect the way a fandom connected to a romantic pairing.  What would happen if they dated and then broke up as they started press for the newest season?  Would they have to fake being together for the sake of the show?  What if they stayed together and were going strength from strength as the tour kicked off?  Would they be asked to lean into it, to perform their relationship for the audiences whilst they were in civilian mode as just Luke and Nicola?  Was that the kind of relationship they wanted?  Luke detested sharing anything that was not work on his Instagram and although she was more laidback and happier to share parts of her day and personality on her own social media, even she had a limit.  Her closest relationships were the limit.  Her family were never featured.  She did not intend to feature her boyfriend.  Yet, it would become inevitable would it not?  Then there would be the scrutiny.  Not just of Colin and Penelope but of Nicola and Luke.

“If it means anything,” Camilla said gently, cutting through her thoughts, “I’m really happy for you. We like to act like we’re cynics about love, but seeing you like this? It makes my heart grow a little.”

This elicited a smile from Nicola. “Who said anything about me being happy?”

“Please.” Camilla rolled her eyes. ��You practically blush when I say his name “I mean, where did the script end and you guys begin?”

“You know, I think I forgot sometimes.” Nicola let out a deep sigh. “He’s got Colin’s heart but without all the misogyny and fancy tailoring – and he’s so easy to… it’s just so easy to like him.”

“Woah.” Camilla was wide-eyed as she drank in the dreamy expression on Nicola’s face.  She had never seen her quite like this before about a guy.  There was usually something unbothered and casual about her approach to dating and relationships but here, Nicola was most definitely bothered.

“So, what do you think did it?” Camilla leaned forward almost conspiratorially. “Was it filming all those sex scenes?”

Nicola could not help but to flush at this. 

“Oh, God, the sex scenes.” Nicola held her face in her hands.

“That good, huh?” Camilla chuckled.

“Something like that.” Nicola smirked. “Alright, can we get the spotlight of me?”

Camilla looked at her thoughtfully for a moment as she stirred the straw around her drink.

“You seem really… in love.” Camilla finally stated.

“Fuck, I think I really am.” Nicola admitted, a glint of fear in her eyes.

For a moment, they both sat there in silence listening the voices of the men a few tables behind them who were animatedly discussing cryptocurrencies and the stock market.

It was a big deal to digest the fact that she was in love with Luke and to do it out loud with one of her closest friends was really cementing it for her.  This was a real thing that was happening to her. 

Love. 

Being in love.

Being invested in someone. 

Trusting someone.

The only thing she could compare this experience to was with how Ezra used to make her feel.  The difference was that with Luke, she felt on steady ground, and things felt easy.  There was nothing unspoken, there was no tension.  It all just fit together and happened without much effort. 

“Sorry, pal.  I asked you out for a night of fun drinking and catching up, not to give you more to worry about.”

“No, it’s good.” Nicola reassured her. “It’s good to talk about this stuff.  Especially about the work side of things.  Luke and I have just… I think we’ve tried to avoid thinking about how it’s going to affect work.”

“Well, amen to avoidance.” Camilla held up her half-finished drink.

“Amen to avoidance… at least for another night.” Nicola agreed, meeting their glasses together with a clink.

--

Later that night, Nicola lay in her bed with Luke’s body curled against hers.  She was in a deep but troubled sleep with her forehead creased and her breath catching in little starts.

In the depths of her subconscious, she found herself on a bright red carpet.  Cameras flashed in every direction, a frenzy of light and noise.  She moved down the carpet, feeling disoriented.  She had no sense of what she was wearing or even what she was doing there.  In fact, she was feeling something she rarely felt anymore when she was out at an event – she felt self-conscious. Watched. Small.

Then suddenly, Luke was beside her, smiling that easy smile of his. He looked sharp, golden. Every part of him effortlessly camera-ready. He reached for her hand and laced their fingers together.

“You guys are a beautiful couple!” A female reporter declared.

“What’s it like dating Luke?” Another reported shouted at her.

"Luke’s girlfriend, give us a spin!" Another disembodied voice coming from somewhere.

She tried to open her mouth to answer but no sound came out.

The camera bulbs flared brighter. Her cheeks burned. She tried to step back, to let go of Luke’s hand, but it was like her feet were glued to the floor. The more she tried to pull away, the closer the noise, lights and people seemed to get. 

She knew she was dreaming.  She knew it was a nightmare.  Yet, she did not wake up.

Instead, she nightmare replayed itself over and over again.  Sometimes it started with her on the Bridgerton set being interviewed about Luke.  Sometimes she was on a red carpet again.  Yet, the theme was always the same: everyone around her had a hungry, obsessive need to know everything about her relationship with Luke, and no one was interested in their work as actors and more importantly, in her work as Penelope.

She woke the next morning to a migraine and bright light pouring in through her floor-to-ceiling windows.

Her mouth was dry and her eyes stung.

Luke was still in a deep sleep next to her.

She tried to shake off the uneasy feeling she had, reminding herself that alcohol and anxiety were never a good mix, and she had had quite the cocktail of both the night before.  Yet, the feeling was proving hard to shift.

She really hoped it wouldn’t linger.

(Excerpt taken from my fanfiction 'Curtain Fall')

[tinkerbelle05]

Spiderman Kiss: Miles

Genre: Fluff, Slightly Angsty

Summary:

Warnings: cussing (just 1)

Translation: mi sol = my sun

A/N: These were the same so I decided to put it in one post. Readers for both fics is black coded.

You knew that Miles was Spiderman for some time now. He told you on your 2nd anniversary, he was late yet again to the restaurant and you’ve had enough of it.

There was an argument, things you both regretted were said and you both felt horrible about it. In the end he came by your bedroom window with his suit on, showed off his powers, and explained everything to you.

“This is why I'm late for everything. It's not because I don't love you or that I don't care for the stuff that you care about. It's just something’s always happening in New York,” he explains to you.

You took it all in, and in a way it made sense. This was months ago now and the two of you fell into a routine of sorts.

He would disappear to go off being Spiderman but will try to text you so you wouldn't worry too much. And you will cover for him.

“Oh Miles, he had to go to the bathroom, Miss.”

“Oh he told me that there was some family emergency.”

“He was having some..issues.”

The constant lying was tiresome but you two made it work, somehow. It was nighttime when you heard the knock on your window, you were binging a show so time escaped you.

You walked towards the window with mild annoyance until you saw Miles at the window upside down from the thread of his web. Instantly your heart leaped out of chest, it's been a while since you've seen him. Now you were just slightly annoyed with him.

You unlocked and opened the window, cool breeze made it’s way into your room.

“What are you doing here, Miles? Isn't it a bit late?” You asked him, leaning against the wall. You two were close, really close.

“Uh well I missed you so,” he admits to you and he seems to notice how close you both are two, with his avoiding eyes.

You chuckle softly, “Yea I missed you too. Guess it's the price I pay for dating the Spiderman.”

He laughs at that, and your heart just aches. You missed his laugh, the comfortable silence that envelopes when you both are together, you missed him.

You grabbed his head and lifted his masks to reveal his lips. You kissed him softly. He smelled like laundry detergent and mint toothpaste.

“Oh, an upside down kiss, huh? Was that in your bucket list?” Miles joked and cracked a smile.

You rolled your eyes and poked his cheek, “Your the one hanging upside down and I just saw an opportunity then took it. Don’t act as if you didn’t like it.”

“Yea, yea,” Miles said. He went to open his mouth but then his watch thing started beeping rapidly. “Shit, I have to go.”

“Is it serious?” You asked. You were looking at the screening, it was flashing red which honestly doesn’t seem too good.

“Yeah it’s probably pretty bad out there. I should get going,” he admits and you can feel how disappointed he is. You feel it too. It’s been barely 15 minutes and he already has to go.

Guess it’s the price for dating Spiderman, or one of them.

You kiss him again, “It’s all good, Miles. Go, just come back.”

His smile came back, “For you, mi sol, always.”

Spiderman Kiss: Pavitr

Genre: Angst, Comfort

Summary:

Warnings: near death experiences, mentions of death

Translation: Piya = Beloved, Jaanu = Treasure

A/N: Yea the plot kinda expanded while I was writing. Oops 😅

You were falling. You remembered that. There were bits and pieces to your memory on how you got there. You remembered the rain, how cold it felt on your skin. You remember that it was dark, it was an alleyway. You remembered the villain of the week who kidnapped you.

