#Volatility Measurement

[signode-blog]

Mastering Trading with the True Range Indicator: A Comprehensive Guide

Introduction In the vast and dynamic world of trading, having the right tools and indicators at your disposal can make all the difference between success and failure. One such powerful tool that has gained prominence among traders is the True Range Indicator. In this comprehensive guide, we will delve into what the True Range Indicator is, how it works, and how traders can leverage it to make…

[societyfolklore]

We Couldn’t Stop

Title: We Couldn’t Stop Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader x Steve Rogers 

Summary:  During a sweep of a forgotten HYDRA lab, you, Steve, and Bucky trigger an old aerosol dispersal system. No one realizes what hit you until it’s too late. Now stuck in quarantine- burning, aching, and caged in with two dominant, unraveling super soldiers- you’re forced to ride out the drug’s effects together.

Word Count:  7k

Warnings:  / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, Sex Pollen / Drugged Lust, Threesome MFM, Dubious Consent (due to drug influence), Double Penetration, Oral (F & M receiving), Praise Kink, Rough Sex/Overstimulationm Fingering, anal ply, cum play, Competitive Doms

A/N: my entry for  @avengers-assemble-bingo  for April Kinky Bingo Square: A3- Threesome Card Number: KB003

The mission was supposed to be a simple sweep- an old HYDRA lab buried deep beneath the forest floor, long abandoned, just a routine retrieval run for leftover tech and encrypted files that could pose a threat if they fell into the wrong hands. You, Steve, and Bucky had done that sort of thing more times than you could count. Clear the rooms, grab the drives, secure any volatile tech, and call for extraction. In and out. Easy.

You should’ve known better the moment you stepped inside. The facility was too quiet, too intact. Dust settled thick on the floors, but the lights still flickered dimly overhead, and the security systems were half-alive, humming low like they were waiting.

You were the one who found the sealed door- reinforced, heavily protected, and drawing power. It was locked down tight, tucked at the end of a corridor where the flickering lights didn’t quite reach. You called the others over.

"You think it’s storage?" Bucky asked, frowning at the biometric pad.

"Locked and powered," you muttered. "Could be data. Or maybe just a lab they forgot to scrub."

"Let's not poke the bear," Steve said, but he stepped up beside you anyway, scanning the door. "Looks like it's sealed for a reason."

That should've been the moment you backed off. But your fingers were already dancing over the keypad, overriding the old security system. The panel blinked. Clicked.

"I’ve almost got- "

The door hissed. Not wide- barely a few inches.

A soft spray hit you all in the face.

It came fast. Silent. A puff of pressurized mist like compressed air, followed by the faintest scent- ozone, chemical sweetness, almost floral.

You stumbled back, coughing once.

"What the hell was that?" Bucky barked, wiping his face with his sleeve.

Steve grabbed your arm, pulling you away from the door. "You okay? Did you breathe it in?"

"Yeah, but- I don’t feel anything."

"We’re all covered in it," Bucky snapped, glaring at the faint sheen settling over Steve’s shoulders. "Fucking hell."

"Close it," Steve ordered.

Bucky slammed the door shut, sealing it again with a growl. "Old security measure. Shit."

"We’ll report it," Steve said, but his jaw was clenched.

The spray clung to your skin. Sweet. Heavy. And whatever it was, it was in all three of you now.

~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~

By the time the jet touched down back at the compound, you were already flushed and aching, your heart thudding too fast in your chest. Whatever had come out of that door- it clung to your skin, settled in your lungs, and made everything inside you feel off. You weren’t the only one affected. Bucky was pacing the perimeter of the quinjet like a caged animal. Steve hadn’t spoken for the last twenty minutes, but his white-knuckled grip on the back of a seat said everything.

You’d hoped the decontamination shower would be the end of it. But blood was still taken. Swabs run over your skin. Scans. More questions. Until finally, they left the three of you in the quarantine room- one sterile space, no outside contact, and cameras in every corner.

You wanted to apologize. This had been your mistake. But Bucky’s expression was pure storm as he continued to pace like a tiger in a zoo. Steve’s face was unreadable- steely, distant, controlled. So you kept your mouth shut and tried not to scratch at your skin like you desperately wanted.

Soft static crackled, and then Tony’s voice filled the room over the speaker. "It’s biochemical bonding serum," he said. "Looks like it's engineered to push subjects into a state of hyperarousal and submission, designed to override inhibition and drive instinctual behaviors."

Your stomach dropped. What kind of mess had you landed yourself in?

"How long?" Bucky snapped, voice sharp.

"We'll have to check back on the decay and metabolic rate, and we- "

"What Bruce means is- we don't know," Tony cut in. "For you guys, it might be a matter of hours. Little Miss Curiosity might be stuck with it in her system a little longer."

You flinched and shied away from the speaker, burying your face in your hands.

"We're working on it, don't stress. It shouldn't kill you," Tony added casually.

"Big fucking whoop," Bucky growled, pressing a fist into the wall. Steve shot him a look of disproval. 

"Buck.." His tone warning. 

"Just, try and stay calm, guys," Bruce said, trying to sound optimistic. "It'll be alright."

"Don’t make a mess," Tony said, his voice laced with sarcasm. "We’ll keep you posted."

And just like that, you were cut off again. Biochemical- engineered arousal.

"Well, you heard him," Steve sighed, leaning back against the wall, scrubbing a hand over his face. "We just have to keep our heads. It can’t last forever."

That was easy for him to say. Both Steve and Bucky had super soldier serum in their veins- enhanced bodies that could regulate, adapt, maybe even resist. You… you were human. And you could already feel your body reacting in ways that made your skin itch and your blood feel like it was boiling.

You didn't say anything. Just shifted your weight, trying not to squirm. The heat beneath your skin pulsed steadily now, like it was alive.

"This is fucked," Bucky muttered, pacing again. "They just dumped us in here like we’re some kind of experiment."

"They’re doing what they can," Steve said, tone calm but tight. "We don’t know enough yet. Getting worked up won’t help."

"Worked up?" Bucky turned on him, eyes flashing. "You don’t feel that?"