Who dangled you off the side of the building where he dropped you from.

You were terrified.

“(Y/N)!” You heard Spiderman yell. He was scaling the buildings with his web shooters. His arms reaching out to grab you, any part of you.

Were you going to be saved? You won't die then?

But the ground was fast approaching and there was still a wide gap between him and you. And he was tired and bruised. His movements were slower and wilder. Desperate.

But it will be fast, the death. From this height, you’ll fall and that will be the end of it. At least you won’t suffer. At least your family and friends won’t suffer. Mom, Dad, Pavitr.

There won’t be any agonizing months in the hospital. Them praying to any god that’ll listen that you will survive this. At least they won’t suffer like that.

“I got you!” Spiderman yelled out you and you fell into a web. Relief washed over you in waves and tried to catch your breath. “Are you okay?” He cradled your head softly, his fingers grazing your body gently as he looked you over for injuries.

He looked scared, and you could understand it. Watching someone die wasn’t an easy thing to deal with. Especially when your the one saving them but despite that there was something odd in the way he was acting.

“Um Spiderman?” You looked at him quizzically because while his hold on you calmed your nerves, you really should get to the hospital. And call your parents. And Pavitr.

He practically jumped away from you, “Oh, um I’m sorry.” He looked away and laugh awkwardly. “I called an ambulance so they should get here soon. Let me help you down.” He extended his hand to you which you took and with careful, slow steps you made your way down.

It felt good to be on solid ground again it helped calm your heart down a bit. Then the ambulance came and whisked you to the hospital.

Thankfully you didn't have anything serious going on, just cuts and bruises. The doctors said they wanted to keep you for a day, just to make sure. Your parents called every two hours. The city’s brigde was damaged serverly by the villain of the week so they couldn't be there with you, unfortunately. And no matter how many times you called or texted Pavitr, he wouldn't answer. You hoped he wasn't hurt.

It was very lonely but you promised yourself that you wouldn’t cry if you do then you won't stop. In the midst of your misery, you heard the tapping from the window. You saw Spiderman hanging upside down, he gave you a little wave.

You walk over to the window and open it. You were surprised to see him but it wasn't unwelcome. Plus it was nice to be around someone that wasn't a nurse or a doctor.

“Hi Spiderman, are you okay?” He looked a bit tattered and beaten up. His hair, which was usually smooth, was now dirty and sticking all over the place. His suit had cuts of all sizes.

He scratched the back of his head, “Um, actually I was going to ask you that. That fall, um, it seemed terrifying and I wanted to check up on you.”

You leaned back a bit. You couldn’t understand it but there was something off about Spiderman. Was his voice cracking?

“Oh thanks, Spiderman. You visit everyone you save?”

“Huh, well I try to,” he told you. “May I come in? I have some important to tell you.”

You widen your eyes at that because what could Spiderman possibly have to to tell you. You nod your head even though you were still confused. You walked backwards some to make room for Spiderman.

He sighs and paces a bit. He doesn’t say anything but you could tell he was nervous about whatever he has to tell you.

“I’m sure it can’t be too bad,” you attempted to encourage him. His nervousness was started to make you nervous.

“Okay, I’m just going to say it,” he told you with his back turned to you. “But please don’t freak out when I do, okay.”

“Um okay then.”

He takes off his mask and turned around.

Your knees almost gave out when you saw his face. It’s a face your familiar with, it’s Pavitr. Standing right in front of you in Spiderman’s suit. Or well his suit you guessed.

“So your…?” You couldn’t get the words out. That’s why Pavitr wasn’t answering your calls because he was too busy fighting villain after villain. You look at him again.

He had a bloody nose and bruised cheek. And the scars on his body looked worse under the harsh bright lights of your hospital room.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I wanted to tell you so many times but it just never seemed like it was the right moment.”

You walked over to him and you could see the tiredness in his eyes. You hugged him and he melts into your arms. He was so strong. Dealing with all of this by himself. But god you are still screaming on the inside. You had millions of questions but Pavitr, he didn’t look well.

“You have nothing to be sorry about Pavi,” you comforted him and walked him over to your bed. You noticed how he was limping and winced.

“What are you doing?” He asked and looked at you in confusion.

“Fixing you up,” you responded. You had to do something. He looked terrible and well you are still freaking out that your boyfriend is Spiderman. So you will help him the only way you can.

You found the first aid kit and started to clean the blood off of Pavitr’s cheek. You tried being delicate when you saw him flinching a bit.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated again but quieter this time. “I thought I could do this on my own but I was wrong.”

“It’s okay,” you told him. “There is no reason to be sorry about anything, Pavi.” You were about to kiss him but his watch thing started bleeping rapidly.

He glanced down at his watch and got up immediately, and you followed him.

“Pavi, where-. Where are you going.” You grabbed on to his arm. He was hurt and still wanted to go back. Why?

“Jaanu, I have to go. The city needs me,” he argued.

“Your still hurt! You could get more hurt, you could die,” you protested.

He stopped at the doorway, “I know, Jaanu, I know. But someone has to protect Mumbattan. I can't promise I won’t come back hurt, but I will promise that’ll come back to you. Haven't I always come back to you?”

You were taken aback but his speech because he was right. He'd always came back, and that’d have to be enough for you. For now.

You’ve loosen your grip on his hand but couldn’t let go until he was oh the balcony. He shot up webs (You’ve always wondered how that work. You’d ask Pavi when he come back to you) and hung upside.

You stared at eachother for a while before you thought of something bold. You got close to the railing and took off Pavi’s mask. Just revealing his lips, and kissed them.

“What was that for? Good luck?” He joked, a smile gracing his face. It was nice to see him smiling.

“Yea, something like that,” you replied and putted his mask back on.

He gives you a playful salute and slings off into the darkness.

When you go back inside of your room and lay on your bed, it finally hits you.

My boyfriend’s Spiderman.

Tags: @dunghirse, @nagi3seastorm, @butterfi, @hoeboat101, @randomhoex, @dreamxcollide, @shibble, @sleepdeprivationis4coolkids, @somber-starz, @maypersonne, @hoeboat101, @rosebunny, @midnight-the-shadow-wolf, @mur-docs, @eight-cats-in-a-box, @emgavi, @sawi-06, @707xn, @niktwazny303, @nagi3seastorm, @ghostsimp000, @cloudstrifefantatic, @vixqn, @yourtsahik, @spider-bren, @im-jisoo-im-okay, @andhdi68a, @itstooearly-its3am, @universallypeanutpizzapersona, @sodapopzds, @avatarl0v3r, @randomhoex, @nerdyparker616, @1uvvmi, @keawio, @centipider, @ellatienesuscosas, @m4rihrts, @jell0buss-37, @baddiebehaviourxx, @laylasbunbunny, @minimari415, @gw3ndyswonderland

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Which did you like more? Miles or Pavitr

[profilemd]

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[lagncx]

stink bomb kisses

Astarion x zombie reader

• In the heat of battle astarion brings out a zombie to help his comrades

• you were the zombie brought back ready to defend your new purpose, Astarion!

•After the battle and you surviving Astarion can’t help but adore you. Like a lil puppy that follows him around. It could be because he has someone to control but also just cause why not show off a zombie freind

• you don’t mind, in fact your super smart. Minded you stumble over words or drop your tongue through the rotting holes of your jaw sometimes so you get a bit tongue tied but astarion has been re-educating you on pronunciation with your tongue twister situation.

•Some of you is still there like your brain and your drop dead good looks. Just a bit green and stinky

• sometimes When following Astarion to a camp gathering Gale or well…most of the time it will always be gale who asks “Astarion why are you keeping the damn zombie around?” And Astarion will scoff “Their name is <❤️> and you will respect them. Ain’t that right darling you tell mean ol gale you are a person too. And after looking between the two you let out a little grunt nodding your head to which Astarion crosses his arms and lifts his chin smirking in victory at Gale

• the others were nice though they wanted you to stay far away. The smell was getting pretty~ badddd…but you thought it was fine cause Halsin would make you necklaces. He said “here’s a necklace with mint and eucalyptus. It’ll uh-…give you luck” and you felt so good you gave him a hug. Squeezed so hard the indent of his clothes had been on your soft…decomposing skin for a while

• Astarion though he loves you does not kiss you. He loves his knight so much but not that much. Honestly the relationship between you is seen as a queen and attack dog. But after learning to speak Astarion and you will always have conversations especially when he’s feeling paranoid about Cazador sending people to capture him.