Steve’s jaw flexed. "Of course I feel it."

"Then quit acting like you don’t."

You glanced between them, heart racing. The tension in the room was building again, only this time it wasn’t from anger- it was something heavier. Thicker. Clinging to the air like smoke.

And under it all, that hum beneath your skin only grew louder. 

Hours had passed.

You'd started pacing a little while ago, unable to sit still. Movement helped. Not much- but it was something. You were going through the water they'd left in the room like you were dying of thirst. You were hot, sticky, your tank damp and clinging to your body, and you were doing everything you could to ignore the throbbing pulse between your legs.

You kept moving. Pacing. Trying to shake it off.

Steve watched from the far cot, jaw tight. His shirt was damp, his breath shallow, but he was sitting like he was trying to pretend everything was normal.

Bucky was pacing again, eyes locked on you more often than not, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might crack. “She smells different,” he muttered. “Fuck.”

His words made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. The rough, raw sound of his voice made your head twitch like it was a physical thing pulling at you.

"Gonna try and sleep," you muttered, not looking at either of them.

Maybe you'd be able to sleep through the worst of it. Maybe if you were lucky, your body would calm down. You slipped behind the thin curtain, stepping into the tiny corner of privacy around your cot. Laying down, the heat of your body only seemed to intensify. Your skin felt suffocated, and with a frustrated sigh, you peeled your tank top over your head, leaving you in just your bra, hoping the exposure would help you breathe easier.

It didn’t.

You curled onto your side, arms around your stomach, thighs pressed tight together. The ache between your legs was a constant, heavy throb now. Maybe… maybe you could just handle your own needs. Just enough to take the edge off. Anything to ease the ache.

Your hands trembled as you pulled the thin blanket around you and lay on the cot. There was a small curtain for privacy, but it did nothing to muffle the sounds when your fingers slipped beneath your waistband.

You tried to be quiet. Tried to hold your breath. But your body was on fire, and even the gentlest brush of your fingers sent you bucking.

A whimper escaped, broken and desperate.

And then you heard it- Steve’s voice. Low. Strained.

“Don’t- don’t do that.”

You froze. “I- I can’t- ”

Still, you didn’t stop. You rubbed faster, then slower, your fingers diving inside of you, pressing deeper, trying every angle- but nothing worked. Every shift of your hand sent sparks across your nerves, your breath hitching with each pulse of pressure, but the fire wouldn’t break. Your legs trembled, your toes curled, but it all stayed out of reach.

You changed angles, tried circling your clit with trembling fingers while your other hand held onto the edge of the cot like it could ground you. You rocked your hips up, whispered pleas into the dark, but it wasn’t enough. Not even close. You needed more- needed them- but all you had were your own shaking hands and the unbearable ache growing between your legs.

Your breath hitched again as frustration bloomed hot and frantic in your chest. You were soaking, your thighs slick, the air sticky with the scent of your arousal. Your skin was flushed and clammy, your body locked in this endless loop of need- and yet you still couldn’t fall over that edge. Not like this. Not alone.

"You gonna keep pretending you don’t want her?" Bucky asked, voice low and rough, growling on the other side of the curtain.

Steve didn’t move at first, but his voice followed, strained. "I can smell her arousal from here, Buck. You think I’m not affected?"

"She’s whimpering, Steve. Sounds like music to me."

"We’re not doing this. We can’t- "

"Fuck this. She needs someone."

"Don’t you fucking touch her," Steve snapped.

"Then you do something," Bucky fired back.

Silence followed. You pressed your fingers deeper, hips rocking, but it wasn’t working. You were going to explode- your body was wound so tight it hurt.

Your fingers weren’t enough. You begged, voice cracking, desperate and broken.

"Please... please someone- "

Someone pulled the curtain back. Bucky’s eyes were dark. Blown wide. He didn’t speak. It hurt. “I can’t…” you whimpered, barely able to speak. “It’s not working…”

Your hips shifted again instinctively, your fingers still caught between your thighs, but the tension was unbearable. You were so wet, so swollen with need, it was maddening- and yet release stayed just out of reach. Your body craved more than your own touch could give.

They both appeared, stepping past the curtain without a word. You could see it in their faces- this was affecting them just as much. Steve’s eyes were dark, jaw clenched. Bucky looked wrecked, barely human with how sharp and hungry his expression had become.

You writhed again on the cot, body shaking, and Steve moved first- his weight shifting over you as he pressed your shoulders down into the mattress with steady, unyielding hands.

"Stay still," he said, voice gravel-thick.

At the same time, Bucky grabbed your wrist and gently pulled your hand away from you.

You whined, hips arched up, as Bucky’s gaze dropped to your slick fingers. He looked transfixed. Obsessed. His mouth parted before he dragged his tongue along your digits, groaning low in his chest at the taste.

Then- without breaking eye contact- he brought your hand to Steve.

"Tell me again we shouldn’t do this," Bucky said, voice rough and knowing.

Steve hesitated, staring at your hand, your eyes, then your body.

"...Steve?" you pleaded, chest heaving. A bead of sweat slid down your ribs, slicking your skin as the heat inside you pulsed like a second heartbeat. "Help... please."

Steve’s jaw flexed. His eyes raked over your flushed, trembling body, lingering where your bra had ridden up from the way you were squirming, the curve of your thighs glistening in the low light.

Bucky didn’t speak. He just stood there beside him, wild-eyed and rigid, chest rising and falling with short, shallow breaths. The scent of you filled the air. Thick. Sweet. Desperate.

Steve exhaled through his nose, heavy and slow like he was trying to exhale restraint. It didn’t work.

"You’re going to regret begging so pretty, sweetheart," he murmured, finally moving closer, the promise behind his words like thunder rolling through your veins.

~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~

They were both on you.

You didn’t know who moved first- Steve’s hand slid up your thigh, firm and sure, while Bucky’s mouth was suddenly at your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear. The tension shattered. Clothing came off in frantic tugs- your joggers peeled away, your bra unclasped and discarded. Steve’s tank was tossed aside. Bucky’s sweats hit the floor with a low rustle.

Heat and skin and breath surrounded you. Their bodies pressed in, solid and hot and overwhelming. Steve's chest pinned you down as he kissed you- hard and consuming- his tongue sliding against yours as he groaned into your mouth. His hands cupped your jaw, fingers splayed, tilting your head how he wanted it.

Bucky moved lower, lips trailing down your throat, teeth scraping along your collarbone. His hands gripped your hips, dragging you down the cot toward him with a roughness that made you moan. He kissed your stomach, your ribs, your inner thighs, worshipping each inch like it belonged to him.

You gasped, arching into the touch of both of them. Their mouths- wet and demanding. Their bodies- slick with sweat, grinding against you like they couldn't get close enough.

You'd all held out for so long. Now there was nothing but the letting go.

Every nerve ending in your body sparked like live wires with every touch- every graze of skin against skin sent jolts of unbearable sensation through you. It was impossible to stay still. Your limbs twitched, your hips rocked, your breath came in short, gasping pulls as your body tried to process too much, too fast.

“Don’t move,” Steve growled, voice rough but laced with something gentler beneath. “Too sensitive? No. You’re just not used to being handled right.”

Bucky pushed your legs open wider, guiding your knees apart until your calves hung off the edge of the cot, completely exposed, completely theirs. “She’s soaking,” Bucky breathed. “Fucking hell- she’s dripping down her thighs.” The cool air kissed your slick folds and made you shiver. Then his hand slid between your thighs again, and fingers plunged into you- two, maybe three. You didn’t even know whose they were anymore.

Steve’s mouth found your chest, teeth grazing over the top curve of your breast before his lips closed around your nipple. You sobbed, your body already arching upward from the overload.

The blonde growled against your skin, one hand gripping your jaw while the other tangled in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to bow your spine upward. You gasped, helpless, writhing between them, your body trembling from overstimulation.

“You’re taking it so well,” Steve murmured, voice low and rough. “Just like that. Good girl.”

“Look at her,” Bucky snarled. “That’s it, sweetheart- ride my hand. Come on. Take what you need.”

His fingers worked deep inside you, curling and thrusting, hitting that spot that made your legs twitch and your hips lift off the cot. His palm pressed against your clit with every motion, grinding you into the edge of bliss, holding you there with cruel precision. You could feel everything. Every ridge of his knuckles, every flex of his wrist. It was too much and not enough all at once.

You whimpered, your hands scrambling against the sheets, seeking something to hold onto as your body rocked with each relentless stroke. Steve bit gently at the underside of your jaw, his hand still twisted in your hair as he whispered praises that barely reached your ears over the rushing roar of need building inside you.

Steve’s mouth was on your chest again, sucking one nipple into the heat of his mouth while his hand massaged the other, groping you with a needy rhythm that only made it harder to breathe. His other hand had tangled itself in your hair again, gently tugging until your spine arched up off the cot, your body straining toward both of them.

Bucky’s metal thumb pressed into your clit, circling with just enough pressure to make your thighs jerk. Your breath hitched, head tipping back as you let out a broken moan.

"OH FUCK." you cried, fingers clawing at the side of the cot, knuckles white.

He didn’t stop. His fingers pumped into you, slick and steady, coaxing the sound out of your throat again and again. You felt like you were vibrating- nerve endings lit up with fire, each touch sparking through you like electricity.

“You hear that, punk?” Bucky’s voice dripped with ego. “That’s the sound of my fingers making her cry.” Steve shifted beside you, sitting up to watch, his eyes locked on where Bucky's fingers slid in and out of you. One of his hands moved down, low and out of sight, and you could see the tension in his jaw as he fought to keep control.

Bucky glanced back at him, grinning as he curled his fingers just right and made you cry out again.

"Look at her, Stevie," Bucky growled, his voice rough and ragged with arousal. He didn’t even look up, just watched his fingers slide in and out of you like it was the most important thing in the world. "She’s writhing just from my fingers. What happens when I put my cock in?"

"You’ll wait," Steve snapped, voice sharp, strained with barely checked control. He was flushed, jaw tight, clearly fighting the same battle Bucky was already losing.

"God, look at her," Bucky muttered again, breath coming faster. "Fuck, I want her mouth. I want every part."

You couldn’t answer. Your vision blurred. Every nerve in your body felt like it had snapped tight, vibrating with unbearable pressure.

And then it broke.

You came- hard.

Your whole body convulsed as the orgasm tore through you. Your legs kicked against the cot, arms flailing blindly for purchase. Steve had to hold you down, one hand braced across your chest, the other still tangled in your hair as your back arched and a strangled sob tore from your throat.

It didn’t end quickly. The drug made it last- your climax dragging on and on, crashing over you in waves so powerful they left you gasping, wrecked.

You felt Bucky’s fingers slow inside you, easing off just enough to let you ride it out without breaking. But they didn’t stop touching you. They didn’t let you go.

And worst of all, the haze in your head didn’t clear like you hoped it would.

You were still shaking. Still needy.

Still burning.

You were a panting mess, your skin still hot and your chest tight when one of them scooped you up and lay you out on the cool floor. The shock of it made you gasp, the chill a sudden relief against your fevered skin. You blinked your eyes open, dazed, limbs slack and breath ragged.

"You’re such a mess for us, baby," Bucky murmured, crouched above you now. His voice was low, ruined with hunger. "That sweet little body of yours wasn’t made to handle all this, was it?"

Your eyes found him- Bucky, kneeling near your face now, his cock hard and leaking, so close it blurred your thoughts. He looked feral, undone, lips parted like he was barely restraining himself.

Your tongue slipped out to lick your lips without thinking. The taste of your own sweat clung to your skin, but all you could focus on was him. The way his chest rose and fell, the way his fist clenched at his thigh.

Your mind narrowed to a single point of clarity.

You wanted him in your mouth.

You leaned forward slowly, licking the bead of precum off his tip before taking him in fully- hungry, needy, your lips stretching around the thick, velvet length of him. Bucky’s breath stuttered, and he let out a ragged groan as your mouth sealed around him.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he gasped, one hand flying to your hair, not to guide but to anchor himself. “So fucking pretty like this- taking me so deep. Look at those lips- look at that mouth.”