• “awe stink. You have it easy, you’re already dead and well…your you.” He said taking the needle with the black thread and stitching the deep tear in your jaw that was hanging on by a thread your drool dripping out onto the dirt ground under you with soft plops. “I have all these strong freinds but it’s like I’m a huge risk. What if they lose their lives trying to protect me. Maybe I’m putting a burden on everyone.” He chuckled “Weird of me to feel guilty for using people as protection.” He said but looked up at you the way your glossy eyes focused on the night sky above you both. He sighed “Guess I should say I’m sorry for turning you into some zombie lap dog.” He frowned cutting the thread and letting his hands rest in his lap. You looked at him “I’ll always…protect astarion. Alive…or not.” You groaned “Your a good luck star…nobody gets to hurt you.” Astarion just sighs and blows a kiss your way and you do it back the whiff of your rot throwing him off only for a second.

•When astarion falls in love with someone you’re there watching. Seeing the way they kiss and hug….though you only focused on how he was so happy. Finding someone to make him happy and feel safe. More than you ever could. Plus who were you kidding you’re a zombie. It could never work out. You felt your cold still heart break.

• Astarion searched every where for you. He was planning on saying goodbye and getting rid of you. Seeing how slow and unfocused you were during fights recently. He felt you were old and tired to throw in the towel

•Astarion found you just the same when he brought you back. A pile of viscera. Astarion cried for hours he wasn’t able to say goodbye.

•u died of a broken heart.

hiii this is acc brain dump thought of it from something I forgot but yeaaa. Enjoy it I hope you guys mess with my first headcanons post

[magpiepills]

Game Over

Rating: EXPLICIT 18+ MDNI

Pairing: SNL Mario x Princess Peach! Reader

Word count: 2.3

Summary: a friendly wager over the Star Cup leads to an unexpected victory.

Warnings: pegging, anal fingering, dirty talk, drinking, flirting, butt plugs, use and abuse of video game imagery, crack fic, probably cringe. No use of y/n, reader is princess peach, but her hair, skin and body type aren’t described.

A word from the author: This is a repost! Here is my bonus contribution to the Peg That Middle Aged Man Campaign! I love this fic. This may be one of my favorite things I’ve ever written. I was giggling like an idiot the whole time I worked on it, and I’ve been dying to finally share it. Yes, it is crack, but I think it’s also kinda hot?

“You lost, Mario,” You said, running a gloved finger over the shiny button of his overalls “you know what that means. I’ll come find you later.” You winked at him over your shoulder and went to celebrate your win.

He had barely gotten out of his kart, angry at himself for losing, angry that he couldn’t react as quickly as he used to, couldn’t dodge banana peels fast enough to keep you from speeding by, a blur of pink in his peripheral.

You took your victory lap, waving gleefully from your kart, and accepted your trophy under a flurry of confetti. No mere cup could bring you as much pride as collecting your winnings from Mario, though.

Mario had accepted defeat graciously, you had won fair and square. You’re an honest woman, a good woman. Even though his cock ached at the sight of you sauntering toward him in the garage, he wanted to go back on his word, travel back in time to take back the bet, to wager something, anything else. Mario knew it was useless. He had already let his secret slip, let you know his secret desire, and now you were going to collect, going to give him everything he wanted and there was no going back. Game over.

•••••

Mario was handsome, much better looking up close where you could see the true depth of his brooding eyes, see the gray threading through his mustache, the way dirt and grease seeped into his denim and smell the engine grease, sweat, and mint that cling to him. You’d wanted him for ages, danced around each other, teasing, hinting, exchanging glances, never quite finding the right time to hook up. He was so quiet and earnest, you were exuberant and bold. Fire and water, to be certain. What do Fire and Water make if not steam, though and last night the pot was about to boil over when you’d met up with a few other drivers before the Special Cup race. Friendly wagers weren’t uncommon and everyone was in high spirits after a tough series of other races. Competition was fierce and only the best of the best were left.

Glasses were filled and drained and filled again, and you were feeling buzzy and alive when you spotted the sometimes plumber on the outside of the small crowd. His eyes were shiny and his cheeks and chest were flushed pink from so many toasts to his opponents. He raised his glass when your eyes met, drawing you to him. “Luigi just bet an entire week’s pay on the first race.” He teased. Luigi was swaying on his feet, smiling and holding Yoshi for balance. “What did you wager, Mario?” You asked, knowing as well as he did that Luigi wasn’t ever going to beat Mario. “Told him I’d give him the business if he won.” Your jaw dropped in faux surprise, and you smacked him lightly on the arm. His arm. Maybe you’d drank a bit too much too, but it was so solid you couldn’t help but let your hand linger, squeezing it gently to feel the solid muscle. You didn’t know how long you’d stood there, gazing at his bicep, studying its strength, imagining it hooked under your knee, or lifting you against a wall, until you heard him speak. “What about you, Princess? You want to make it interesting too?” He was smirking down at you, lust glinting in his eyes.

“Yeah. Let’s make it interesting Mario. What do you want to bet?” You smirked back, tilting your head playfully, your little crown slipping to the side just slightly before you right it.

Mario adjusted his stance, squaring his shoulders and letting you drink in the great size of him, his height, the broadness of his shoulders, the taper of his waist evident even under his overalls, the softness of his belly, grown from a fondness for meatballs and pasta. His strength was tenfold, strong enough, you thought to punch through bricks if he wanted. “If I win, I’m gonna take you out, and you’re gonna let me show you a real good time.”

His words gave you a chill that run up from the base of your spine and made your scalp tingle, leaving you a little breathless. “Yeah? And if I win, then what?” He grinned, placed a wide hand on your ruffled waist “I guess you’ll have to show me a good time.”

You could have left it at that, a flirtation without teeth, but you needed more. “What’s a good time to a guy like you, Mario?” You desperately wanted to know now.

“C’mere, I’ll show ya.” He tugged you down a dark hallway, into the shadows, where the music and the laughter and the voices were dampened by wood paneled walls. Your hand felt small in his and for a moment his thick fingers grazed over your gloved ones, admiring the delicate fabric, how smooth and soft it was, how clean and bright it was, never a smudge of oil, not a single red drip from your glass. They were pure and pretty, just like he liked to think of you, his Princess Peach.

There in the dark he locked you into a kiss, scratched by his mustache and soothed by his tongue, you could only let go and let him take you.Hiking your skirt higher, he nipped at your neck. He kissed wetly along your jaw, and breathed into your ear just as you felt the solid heft of his hard cock come to rest over your clothed cunt. Even under his overalls you could estimate his size. “Is that a pipe in your pocket?” You tease, rolling your hips against him.

Mario hummed. “I’m a plumber, Princess. Lay a lot of pipe. Good at it too.” He continued to kiss you, grunting in frustration at the voluminous skirt keeping him from getting his hands on your ass. “Fabric.” He mutters. “Impractical.” You lean back, smiling at his eagerness and the hunger in his eyes. You gathered the fabric of his very practical overalls at either side of his hips, pulling the material taut over his straining cock. He rocked his hips forward, begging for release. You wondered what he was wearing under there. It would be so easy to find out, just unclip his straps and they'd probably fall to his ankles. Your mouth watered, but senses prevailed and you remembered your wager. “And when I win, Mario? Are you going to let me bring out my pipe?”

You didn’t really expect it would happen. Sure, Bowser loved bouncing on your cock, let you take him all over the castle, begged for it. “Fuck me, Princess, please!” He bellowed. Mario though? For lack of a better term, you never pegged him as one to let a woman dick him down. You fully expected to suck his cock or let him fuck you hard and fast, maybe take your panties as a bonus prize. Here he is though, lips parted, eyebrows furrowed. “That what you want, Peach? You think you can give it to me right?” His voice grew deeper and you knew the surprise was written over your face. “Know I can. I think once you get it you’ll throw every race just to get it again, too.”

That had your opponent groaning and bucking against you, hard and leaking.

You licked your lips, quickly flicked your gaze from his eyes to his lips and back again, and leaned close to let your lips brush the shell of his ear. “Save it for the race, Mario. Better get a good night’s rest.” And with that you slipped back out into the raucous crowd, little crown bobbing along with each step across the room and out he door, gone before he could respond.

•••••

In the dark, warm garage, you found Mario wiping down his kart with a rag, his movements slow and practiced, methodical, buffing until the red paint gleamed, reflecting the moment he saw you standing behind him. He tossed the rag into a bin and smiled, lopsided and a little shy. He shifted his weight and wiped his hands on his pants. “Here to make good on the wager or you want to go double or nothing?”

“I want my prize now, Mario. Unless you’re going to renege.” Your voice was soft and sweet, and as you spoke you closed in, helping yourself to a generous feel of his chest, his biceps, and down his strong forearms before you pulled them around your waist and stood on the tiptoes to reach up for a kiss from his hot and willing lips.

His kiss was searing and deep, you’d like to stay locked with him like this forever, but there was business to attend to first. Deftly, you unsnapped the hooks holding up his dusty overalls, letting them sag low on his hips.

Mario’s head spun. He had given the race his all, determined to bury himself in you to the hilt and fuck you mercilessly until you screamed his name and soaked his cock. He was certain of his victory, but something in the back of his mind gave him pause. A little what if…

And so when you spun the defeated man around, guiding him to lean against the hood of the kart and reaching between his endearingly small ass, you found he was ready for you. Throughout the race, Mario had worn his favorite butt plug, the one that fit with just the right stretch and was adorned with a happy little golden star atop the flared base.

Your heart pounded. He had prepared for you. He knew you were his most formidable opponent and he knew he could very well lose. Your heart sang in your chest. Holding back a delighted giggle, you tugged gently at the plug, making him moan and sigh. You steadied him with a hand on his hips and carefully worked the plug free, tossing it into the bin with the rag, more clean up for later.

From your purse, you fetched a small bottle, laying it on the hood right where Mario could see it, then stepped out of your full, ruffled skirt, revealing that you, too, were prepared. You’d driven to glory with the red and white polka dotted cock resting heavy on your thighs, hidden by your skirt, but urging you to your win, reminding you what awaited. You took the bottle and drizzled the cool green lubricant into your hand. Mario watched, eyes fixed on your strap on. Only closing them when he felt you press one, then two fingers into his tight ass. Gently you stroked him, letting him adjust to you, letting him push back onto your hand with a soft whine.

With every move, his overalls clinked against the side of the vehicle, soon drowned out by his wanton moans and curses. “Fuck, Peach. Fuck, ohh..”

“How’s that feel, baby? That good? Do you need more?”

Mario nodded, swallowing thickly, breathing heavily.

“More. Please.”

You shoved his red shirt up his back and kissed along his spine, easing in a third finger. As he relaxed into your movements you found a rhythm, fucking him with your fingers, praising him, kissing him anywhere you could reach, and taking his big, callused hand when he reached for yours.

When you felt him begin to clench, you pulled away. “No, Mario. You’re not coming yet. Don’t you dare.” You didn't win this race to just finger his asshole. You coated the mushroom head of your silicone cock and nudged it against his warp zone. “You gotta come on my cock. You want that, baby? Want me to fuck you now? Really properly fuck you?”

Again he nodded, and you smacked his ass. “Need to hear you say it, Mario. Do you want my cock?”

“Yes. Yes. Want you to fuck me, Princess. Please. Fuck!”

Desperation looked good on him, but so did euphoria, so you guided your thick, dotted cock into him and watched in awe as the ring of muscle stretched to take you, pulling you in, it seemed. Aided by the generous drizzle of thick, green lube, you rocked into him until your hips were flush with his ass. You stayed there, letting him adjust, head dropped forward, letting the pleasure wash over him.

He felt so full. His cock dripped precome down the gleaming side panel, and he began to move his hips, winding them a little back and then a little forward, slow and steady, “Move for me, Peach. Fuck me. I can take it.”

You increased your pace, fucking his ass a little harder, a little faster, a little deeper, but keeping control. “Doing so good for me, Mario.” You praised. “Look so sexy taking this cock. My pussy is so wet. Do you know what you do to me? Letting me fuck you like this? Taking my pipe?” Your words and praise swirled in his mind and suddenly your hand was around his cock, stroking him, twisting with each pass up his shaft as you buried your cock deep and gave only shipper, pulsing thrusts. “Need you to come for me. Come and I’ll let you eat my pussy.”

His orgasm was instantaneous, thick ropes of spend dripped down the side of his kart, desecrating the shiny finish, but he didn’t care. He slumped forward as you slipped out of him, sated and happy, aching in the best way.

You came back, kissing him again, passing him a clean cloth to clean himself up, thanking him for an invigorating race and an unforgettable night.

Hopping up onto the hood, you laid back, wearing your gloves and crown and nothing else, “You finished first this round, Mario. Now it’s my turn.”

He spread your knees with strong hands, “Let’s a-go!”

[moonbeamsandmayhem]

MDNI 18+

a/n: some dom/sub undertones, slight body dysmorphia but eddie is having none of it, fingering - if i missed anything please let me know ;)

You laid back against Eddie’s chest, eyes closing as he kissed and gently nipped at your neck.  He relished in the way your steady breathing would occasionally hitch as he would suckle skin between his lips and teeth, then lath the hot marks with his tongue.  You could feel the ghost of a smirk curling the corners of his mouth.

“Rough day?” he murmured between kisses, lifting his head. He captured your chin with his hand, cupping it gently so he could look you in the eye.

“Mhm.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

You shook your head.

He ran a calloused thumb over your bottom lip, “Words, babe.”

“No… or at least, not yet.”

“Anything I can do?”  He was looking at you, deep brown eyes searching your gaze, his tone utterly serious.

You held eye contact for a beat, your breath catching again.  “I want to forget for a while…”

Another beat.

”I can help you do that...”  He gives you a devilish smile, all mischief and mayhem.  “You want me in control, hmm?  You want me to fuck your brains out until you can’t cum anymore, babe?  Is that it?”  A kiss.  “Until you’re screaming?”  And another. “No thoughts, just pleasure?”  Before you could even string together a response - he devours you.  

The kiss is frantic and messy and full of heat.  He tastes of fading mint, tobacco, and stolen sips of alcohol combining into an intoxicating array.  You kiss him back with equal fervor, tongue gliding and teasing over him, daring to nip at his lips.  Your hands grip the denim vest and his fingers thread into your hair, tugging just enough to sting.  His eyes flash and you feel a shiver run the length of your spine.

You exhale a shuddering breath, a soft note of desperation in your voice as you break apart, “Yes, Eddie.  Please.”  Your cheeks color.  Your core throbbed, the wetness between your thighs damn near unbearable.

Eddie nods, mission clear.

“You beg so sweetly, doll.  Can’t wait to hear more before the night is out.”  He wets his lips.  “Strip.  And take it slow.  I wanna enjoy the show.”  He presses a last fleeting kiss to your cheek before laying back and lighting a cigarette as you move from his comforting embrace.

You suddenly feel yourself go shy, even after all this time; as if a spotlight had been shone right on you.  No matter how many times you made yourself bare for Eddie Munson, you were acutely self-aware of your body.  The stretch marks that adorned it and any other ‘flaw’ you deemed to nitpick that day.  But Eddie was having none of it, immediately sensing the change in your temperament.  He stamps out the newly lit cigarette and moves to you.

Wordlessly, he helps you lift the shirt up and over your head and then undoes your bra with ease, tossing it aside.  You couldn’t quite meet his eyes and Eddie hums in disapproval.  He grasps your chin tilting your head back to look at him.  “No hiding.”  Rough fingers trace over the stretch marks on your stomach, eliciting a soft whimper from you.  “You’re goddamn gorgeous.”  He leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “And you’re all mine.”  His hands work their way up from your waist, back over your stomach, and stopping short, just under the soft, plush, curves of your breasts.

“If I reach down and slip my hand into those pretty panties, are you gonna be soaked?”  His thumb swipes over a nipple, brow lifting inquisitively.

“Y-yes.  All for you.  Every last drop.”  You felt yourself clench around nothing, the anticipation causing you to squirm a little in his grasp.

“Fuck, and that’s just from me talkin’ a little dirty to you?” He let out a soft whistle, hand slipping past the waistband of your skirt, fingertips dancing over the evident dampness.  He coos whispering a sweet nothing then bites down hard on your neck.