You moaned around him, the vibrations making him hiss. He was hot, heavy, pulsing against your tongue, and you hollowed your cheeks to take him deeper, until your nose pressed against the base and he swore low under his breath.

“Messy little mouth,” Bucky panted. “So eager. You needed this, didn’t you? Needed something to suck while we ruin the rest of you.”

You were lost in it- the taste of him, the heat, the way he twitched when your tongue flicked just right. Spit gathered at the corners of your mouth as you worked him with sloppy desperation, gagging slightly as you bobbed your head in a steady rhythm.

Just then, you felt Steve’s hands at your hips, steady and sure. He shifted your lower body, pulling your legs open and up until you were spread out for him on the floor.

“You liked Buck's fingers? Let’s see how you do on my cock,” Steve growled against your ear, his voice dark and thick with restraint.

You gasped around Bucky’s cock, the moan caught in your throat turning into a garbled sound of pleasure as Steve aligned himself behind you. His fingers dug into your thighs, holding you wide as his tip pressed against your entrance- already slick, fluttering, aching.

He pushed in slow, filling you inch by inch, and every nerve inside you lit up in electric spasms. Your muscles fluttered around him, clenching and pulsing as he stretched you open, the thick drag of him stealing your breath.

The pressure, the fullness, the stretch- it was overwhelming. You sobbed around Bucky, the vibration of your moan making him groan above you, his hips twitching as he fought not to thrust.

Steve bottomed out with a hiss, his hands gripping tighter like he needed the anchor. Inside you, he throbbed, deep and perfect. You felt stretched to the edge of your limits, your inner walls fluttering in frantic spasms around him, struggling to adjust and clench all at once. Your body didn’t know what to do- pull him in deeper or push him out.

It was too much. It was everything. Your head was spinning.

They started to move- slow at first. Steve dragging back only to sink in again, deliberate, controlled, while Bucky’s cock bumped the back of your throat as he rocked forward with a groan. You gagged, whined, clung to them both with your mouth and body.

You were stuck in it now. The lust. The drug. The heat. There was no thought left, only sensation. Only how it felt to be stretched open in two directions, trembling and gasping.

They didn’t talk to you anymore. They talked about you.

“She’s so sensitive,” Bucky growled. “Poor thing doesn’t know what to do with herself.”

Steve grunted, his pace picking up. “Tight as hell. She’s pulsing like she doesn’t know whether she wants to come or cry.”

You tried to moan but it came out a broken, garbled sound around Bucky’s cock. Your tongue dragged along the underside of him as he pushed deeper, your throat fluttering as you swallowed around the stretch. Spit dripped from the corners of your mouth, tears tracking down your cheeks, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

Bucky’s hand tightened at the back of your head, not forcing, just holding you there, gazing down into your wet, dazed eyes. “That’s it, baby,” he groaned. “Fuck, look at you drooling all over me. You love it, don’t you?”

Your hips rocked back into Steve without meaning to as he thrust forward again, harder this time, grinding deep. Your nerves fired like sparks, the friction of his cock dragging against hypersensitive flesh sending bursts of pressure low in your belly. Your insides coiled, pleasure building with every thick, deliberate thrust, your body wound so tight it felt like you might snap apart.

“You’re doing so well for us,” Steve grunted, leaning down, his mouth hot at your ear. “Such a good girl, letting us use you like this.”

He hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, changing the angle, driving in deeper. The stretch made you cry out around Bucky’s cock, throat flexing as your moan turned to a sob.

"That's it," Steve growled, pace quickening. "Fuck, so fucking wet and warm... you gonna cum, sweetheart? Gotta feel you squeeze me while you swallow Bucky."

Your body arched, heat crashing through your spine as Steve hit that perfect spot again and again, each thrust sending a jolt through your core. Your throat tightened around Bucky's cock, the vibration of your desperate moans making him curse under his breath.

“Fuck- she’s so close,” Steve panted, driving harder. “You feel that? She’s fucking pulsing.”

You sobbed around Bucky, tears streaking your cheeks, the pressure in your belly a coil tightening with no escape.

“She’s gonna lose it,” Bucky panted, watching the way you writhed. “Look at how she’s trembling. She needs cock.”

And then it snapped.

Your climax hit like a bolt of lightning, seizing your body with white-hot tension as your inner walls clamped down around Steve’s cock. You wailed around Bucky’s length, the cry vibrating through him as he let out a guttural groan.

“Fuck, that mouth- ” Bucky growled, watching your teary eyes roll back. “I’m gonna- shit- ”

He spilled down your throat with a grunt, his cock twitching between your lips, his hand holding you steady as you swallowed every drop of him while he pulsed. 

The clenching spasms of your climax milked Steve mercilessly, dragging his own orgasm from him with a ragged curse. He slammed in deep, staying buried as he came hard, filling you with warmth that only made the pleasure burn hotter.

“Take it,” he groaned, his breath broken against your shoulder. “Take it all. Good fucking girl.”

Bucky sat back on his heels, pulling himself from your mouth with a wet pop, still hard, his cock glistening with your spit. “"Fuck... you’re unreal..." he panted, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing..pupils blown as he looked down at you.

Steve finally pulled out with a groan, the loss of him sudden and jarring, making you whimper. His cum followed, warm and slick as it dripped from your stretched pussy, pooling between your thighs.

His gaze dropped between your legs, transfixed. His eyes went heavy-lidded as he watched it leak from you, dripping down to your slick, twitching rim. Slowly, his fingers moved to your core, smearing the mess down lower, spreading it deliberately to your other entrance.

You gasped, twitching from aftershocks, your body still sensitive everywhere. His fingertip teased your tight hole, rubbing softly, slicking it with a practiced ease. You whimpered, already overwhelmed, but the moan that spilled from you was pure need.

“Damn, Stevie- you didn’t fuck her right if she’s still aching like this,” Bucky drawled, voice hoarse and edged with a smirk, watching the way your hips shifted restlessly on the floor.