The suddenness of it rocks you, sending a jolt to your cunt.  “Holy shit.”

“Language.”  He chastises sucking hard, before attacking the rest of your chest.  His mouth was warm and wicked, leaving marks all along the swell of your breasts that would surely be there for weeks, but Eddie didn’t seem to care.  He pulls your underwear to the side, a lone fingertip dipping passed your lips, running from your entrance all the way to your clit.  He wraps a secure arm around your waist, kissing slowly and sloppily along your jaw.

“Stand here and take it, babe.  I want you to cum just like this, half-naked and desperate and so fucking beautiful, clinging to me like a god damned lifeline.”  Another finger adds itself to the mix and you bury your head against his neck, a string of curses spilling from your lips as he slips both of them inside of you.  He lets them rest there as his thumb draws slow circles around your clit.

“Eddie…” You whine pathetically.

“What?” His lips brushed over your temple; you didn’t have to see his face to know he was grinning like a maniac.  He loved watching you slowly go to pieces.

“Please - please.  I need you.” His fingers curl just so and your knees buckle a little.  

His grip tightens. 

“You have me.”  He laughs breathily as his fingers began to move, lewd, wet, sounds filling the air.  Normally, you would have been embarrassed- mortified, even.  But it was a relief to have him finally give your pussy the attention it needed.  You claw at his still-clothed back, moaning his name, blindly finding his mouth and kissing it messily.  You look at him from beneath your lashes and your breath catches.

Eddie was flush with pale pink, his eyes dark as they stared into yours.  His lips parted in awe, as he found the spot that turned your moans into desperate screams.  His thumb moved faster as he felt your walls begin to flutter against his fingers. “Not yet.  Don’t you fucking dare.”  His thumb and fingers still and you slump against him, trying to reign yourself in.

“E- Eddie? Why? I was s-so close.” You whimper into his shoulder, tears pricking the corners of your eyes.  He ‘shushes’ you softly.

“I know baby, I know.  But it’s too tempting to play on the edge.  To have you begging…” He groans and you can feel the evidence of his own arousal pressing up hard on your thigh which only adds to your longing. 

You both stand there in your bedroom, the sun’s burnt orange light spilling in and washing over you.  You breathe each other in, waiting for your hearts to stop their frantic beat.  Then, and only then, when Eddie was satisfied that your high had nearly ebbed away, did he start to move his fingers again.

He did that four more times; catching you just before your knees gave way, with the promise that the next time he’d let you cum.  But cruelly, he’d just leave you there, teetering on the edge, watching your beautiful eyes shine with tears.  He kisses away the ones that would spill down your cheeks and swallows the moans when it all becomes too much. 

“Cum for me.”  He growled.

His thumb worked overtime, his lips capturing yours as you finally came around his fingers, gushing over them as your walls fluttered and kissed his knuckles.  The white hot pleasure ripped through you mercilessly, taking over every fiber of your being.  You couldn’t think all you could do was submit to absolute abandon.  “Oh God!” 

“No God here, just the devil, sweetheart.”

tagging: @wroteclassicaly

[justbelievinginmagic]

ariadne's thread ⎯ pt. 5: forwards is backwards.

pairing(s): hyunjin x fem!reader, jisung & fem!reader series summary: when tempted by an intoxicating offer by hyunjin the goblin king of the underground, you fight against him to find your own sense of self once more while in his labyrinth. glimpse: With your new fae guide, Han, leading you upwards from the dungeons, you find yourself tangled up in the Gardens of the Labyrinth - will you be able to face the challenges of the twisting courtyards or the ever-present mysteries of your untrustworthy Labyrinth guide? warnings/tags: inspired by the 1986' movie Labyrinth, follows majority of the movie's plot points with lore divergence, 3rd person POV, use of Y/N, mentions of drowning, man-eating plants, bickering, violence, strong language, faerie lore!!, fear, hyunjin isnt present in this chapter but han and yn bonding!! let me know if there needs to be more tags! word count: 6.0k previous chapter <- -> next chapter series masterlist

“So, you know the dungeons pretty well, Han?” the Runner prompted.

The sigh that bubbled out of him was loud. His head lolled back all the way and he shut his jeweled eyes. Drama queen. They’d been walking for only a few minutes and yet the Runner seemed to have a million questions (despite this being her first, to her credit.) Again, Han was dramatic.

But perhaps it was the comfort of having someone by her side officially (with some crossing of fingers that Han was leading her towards the Castle and not to the beginning of the maze) or perhaps the false sunlight above them (that seemed to only grow more and more golden by the minute) that had lifted her mood. The Runner was feeling strangely optimistic. (Maybe it was the adrenaline rush of nearly being skewered by a cleaning machine too. What else could the Labyrinth and the Goblin King throw at her? A beautiful, magical garden apparently.)

Things felt brighter here beneath the Gardens’ rotunda. Both figuratively and literally. No longer were there flickering candles floating high above her or the ever-shifting fire pits in the high watch towers. No more hazy orange-red glows like her entire vision was consumed by a distant field of fire. Here in the Gardens, the light felt natural-ish. If she pretended, it could be a bright summer day in some rich mansion’s estate.

Magic glimmered and kaleidoscoped everywhere. Instead of the rock walls gleaming with magical remnant that shined in the candle light like a child had a field day with iridescent glitter, now the flowers that twisted throughout the well-maintained shrubbery sparkled, making the entire maze look like it was covered in dewdrop (and smell of rose, lavender, and mint.)

Sitting atop the hedges were mythical-looking beast topiaries, towering down over them with berried eyes of cherries, gingko nuts, and mulberries. Sometimes, it felt like they were watching them as they passed under their shadows. She swore she heard one growl as they passed, but all Han did was tut like he was scolding an unhappy lap-dog. 

While the previous never-ending paths of the Labyrinth were dry, old, and dusty, there was a heavy humidity in the air here, only encouraged by the false light radiating from the dome above them. The sunlight felt far too strong to be real burned her cheeks and made sweat bead at her forehead. Han had even rolled up his sleeves to his shoulders, giving her a view of his biceps that glimmered with magic remnant and a sheen of sweat.

They had passed by many large courtyards, and each time Han had taken her wrist and led her along muttering ‘no, not that way’ as if she were a child. It had begun to make her roll her eyes and drag her feet. Each of these courtyards held possibilities of new paths, and they were just passing them up.

There were some that held large pond of dancing waters glimmering in the false light. Those blue-shimmering pixies bathed in the waters, chittering and chattering amongst the bubbling spring. They reminded her of mosquitos fluttering around a swamp. Her bite at the junction of her thumb and forefinger itched.

Another courtyard had towering statues of what looked to be chess pieces with big carves faces that made her pause in her step, wondering if they were like the trolls in the oubliette or simply statues of granite? Han didn’t let her linger to find out, simply marching by.

One of the courtyards had gigantic-humanoid dancing flowers, their vines twisting in a nonexistent wind as they moved with magical spores in the air. Their root-like legs bent this way and that as they prowled in a wild thrashing waltz. Han tugged her along quickly then.

Everything was so bright and lively here. Occasionally, she swore she could hear footsteps following them though. Her head was constantly looking back, double checking their path. Was it the King? Was it a creature?

She glanced backwards once more.

Nothing.

Instead of answering her, Han’s head lolled forward and he pouted suddenly: “Why do you keep calling me Han? You’re smart enough to know that was a lie – you heard the King! You know my true name.”

He muttered out dejectedly, crossing his arms as he glowered petulantly. Han hated that the King had used his true name… perhaps that was why he had let out Hyunjin’s name as well. His hand rose to wipe at his forehead with his handkerchief.

“You don’t have to pretend,” he added after a miniscule moment.

“It’s not the name you gave me though,” the Runner argued lightly. “If you don’t want me to know, then I won’t.” She shrugged.

He grumbled in return, pocketing the handkerchief in his pants. Sighing out, she reached out to grab his arm, turning him around to face her. His eyes widened in surprise as they came to a stop – the first stop since they began their trek through the Gardens.

“You didn’t introduce yourself as Jisung,” she told him. “I assumed you didn’t want to be called it – do you wish to be called Jisung by me?”

It was straight-forward and honest – he was surprised. Humans were rarely that way. And she was getting better with how she phrased things. He couldn’t help the pride and surprise tingling up his tail bone.

“I—” his mouth tumbled open, gaping like a fish for a moment. Petite bunny-like teeth shined in the magic-light. “I mean, I said Han before.” He admitted quietly.

She laughed, and he realized two things. One) That he was being foolish, too anxious from being away from the Desert Sea. Two) That he liked her laugh; it was nice to hear rather than her sighs of annoyance and pained yelps. Or her sadness. His lips twitched with a smile.

“You did, so I’ll call you whatever you tell me to call you,” she replied.

It was strange. Most fae folk would jump at the opportunity to know someone’s true name. It held power over that person. Hells, he even used her name with that in mind (even if it seemed to be a mute effort with the ancient magic of the Runner protecting her.) Yet here was this human who was just… shrugging it off. Purposely ignoring his true name for his own comfort.

It wasn’t the fae way.

“Okay. . . “, he mumbled, unconvinced and confused before pouting.

This must be a trick he decided.

“I don’t care what you call me.” He huffed turning away and walking ahead.

“Understood.” She saluted teasingly. “Han.”

The addition of his chosen name made his lightly-pointed ears turn a lavender-blush.

“C’mon, keep up!” he called as finally chose an entry way to turn into. They rounded the corner.

“You still didn’t answer my question,” she complained.

He laughed out loud, the sound chiming in the air like coins being tossed for a bet, and she couldn’t help but smile at it.  

They entered a big courtyard after the next couple of turns and twist. The courtyard, if you could even call it that, was overflowing with plant. Huge terracotta vessels of kiln-browned pottery housed large blooms curling out of them. Blooms that had far too many twisting vines that linked and unlinked, twisted and chained into one another, building what was only comparable to a jungle. Creating a web of vinery and stems, wriggling and writhing, they shifted that way and this way like thousands of overlapping snakes. Some of the flowers lunged at one another with a screeching sound so high pitched it made her shoulders raise to her ears reflexively. A sharp pain shot through her head.

There was no way around them – no pathway on the circumference of the room. The only way to get through the patio was to go through the jungle of blooms.

Easy.

“Don’t touch any of the plants here,” Han warned her immediately, jeweled eyes serious as they met hers.

Okay, not so easy.

But at least she knew. If she were alone, she feared she would’ve pushed and shoved her way through. She didn’t know why she couldn’t touch them but she wouldn’t. She had to try to trust Han, after all, he was her only hope in this place.

Squatting, the faerie and the human began to navigate through the jungle of vines. Her hands were tucked close to her sides, observing the purple and red plants as they snarled silently at one another.

They were large blossoms, the size of her head in some cases. Their colors were striking with deep lavenders and blood burgundies. Y/N could tell they were sentient-ish. They waved and twisted and hissed and screeched. If anything, they were like animals she assumed.

But as they passed by, with Han leading the way as he pushed some stray leaves aside for her to wiggle by, the flora grew curious. They loomed closer and closer. She felt some even breathing at her, sniffing at her with interest.

One got close enough that she saw how the redden petals curled and pried itself open to reveal what had to be a mouth of some sorts with rows and rows of sharpened emerald thorn-like teeth ready to devour its prey. Her.

Han’s hand swooped in closer grasping the stem of the red bloom as it lunged at her and tugging it away firmly. She heard a high-pitched wail that made her ears crackle, snap, and pop  

“Some of these are man-eating plants.” Han had to say then as he bared his teeth at the flower.

“What about you?” she exclaimed, eyes widening as she watched the encounter. She was waiting for the plant to snap at him at any moment. But all it did was sniff at his wrist, his long fingers still wrapped around the base of the ruby red flower’s stem like he was holding a pup by the scruff of its neck. The blossom nuzzled his arm, almost pleadingly.

“Not a human,” he replied simply before releasing it with a huff. He scratched the bloom’s ‘underbelly’ before passing it.

“What are you?” she retorted, following after him. Dodging a lunging flower, her voice was an octave higher. “You said you weren’t of fae blood,” another flower bared its thorny fangs, “you aren’t of human blood. You look pretty humanistic to me.”

He scoffed as he ducked his head under a collection of vines before rising to stand on the other side of the man-eating jungle of flora.

“Rude.” Han commented. “I look way better than you humans.”

With a hand pushing aside the last remaining vines, he crouched back down on his heels and watched as the Runner crawled away from a rose that had trailed after her with a blooming mouth aching for her rubied blood. Running, she escaped the last flower and stood beside a calm Han, huffing and puffing from her struggles.

She offered a bashful smile. He deadpanned, tugging her up to stand.

“Mind your business. It’s rude to ask a stranger their bloodline.” He added, picking a stray leaf from her hair.

He turned and faced the newest archway of greenery. Hands on his waist, he paused before picking a direction – leftwards.  

“We aren’t strangers,” she muttered out.

“We are acquaintances with similar goals,” he complied. “You want to get to the Castle. You have my things. I must follow you to get them back – simple as that.”

She rolled her eyes again as they turned down another path.

“How is it following when you are leading me?”

“How’d you get sucked into being a Runner anyways?” he queried, pushing an unkempt hedge’s greenery out of the path.

“Made a wish while reading a book. I’ve read tales of fae and the Underground since I was a little girl. . . I didn’t know that this would happen.”

“Yeah,” he sighed out through his nose. “Better than wishing away someone on purpose though. That’s what usually happens.” He countered looking at her over his shoulder. “Humankind’s children are bad Runners. We’ve had our fair share of mothers and fathers who have taken up the Challenge too. Not many succeed.”

“That’s sad.” She muttered. Han made a sound of indifference.

Was he wished away? Maybe that was why he was touchy about his bloodline?

“Han, how do you know the Labyrinth so well?” she asked again. “You knew the ins and outs of the dungeons –“

“The oubliette,” he interrupted.

“The oubliette,” she corrected before continuing on,” but you were outside the Labyrinth when we met… seemingly for a while.”

His footsteps slowed as she asked her questions. His eyes turned up to look at the false sunny sky high above them intensely. He stopped completely.

“Han?” she asked after a moment.

His eyes were flickering this way and that. Looking from one painted cloud to the next. Before, he let out a curse in a language she didn’t understand. The word was sharp and cutting – so at the very least she knew it was a swear.

“Sorry, you don’t have to answer if its—”

“No,” he interrupted, shutting his eyes as his head fell back to look forward once more. “Not that. Its—I don’t know where we are.” He admitted through gritted teeth.

“Oh?” Y/N replied simply.

“Yeah,” he hissed out, glancing backwards down the path. He licked his lips before looking back the way they were headed. “Damn.”

“I mean, that’s not too bad,” Y/N admitted with a soft shrug. “I didn’t know which was to go so let’s just keep going.” She walked ahead of him for once since entering the gardens, taking the reins once more.

“There are tricks everywhere,” he countered. He hadn’t walked a single step.

“We can handle it,” she reached a hand out to him, smiling easily. “We have so far. We’re a pretty good team!”

He looked at her outstretched hand before walking past her with a grumble of ‘this is why I never attempted the Labyrinth by myself.’

Interesting. So not a Runner she noted as she followed after Jisung.

Walking together side-by-side, they paused at each corridor of hedges, peering down them together before deciding together. This way, then that way, let’s go right… wait, we’ve been this way – we need to find a different path. Their murmurs were hushed as they worked together.

“To answer your question, I know a lot of the Underground because I live here,” he commented minutes later.

“Does everyone know the King by name?” she queried in reply.

Han’s gaze hardened as he looked over at Y/N.

“No,” he hummed. “Not many do.”

“So, you sound important.”

His eyes nearly bugged out of his skull. Important? When was the last time he felt important, let alone was called important. He wished he could do a spit take it was so humorous.

“You’re kidding me,” he spluttered out.

Her eyes were confused, brows crinkling down over them.

“What?” she asked. “It sounds like you’re important – I don’t know if it’s a good important or bad important. You did know the dungeons inside and out. That troll greeted you like he knew you positively! But the King was not kind to you . . . Were you stuck down there once?” she asked.

Han’s nose turned up. “Remember when I said it was rude to ask about bloodlines, its rude to ask if people were imprisoned, Y/N.” There’s a beat. “And the King is not kind to everyone.”

“You aren’t answering my questions, Han.” She countered.

He huffed. “Yes, I did,” he whined. “I’ve lived here my entire life – which is much longer than your little human life. So, I know places and people and ways and rights and lefts and wrongs and things.”