You whimpered, the heat still rolling inside you, every nerve ending alive and twitching. The aftershocks made your muscles flutter, your body too sensitive and still so hungry. Steve didn’t bite back. He was too focused- his fingers slick with his own cum as he spread it lower, smearing it over your pussy and then circling your tight, twitching rim.

And then one thick finger pressed inward.

You gasped, whole body jolting, a broken sound catching in your throat as your body tried to clamp down instinctively. But Steve worked slowly, steadily, easing the finger deeper, the stretch sharp and slow as he began to work you open.

You felt your core clench around nothing as Steve worked his finger deeper. “I need- please, I need more, I can’t- ” you gasped, voice trembling. Your head was a mess, fogged with lust and the aftershocks still sparking under your skin. Steve kept up the slow pump of his finger, pushing in deeper, working more of his cum into your ass to keep you slick and open.

“Hear that, Steve?” Bucky said, voice thick with amusement, already fisting his own cock in lazy, slow strokes. “She wants more.”

Steve’s gaze didn’t waver, his finger sinking deeper, curling. You whimpered again.

“Can’t say no, can we?” Bucky added, grinning.

“Oh, I think I know exactly what our girl needs...” Steve muttered, voice thick with heat and control, as his hand disappeared between your thighs.

Steve pulled his finger from your ass just as Bucky got down onto the floor, reaching out to haul you up into his lap. Steve’s arms hooking under yours, supporting your limp, boneless body as they moved you together like you weighed nothing.

“Let’s get you on Buck now...” Steve purred near your ear, voice thick and smooth, a slow heat curling down your spine.

Bucky’s cock was already there- thick, hard, and waiting. They guided you together, Steve steadying you from behind while Bucky angled his cock to your entrance.

As Steve lowered you, your legs wrapped weakly around Bucky’s hips, and you felt the first stretch as his tip slid inside. A guttural groan ripped from Bucky’s throat, his hands tightening on your thighs.

“Fuck, baby,” he gritted out, voice rough and reverent. “You always take me so damn good. Still so fucking tight- even after Steve blew you open? Shit.”

“That’s a girl,” Steve murmured, voice low with praise. “Nice and slow... Want you to feel every inch of him, don’t you?”

You just whimpered and nodded, the need to be filled consuming, overwhelming, as the pair of them helped you sink down onto Bucky’s cock, inch by perfect inch.

Your head fell back against Steve’s shoulder as you settled fully onto Bucky, who thrust up into you with steady pressure. The heat and stretch made your whole body tremble. You could barely breathe, still twitching from your earlier climax. Then Bucky's hands gripped your hips tight.

“Oh fuck,” he hissed, hips rolling upward as he began to move you, guiding you into a rhythm. “Look at you. Still aching. Like how I feel doll?”

The moan that spilled from your mouth didn’t even sound like you anymore- wrecked, raw, and desperate.

You were unraveling under Bucky’s rhythm- the way he filled you had your mind slipping, your thoughts scattering with every deep, slow thrust, how every thrust hit deep, high inside, brushing against that spot that made you shudder. Your head lolled back onto Steve’s shoulder, eyes fluttering, lips parted around desperate little gasps.

“She bites her lip when I go deep. You see that?” Bucky said with a rough chuckle, voice wrecked but smug. “She likes my rhythm.”

You didn’t even notice the way Steve bent you forward over Bucky, hands guiding your body like you were something precious and fragile and already ruined.

You didn’t have time to think too much before you felt Bucky’s hands grip your ass, pulling you open as Steve shifted behind you. It wasn’t until the thick, spongy head of his cock pressed against somewhere you’d never let anyone touch that your eyes snapped open in surprise.

The first inch pushed into your ass slowly, carefully, but it still stole your breath.

“It’s too much- I can’t- wait- ” you gasped, voice cracking with overwhelmed panic as your body instinctively tried to jerk away.

But Bucky rocked his hips upward, pushing deep into your pussy again, and the shockwave of pleasure was enough to paralyze your resistance.

“Shh... it’s okay,” Steve murmured, arms wrapping around you from behind as he continued to press in. His voice was thick and coaxing, his control iron-tight. “I’ve got you. You’re doing so good for us.”

You sobbed, your whole body fluttering around them as Steve sank in deeper, the thin wall between your holes trembling with every inch he took. The two of them groaned in unison, voices rough and reverent as they filled you together.

You were caught between them now. Two super soldiers, all three of you lost in lust and need. Your face twisted with sensation as they held you there- one thick cock filling your pussy, the other spreading your ass open inch by inch. Both sunk to the hilt. You were impossibly full. You were shaking. Overwhelmed. Unable to process the stretch, the heat, the drag of their bodies inside you. It was too much. And you needed more.

“You’re both so… big- I’m gonna- fuck- ” you sobbed. You couldn’t believe how sensitive you’d become- how just being filled, just being stretched, could reduce you to this. You weren��t even moving, yet your body was already bracing to come undone again. There was no going back. No holding on. Just surrender.

You came without moving, the sensation of fullness alone tipping you over. Your body seized in the middle, core clenching violently, squeezing down on both of them at once as pleasure ripped through you like a lightning bolt.

Your voice cracked into a scream. You were gone- shaking, convulsing, burning from the inside out as your orgasm dragged through you with devastating force.

Both of them groaned at the way your body squeezed them- tight and hot and trembling.

“Fuck,” Bucky grunted, rocking his hips once more. “Didn’t even have to move. Just had to be inside you.”

Steve chuckled darkly, voice low and wrecked in your ear. “She’s that sensitive. That fucking perfect.”

You couldn’t even answer. Your lips parted in a silent gasp as Steve’s hands slid up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing across your stiff nipples as he started to move again. Slowly at first, easing back before pressing forward, dragging against that thin wall with every thick stroke.

Bucky's grip returned to your hips, steady and possessive, guiding you to rise and fall on his cock. Your body jolted with every motion, your moans soft and slurred.