She rolled her eyes as they followed the path to the right to entered into another courtyard suddenly.

It was empty at first. The sounds of a fountain’s loud spluttering and splashing filled the empty air but like many things in the Labyrinth things were always more than they appeared. One blink and there was a wiry, too-long limbed figure at the lone fountain of the courtyard. Their appearance made the Runner jolt into Jisung, surprisedly. He too jumped back.

The creature in the courtyard was besides a large fountain, embedded into the hedges. It had elaborate tile work making up the fountain’s backing, but also a sculpture acting as the spout. It was a statue of a man, bearded and old, ‘spitting’ into the fountain with puffed-up cheeks. The water spluttered and splattered loudly, churning up large bubbles of soap and suds. Water-soaked stones were green with algae. Black mold crept up the base of the water fountain’s tiles, crawling like thick lichen ‘til it reached the water’s surface. A wicker-basket of darken fabrics bobbed up and down in the roiling waters.

The figure at the water’s edge was boney-thin with long white hair that had a sheen of oil to it as if it hadn’t been washed in days. Her face was gaunt, but she didn’t seem to be an elderly woman somehow despite the sight of her hands. Her hands were wrinkled beyond belief. Leathered and pleated skin around prominent knuckles. They were water-wrinkled and water-logged, purplish and fat, as they plunged into the frothing water of the fountain to scrub at what looked like dark linen pants against a smoothened rock. She shifted and sloshed the water about before grabbing another smooth rock to clank, clank, clank against the pants in the water.

Her own attire – long-flowing skirt of stony grays and marshy greens – were water-soaked and growing fungus along the patterned smock. As she washed, Y/N swore she saw the milky-white water full of soapsuds turn muddy with blood, but in the next blink, it was normal once more.

Jisung leaned in to whisper in the Runner’s ear,” Y/N, do not look away from her.”

She nodded slowly, but her hand reached down to grasp Jisung’s tightly. His rings were cold and pinched at her skin unpleasantly. But they kept her in the present as she heard the woman begin to crow a tune. It was sorrowful and heavy. The bubbling water fountain’s splutter and splatter was an instrument to her tune.

She couldn’t understand the lyrics; they were sung out in a language forgotten by her kind. But she felt it. She could feel the song. Heaviness hung over her slowly but surely. Suffocating her, gravity felt like it clung to her skin, as heavy as the never-ending humidity under the rotunda of the Gardens. She took a deep breath in but it felt like she breathed in soil or water. It felt like she breathed in the song as she was filled with overwhelming sadness. Her lungs ached and burned against her ribs. It felt like someone was leaning against her back with their entire weight, like someone was going to drown her or bury her alive. It was woeful and fearful and sad.

Swallowing, she squeezed Jisung’s hand as they crept forward into the courtyard. His voice was low, lower than the song that the woman cried.

“We can sneak across as long as we-“

“Hello,” Y/N’s voice broke through the mournful melody tumbling out of the fae’s lips.

And like that, the water’s bubbling stopped. The song ceased despite the fae’s mouth remaining open, mid-lyric.

Jisung held her hand tighter, eyes burning and aching to roll – but he kept them on the wench with purpose.

The fae didn’t turn to look. She continued to wash, wash, wash. But the sound of the rock splashing into the water, scrubbing at a stain in the dark fabric, no longer was audible. There was a ringing sound in her ear, distant but ever-present and growing louder and louder until-

“A young woman,” the fae’s voice was dissonate, high and yet low. The tones clashing as they echoed in the oddly quiet air.

Her neck swiveled eerily as she finally looked away from her task, despite her hands continuing to clank the rock against the fabric in a steady beat. Her eyes were a milky white, red rimmed as if she’d been crying. Her face, that Y/N swore was young a moment ago, was strange looking. Wrinkled-cracks of aged skin only was present in the tear tracks down the fae’s cheeks, resulting in her face looking almost like a rippled reflection in a pond. Her opaque eyes looked upon Y/N with little interest; a dead stare. Yet her plumped blue lips pressing into a firm line as she shifted her eerie eyes to Jisung.

“And you.” It was hissed.

Jisung’s smile was bashful, free hand raising to rub at his neck. He wished he could look away.

“Hello,” he breathed, nervously.

“What is a fair maiden doing with the likes of him?” the woman’s voice sounded shrill and sharp, and Y/N noticed that her drowned-lips didn’t match the shape of the words that were spoken. It was as if the words left the fae’s mouth too soon.

“He’s my friend,” Y/N replied. “He’s helping me.”

“Friend,” the creature breathed out, the word sounding like a death rattle.

“Yes, I’ve only just met him, but– please, can you tell–” Jisung squeezed her hand painfully so. “That is-- I have to get to the Castle at the end of this Labyrinth; do you know the way, please?” she rephrased her query.

There was a haunting laugh, dissonant and unfeeling.

“He does not know,” the fae stated. “That is true karma there.”

Jisung winced.

“I—I’m not looking for trouble, please. I am – I’m the Runner,” Y/N said, the title feeling odd against her teeth. But the fae’s milky eyes widened with recognition.

“I’m just trying to return home. That’s all I want.”

The air somehow grew cold as if they were in a marsh rather than a false-lit garden. The hairs on the back of Y/N’s neck stood up and a shudder wracked through her violently.

“Poor maiden,” the fae cooed out. It was strange how that heavy feeling against her back lifted gradually as the fae eyes filled with tears. The bubbling brook’s sputtering gradually rang back into life.

“Y-Yes,” the Runner continued, tongue heavy in her mouth.

The fae gestured for her to come closer with one water-swollen hand. Jisung held her hand tighter, white knuckled with his nails prying into her skin. He bit down on his tongue before he could whimper out her name. Her hand escaped his as Y/N was drawn forward, like she was pulled on a string.

Her eyes hadn’t left the banshee’s – as Jisung warned. As she approached, she could smell the utter stench of stale water, rotten oil, and rotting pine-wood. The creature’s head tilted down as if to instruct her to sit. And she did. There was no fear now – no discord of tones or echoes of the banshee’s voice in her ear as she knelt beside the creature.

The fae continued to wash and wash with one hand; the wicker-basket leaked blood into the cloudy water. The tendons of the fae’s arm looked gaunt. It must hurt and yet her attention was locked on Y/N. Perhaps she needed help.

“Do you need help with that?” Y/N offered, her chin gesturing to the laundry.

The fae’s hand reached out and cupped the human’s cheek. Her hand was spongey as she caressed her cheek but the way the fae brushed her skin was the way a mother would to its child. Soothing, gentle, and kind.

“Sweet maiden, poor maiden,” the fae coddled as she shook her head slowly.

“I’ve seen many young ones snatched away by the Challenge,” the faerie’s words felt less dissonant, growing fuller with each word. In fact, she could almost feel a warmth rounding out the woman’s words. Her eyes were ever-distant as she spoke, staring through Y/N. “None have crossed my path before you – I shall give you the advice I yearned to give their small souls.”

Y/N breathed out in relief: “Thank you, miss.”

The fae hummed out a mournful tune.

“I shall give thee aid with this. The way forwards is sometimes the way back.” She advised. “Quite often, it seems like we aren’t getting anywhere when, in fact,” the hand clashing the rock against the pants ceased with a splash. She lifted the fabric out of the suds, the weave loose and rotting from soaking in the water. She plopped it down onto the stone besides her; water splashing onto Y/N in the process. “We are.”

Swallowing, the Runner nodded, unsure how to use this advice but it felt like this was the better case scenario that could’ve happened.

“I’m not getting anywhere at the moment,” she admitted.

The fae brushed her hair behind her ear, and somehow despite the slimy hand, it felt like her mother brushing her hair when she was a little girl.

“That’s when one must look within,” the fae hummed. “Look within, child.”

She nodded solemnly.

“My favor upon you,” the fae woman croaked as her hand left the Runner’s face and returned to the laundry. “For you. . . and your friend.”

Y/N smiled. Her hands pushing herself up from the cold puddle, her pants now saturated in dark water.

“Alms, if you have any, dear child,” the voice was garbled, and it didn’t come from the banshee, so far as Y/N could tell.

And she’d listen, if Jisung had clawed at her hand like he had. It felt like she had to. Respect was important. She’s seen Hyunjin’s eyes flash into storms at her attitude This woman felt ancient, old and fragile and yet powerful – if Jisung was afraid.

Swallowing, her hands grazed her body, brushing over Jisung’s jewels. She could hear Jisung’s breath hitch behind her before she left the smooth gems. Instead, she fiddled with the ring on her finger. Something she’s had for years, used to pretend to be a princess with as a child. Her mother had many times slid the ring onto her tiny finger and proclaimed her a bride during make-believe. It was costume jewelry – a false emerald framed by a copper metal – that she had started wearing when she found the box of jewelry under her bed. Collecting dust.

Tugging it off, her finger had a ring of green around it from the metal. She offered it to the woman.

“Thank you for your advice,” she thanked. “I can spare this.”

The woman grasped it with both of her water-swollen hands, thumbs brushing over the false gem before dropping it into the waters below. The world whirled to life loudly. Water bubbled; the birds chirped; Jisung huffed far behind them.

“On your way, fair maiden,” the banshee encouraged. “Remember.”

Y/N nodded, backing away and finally peeling her eyes away from the fae and turning away to see Jisung’s stare. A mixture of horror and awe.

“Let’s go, Han,” she whispered, walking towards him, and grabbing his hand solidly. “Let’s go.”

And walked back the way they came.

Her breath was shaky as they finally escaped the fountain’s noises and walked down the path they had walked moments ago. Her face felt damp, water droplets clinging to her skin and sliding down like tears. She wiped at it with the back of her sleeve.

“I don’t know how you did that,” Han breathed out, hand going to push his curls back in shock. His other hand in hers was clammy and wiggly, but nothing compared to the wrinkled, wet hand of the fae. “Do you know what that was?”

Y/N shook her head. “No… I think she didn’t like you.”

“That was a banshee; you’re lucky she didn’t drown you in the water,” he insisted.

“She just seemed sad,” Y/N commented instead.

“I couldn’t hear what she was saying to you after you let go of my hand; what happened?” Han questioned as he sped up to be side-by-side with the Runner, hand dropping hers.

“She gave me advice and her favor.”

Han wowed at her silently, trailing behind her in awe.

“You’re crazy, Y/N,” he muttered. “A human approaching a banshee like that – interrupting her melody,” he tsked deep in his throat. His hands went to his waist as they walked along. “Was her advice to turn back?” he queried sassily.

She looked over her shoulder at the fae, who’s eyes seemed to take her in with a different light. He looked surprised despite his snide comment of turning back.

“Sort of,” she admitted. “It just felt right. Besides, if I’m wrong, I feel like we could pass her if we had to retrace our steps. Now, I’ve got a question for you - how did she know you?” Y/N retorted.

His face fell into that familiar wide-eyed look as if he was caught with his claws in a cookie jar. He looked guilty as he looked aside at the hedge to his right.

“Oh – again, I know people,” he replied casually.

“Mhm,” she hummed unconvinced.

Han purred in his throat, in return.

There was silence for only a fleeting moment before his footsteps hurried forwards until they matched her gait. He was walking backwards now, facing her as he asked, poutful and whiny: “Hey, question from me now: why did you call me that back there?”

Sounds of footsteps behind them made them pause; Jisung’s hand going to her arm as they froze. They paused in their walk. A shift in the winds roared to life, whirling dust into small tornados around their feet. Their hair danced into their eyes, each one reaching up to push the stands aside. The winds died as soon as it came, but the noises didn’t

There was a whispering in the air like the chittering of bugs rubbing their hard-shelled limbs together like violins or the crackling of wood being devoured in a fire pit. Han and Y/N were paused in the middle of a hedge’s path now. A rustling echoed around them like a creature was crawling and hopping between the branches of the shrubbery.

“Y/N,” Han tugged her arm as he tried to track the movement of the brush. The leaves fluttered and rattled as some force pushed its way through the shrubbery. The Runner hushed him, hand sliding to grasp his once more. The duo was quiet for a moment as they looked around their surroundings.

The leaves rustled and shifted around them, whistling, and whispering as they shuddered and shook. It sounded like a windy day; the way trees shift and rub against one another in melodic tunes. Old, crinkled leaves tumbled off dark branches as an opening crackled open in front of them with a groan of birchwood and oak. The vines and leaves writhed as they withered out of the way to form a new archway high above them. Groaning, rattling, trembling leaves. And then silence.  A new path was there – ready to be explored.

It was silent once more, and the pair’s eyes rose from the new archway to each other.

“I haven’t seen that happen before,” Han admitted, quietly to her. He understood why Hyunjin was fascinating by her now – why he wanted her. Why he had taken the wish of hers on the stroke of midnight on the highest peak of the moon.

The pair jumped as the hedges trembled again, fluttering almost, but nothing major happened except for their shiver in and out. Like they sighed, inhale and exhale. Exhausted from their efforts.

Leaning forward, Y/N observed the new pathway. It curved and snaked one way unlike the previous pathways they’ve taken where it had gone straight, onwards for forever before they hit a dead end with either a left or a right to be made.

Maybe – the banshee’s advice was right. Maybe going backwards was going forwards sometimes.

Letting go of Han’s hand, the Runner entered the new pathway and, after an anxious pause, Han followed. His fingers played with her bracelet on his wrist as he took a few quick steps to catch up with her. Once inside, the hedges shuddered and grew to fill in the entrance behind them.

The Runner paused, head swiveling only to see the hedges finish closing in their new entranceway.

“Okay, so we’re stuck going this way,” she mumbled before they began to walk once more.

The silence between them could only last so long before she wondered aloud. “I called you what?” she asked as they walked onwards.

The path curved and she swore she could hear footsteps following them for sure. But like before nothing was behind them when she glanced over her shoulder.

“Oh, oh – you called me your friend,” Han replied. The words ‘your friend’ sounded forced as if he had never heard of the term before. It was foreign and strained coming out of his pretty mouth.

“Because you are,” the Runner said simply. Looking over her shoulder at him, she took in his distrustful, anxious form with a snort. He spun the plastic beads around his dainty wrist over and over. She offered him a genuine smile. “You’re my only friend down here, Han.”

Han stuttered in his step, tripping over his feet at her honest words. He’s had enemies, lovers, and allies. He couldn’t remember the last time he had someone to call a friend – except maybe… for him.

He liked it. He missed it. He felt his cheeks burn, and his chest tighten as he looked away from the Runner, who had already focused her gaze back on their new trail.

“Oh. I – I like that,” he whispered out. And he sounded honest. No wittiness to his words, no snark. Just an open sigh of a reply.  “I didn’t think we—”

His voice was interrupted by a feral roar that sounded like a mix between a tiger and a bear. Animalistic and angry. Han’s eyes widened to size of saucers as he immediately turned around from their path, running.

“Wait! Han!” Y/N cried out, reaching for the back of his vest like many times before. It escaped her grasp as he squirmed away.

Continuing to walk backwards, hands up in defense, he shook his head back and forth insistently.

“Keep the stuff, I don’t care – I’m not getting torn up by whatever that is!” he argued over the loud rolling growls.

“This path has to be the way – the hedges literally opened up for us,” The Runner argued, trying to grab his arm.

“I don’t care, I’m not walking towards certain death. No banshee’s favor. No human’s sneaky tricks. I’m going back!” Han screeched, evading her hands and slapping at them with wild gestures. When she managed to grasp his arm, he tugged himself away from her with a hiss.

“I’ll find a way out! I’ll claw through the hedges; I’m not going that way!” he cried out. His words were almost overpowered by the growls and screeches.

“You said you’d help!” she yelped out. “I thought we were friends!”   

Han was too anxious to even think as he yelped, “No, no, I don’t have any friends – I mean, I --- I can’t I just.. I’m sorry.” He spluttered out as he ran away.

“You coward!” she cried out as he escaped from view. Huffing, she turned back to face the cacophony of growl, grunts, roars, and the occasional yell of ‘Stop it!’ bombarding her from the nearby archway. It was the only way forward.  

It sounded monstrous and scary but the Runner couldn’t help but feel in her bones that this was the way. Maybe it was the banshee’s favor or optimism. Glancing up, she could see the Castle, ever in the distance, straight ahead of her. She had only so many hours left and, with the weight of Han’s treasures on her hip, she realized she had to face it alone. Holding her breath, she crept forward.

All she had to do was step into the newest courtyard of danger.