“That’s it,” Steve cooed, hips snapping gently. “We’ll start slow…”

“I-I can’t- ” you whimpered, but your body was already moving, driven by instinct and need.

“I know you can take more,” he murmured. “Look how beautiful you are when you come apart. It'll feel better- just gotta keep going.”

And it did. It felt better than the denial. Better than the ache that came from holding back. The pleasure rolled through you like a drug, heavy and all-consuming.

Your hips started to move again, slowly grinding into Bucky as your walls fluttered around him. You didn’t know if it was need or instinct- maybe both- but you couldn’t stop. You were cock-drunk. Barely aware of anything except how good it felt to be filled this way.

“Breathe,” Steve whispered. “Just like that. Hold it- good girl.”

Then Steve pulled your hips back into him and pressed all the way in.

“You think you’re fucking her deep?” Steve growled at Bucky, voice low and wild. “Watch this.”

Bucky shoved his hand flat to your lower stomach and lifted his hips with a brutal thrust. You cried out, the stretch making your eyes roll back as he ground up into you. It was obscene how deep he reached, how thick he felt. You pawed at his chest, clinging to him with trembling fingers.

“..fuck fuck fuck...” you gasped, the breath knocked out of you before he eased his hips again, smug and steady.

“Told ya,” Bucky muttered with a grin.

But it didn’t stop there.

Bucky answered your gasps with harder thrusts. Steve listened for his name and answered with praise. His mouth latched to your neck, nipping and licking along your skin as he squeezed your breasts roughly, molding them in his palms.

“Did you hear that one? That was mine,” Steve muttered against your skin when you gasped his name.

Bucky answered with a sharp thrust that made your breath catch. “She moaned louder for me, sweetheart. Don’t get cocky.”

Each of them was locked into the game- testing reactions, adjusting pace, trying to claim the sounds that spilled from your lips. One made you cry out, the other drew a gasp. They used your body like a live wire for their competition, and you were helpless in the storm.

“She whimpers when I kiss her right here,” he growled, biting just beneath your ear.

Bucky’s hands gripped your hips tighter, fucking up into you hard enough to rock you against Steve’s chest. “She clenched around me when you said that,” he rasped. “Bet she’s trying to pick a favourite.”

You couldn’t keep up. Couldn’t think. You only managed to gasp whatever name escaped your lips first, and they both heard it- every time. And they responded with sharper thrusts, filthier praise.

“You’re so cock-drunk, you don’t even know who’s making you come anymore, do you?” Bucky said, voice rough.

“She’s beautiful like this,” Steve murmured, licking the sweat off your throat. “All wrecked. All ours.”

Then Bucky’s metal hand slid between your thighs again. His fingers brushed your clit, the coolness of steel a shocking chill of metal against your heat made you jolt, gasping as sparks danced up your spine.

“Oh- god - fuck- ” you sobbed, trembling uncontrollably as sparks shot up your spine.

“Breathe,” Steve ordered again. “Just like that. That’s our girl.”

They started to move faster now- driving into you in sync, pistoning in perfect rhythm. The slap of skin echoed, the slick sounds of your soaked cunt and the obscene wet pressure of being filled from both ends breaking whatever was left of your mind.

“You want to make her come, punk?” Bucky growled. “You gotta fuck her harder than that.”

“Shut up, jerk,” Steve snarled, thrusting harder. “We don’t need to break her. Just ruin her a little longer.”

“She’s shaking so bad. You keep her steady, Steve- I wanna see her face when she comes again.”

Your next orgasm ripped through you with a small wail, your features contorting as your body locked up tight. You clawed at them both- gripping Steve’s forearm, Bucky’s shoulder- as your walls fluttered around their cocks, milking them, begging for more without a word.

They didn’t stop. Didn’t give you time to come down. Steve groaned, his thrusts picking up as he rolled your nipples between his fingers. Bucky cursed, gripping your hips tighter, lifting and dropping you into him with growing urgency.

You felt them both losing control- felt their restraint slipping with every second you squeezed around them, heat and slickness pouring down your thighs.

“Fuck- fuck, she’s doing it again,” Bucky grunted.

Steve’s voice was a low growl in your ear. “She wants it. She’s not done. Not till we are.”

Then the pace shifted- harder, rougher, deeper. Their moans grew louder, matched only by the slap of skin on skin. Your head spun, your vision blurred.

And then they were coming again- Steve first, pulled tight to your back, his groan muffled in your shoulder. Then Bucky, buried deep beneath you, eyes locked on yours as he spilled inside you with a strangled moan.

You collapsed between them, limp and boneless, your body a trembling wreck held up only by their hands. You didn’t even try to move. There was no fight left in you- only the slow hum of satisfaction and overstimulation. Somewhere in the haze of your mind, a flicker of disbelief passed through you- how had you endured that? How had you survived the storm of them inside you? But there was no room for shame or second thoughts. Only surrender. And the quiet, overwhelming hum of being utterly, deliciously wrecked. You were too dazed to understand what was happening at first, the haze still thick behind your eyes. The humming under your skin hadn’t stopped, but it had dulled- muted to a low thrum that echoed in your bones. They were careful, even if your overstimulated body didn’t register it that way.

You whined, squirming, as they slowly pulled out of you. The stretch reversed, the heat slipping away, leaving you empty and raw. It wasn’t pain, but your body protested the loss with soft whimpers.

Someone pressed a water bottle to your lips, coaxing you to sip. You obeyed without thought, the coolness trickling down your throat a small mercy.

Another set of hands gently wiped you down. A cold, damp cloth slid between your legs, easing away the slick mess with slow, tender strokes.

Then your head was lowered into someone’s lap. Fingers carded through your hair.

“You did so well,” Steve murmured. “Look at you- perfect.”

You blinked slowly. Steve’s voice again, closer now: “Easy, sweetheart. Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

Your limbs twitched weakly, still responding to phantom pleasure. A quiet laugh came from Bucky.

“Still twitching. Still fucking gorgeous.”

You felt him kissing up your leg, mouth trailing along your calf, your knee, your inner thigh.

Then your legs were being moved again- lifted, spread with a gentleness that contrasted starkly with the earlier frenzy. There was no rush now, no urgency- just the soft reverence of Bucky's hands as he cradled your thighs like something precious, something breakable, as though he hadn’t just wrecked you minutes ago. You blinked, barely aware, as Bucky settled himself between them, laying flat, his breath hot against your oversensitive core.

He pressed a kiss there, soft and reverent, and your whole body jolted in response.

“And I’m not done tasting her,” he muttered, voice thick with need.

“Buck- she needs to recover,” Steve warned again, but his voice had softened to something indulgent.

“I’ll be gentle…” Bucky promised, his mouth already lowering, tongue dragging slow and careful over your aching folds as your head lolled back into Steve lap, eyes fluttering closed, lost to the warmth and the wetness and the impossible pleasure building again

TAGS: @buckybarnesfic, @ruexj283, @yesiamthatwierd @trojanaurora, @hextech-bros

[sagaduwyrm]

The reason I love the Red Hood being a crime lord instead of a vigilante is that Crime Alley, functionally, doesn't have the same problems as the rest of Gotham. Their main problem isn't the mad Rogues running around, it's the cycle of poverty, violence, and crime that they're all stuck in. And you know what one of the main ways to combat this is? Community. Organizing. Working together.

Except Crime Alley can't just choose to do that. Who would choose to join such a risky proposition instead of a gang that you know can help protect your family? So the Red Hood comes in and he looks like he's just creating another gang, the same as all the others.

Except he's serious about not selling drugs to kids or people in danger of overdosing. Except he protects the working girls fiercely, even if it loses him money. Except all the money he does make goes straight into the community if it's not making sure his employees are alright.

Working within the system is often a necessary measure to fix the system. Except the system in the case of Crime Alley isn't the government that abandoned them, it's the volatile, terrible gang set up. So Red Hood didn't just work within the system, he took it over and made it work for him instead.

Is this perfect? No. The other bats have valid disagreements with Jason's way of doing things. But he is doing so much good.

[reidsmanuscript]

Exceptional

Summary: what happens when spencer hears the rumors about your teenage years? what happens when some of those rumors are true?. Pairing: Spencer Reid x lawyer!reader Genre: hurt/comfort and fluff at the end! wc: 5.5k! TW: burning wounds, bullying, misogyny/patriarchal behavior, violent and impulsive behavior. not proofread yet. A/N: in the middle of writting this i realized it's very based on "the archer" and "the man" by Taylor Swift Masterlist! (it's not necessary to read the first 4 chapters!)

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If we're talking about anecdotes from your teenage years, well—there’s not much to tell. Just the totally mundane story of an angry, emotionally volatile teenager with too much brainpower who somehow bulldozed her way into Harvard Law. No big deal.

JJ had great stories about high school—being the captain of her football team, those wholesome, small-town moments straight out of a coming-of-age movie. Emily had the wildest stories—traveling the world, the chaos of never staying in one place, and even the ones that made you feel something, like how badly she just wanted to fit in.

It started with the urgent case the BAU was handed—students linked to an elite Harvard secret society were disappearing, their bodies found staged in ritualistic ways. As the case unfolded, Spencer turned to you, his voice a little more cautious than usual.

“Do you know anything about some Seraphic Circle?”

You didn’t need to think. You’d heard plenty about them. Too much, really. "I’ve heard of them," you said, your tone dripping with disdain and rolling your eyes. “Rich kids with too much money and power. Half of them don’t even deserve to be there, but their families pay for their spot.”

You were reluctant towards accepting going with them to Massachusetts, too much memories and teh constant fear someone might recognize you and call you out for past decisions that maybe weren't the best. Maybe they were worse than you wanted to confess and might even scare Spencer away. 

Still, he had asked you to accompany them. “Do you think they will remember you?”

“Nah… i don’t think so, they have tons of law students per year so…” maybe your words were right, but the higher thn usual pitch on your tone gave you away to spencer, that only he was able to detect, of how you weren’t saying all the true

Long story short, that's how you end up where you are right now, walking behind de BAU towards the Dean of Harvard office, with Spencer by your side. 

You reach the office just as Hotch shakes the dean’s hand, introducing each member of the team. “SSA Jareau, SSA Morgan, and Dr. Reid,” he says, gesturing to each of them in turn. “We also brought—”

“Woodvale.”

The dean’s voice cuts through the room the moment his eyes land on you, recognition flickering across his face. Not even a hundred years would be enough to erase your name from his memory. He didn't like you back then. 

An almost cynical, carefully polite smile curves your lips as you extend your hand. “Dean Langford.”

He grips your hand firmly, his expression unreadable. “Seems like you’ve come a long way from that time your burned one of my students”

The atmosphere in the room shifts instantly, tension crackling like a live wire. But you don’t let it show, ignoring how he didn’t consider you a proper student. Instead, your voice remains cool, measured.

“Those accusations were debunked after no evidence was found,” you say smoothly. “Unlike the very real recordings and witness statements I had of that same student saying—” you pause, tilting your head slightly, your smile sharpening, “women became hysterical when it came to sexual crimes.’”

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Emily and JJ smirking, while Langford’s expression hardens.

The dean's smile barely falters. So, he does remember you. Not surprising—back then, you were even more impulsive than you are now. And that says a lot. 

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Don’t ask how, but somehow Garcia had dug up records that gave the team a list of names tied to the so-called “secret society.” Ironically, when the BAU interviewed students about it, everyone seemed to know what it was—just not anything useful.

“They sacrifice animals.” “A bunch of douchebags with too much money.” “They run everything. If you’re one of them, you’re untouchable.”

“Do any of the names look familiar?” Rossi asked, sliding the list toward you.

You scanned it, then shook your head. “Only the last names. But that’s not surprising—most of them come from old money.”

Garcia had also uncovered some interesting financial records. One name stood out: Andrew Carrington, former lawyer at his family’s prestigious Massachusetts firm. A-class dickhead.

“He’s got buildings in the city,” Garcia said, displaying files on the computer. “But his family’s the real power—deep pockets, old money. There are even a couple of campus buildings with their name on them.”

Rossi raised a brow. “Legacy admission?”

“More like a blank check.” You leaned back. “Everyone knew he bought his way in.”

“Any possibility he’s involved?” Hotch asked.

You considered it for a moment before shaking your head. “I don’t think so. Back then, this club was his pride. These murders? They only drag its prestige through the mud.”

“So… this Seraphic Circle thing,” Emily said, tilting her head. “Were you ever part of it?”

The police station buzzed around you, a low hum of voices and ringing phones, but your focus was on the files in front of you. Spencer sat beside you, skimming through pages with his usual quiet intensity. Neither of you was big on PDA—no hand-holding, no lingering touches in front of the team—but subtlety was an art you both had mastered. Your elbows brushed as you shifted in your seat, his knee resting against yours, the quiet pressure grounding.

“Not really,” you answered finally. “They claimed you had to have a big name in law, but what they really meant was that you had to be rich—and if you were a man? Even better.”

Morgan flipped through a file. “But you do know this Carrington guy.”

Before you could answer, Spencer’s fingers brushed against the side of your knee—a light touch so subtle no one else would notice. A quiet signal. He’d felt your tension the moment Morgan had mentioned Carrington.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. “Yeah… It was hard not to know someone like him. He’s got that whole ‘king of the school’ vibe, but honestly, he’s not capable of something like this.” You spoke nonchalantly, but your voice betrayed a hint of discomfort.

The team shifted focus to the next lead, moving on to analyze the unsub’s possible personality traits. After a few more exchanges, the decision was made to call Carrington in for questioning tomorrow—there was no use doing it this late. The discussion had settled, but Spencer’s fingers brushed against your knee again, just enough for you to catch it. He was still attuned to your every movement, a silent understanding between the two of you.

After that, Hotch made the call for everyone to get some rest. One by one, the team decided to call it a night, heading out to their respective rooms. You and Spencer lingered behind, both of you wrapping up the last of your thoughts on the case.

Spencer was the one to break the silence. He looked around the station, then at you. His eyes softened for a moment before he spoke. “Enough for tonight. Let’s get some sleep.”

You nodded, thankful for the break. As Spencer found your coat, you dropped the files onto the nearest table. You stood still as he slid the coat onto your shoulders, the fabric brushing against your skin. As he did, you both made the mistake of letting your hands touch—just a fleeting brush—but it sent a warmth through your chest.

The walk to the motel was calm, with the quiet night air wrapping around you both. Spencer felt a strange mixture of calm and anticipation swirling in his chest, emotions he didn’t usually indulge. It wasn’t something he had the vocabulary for, not in his usual clinical sense. For once, there wasn’t a need for facts or equations to understand the feeling that settled inside him.

His fingers, almost absent-mindedly, curled into yours. It was a subtle movement, but the softness of it caught him by surprise. His thumb traced small, slow circles over the back of your hand, a tender rhythm he couldn’t quite explain. For someone who usually lived in the world of patterns and logic, this was unfamiliar territory. But the simple touch, the way your fingers fit together so naturally—it felt right.

In a world where everything was either solvable or predictable, this felt like the exception. There was no analysis needed. No need to question why it felt so much like a moment he wanted to hold onto. Maybe it was the quiet between you two, or the way everything around you seemed to fade as his thumb ran over your hand. All Spencer knew was that in that moment, nothing else mattered.

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The next morning, Hotch had sent Morgan and Prentiss off to speak with students on the campus, while he and Rossi took over the interrogation. The room felt different now, quieter—like the calm before another storm. 

Andrew Carrigton settled into the chair like he was sitting at a country club luncheon rather than an interrogation room. His suit was crisp, his cufflinks glinting under the fluorescent lights. If he was rattled by the fact that three of his former society’s members were dead, he didn’t show it.

Hotch sat across from him, his expression unreadable. Morgan leaned against the wall, arms crossed, unimpressed.

“Mr. Carrigton,” Hotch began, “we’re investigating the murders of three students, all of whom were members of the Seraphic Circle. You were one of its founders. We need information.”

Carrigton exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Tragic. Truly. But I haven’t been involved in years. You’d be better off asking one of the new recruits.”

Hotch didn’t budge. “We’re asking you.”

Carrigton smirked, tilting his head. “What do you want me to say? That it’s a secret society? That we have rituals and secret handshakes?” He chuckled. “Come on, Agent. It’s a networking club. A prestigious one, sure, but hardly the Illuminati.”

Rossi let out a sharp breath, unimpressed. “Right. A ‘networking club’ where only the rich and powerful get in, and anyone who doesn’t measure up gets chewed up and spit out.”

Carrigton raised an eyebrow. “That’s life, isn’t it?”

Hotch didn’t rise to the bait. “The night of the first murder, there was an event. Who was in attendance?”

Carrigton hummed, tapping a thoughtful finger against his jaw. “Hard to say. The Circle’s grown since my time. Dozens of faces, most of which I wouldn’t recognize.”

“You’re still connected. You know the leadership.”

Another lazy shrug. “I might know a few names. But as I said, things change. The president rotates out, always some eager young thing desperate to prove themselves. They run the show until the next one takes over.” He smirked. “I imagine the current one is quite overwhelmed.”

“Who’s pulling the strings?” Hotch asked.

Carrigton chuckled. “You give us too much credit, Agent. It’s not some grand conspiracy. It’s a club. People join, people leave. Some do well, some don’t.”

“And the ones who don’t?”

Carrigton waved a dismissive hand. “They drop out. Go on with their lives. Or—” he smiled, sharp, “—they stew in their resentment, blaming others for their own failures.”

Morgan’s jaw tightened. “You think that’s what happened here?”

Carrigton leaned back in his chair, perfectly at ease. “I think it’s always the same story. Someone on the outside looking in, bitter that they weren’t enough. And now they want to take it out on the ones who were.”

Hotch’s voice was cold. “That’s a convenient theory. But it doesn’t answer our questions.”

Carrigton’s smirk widened. “Then maybe you’re asking the wrong ones.”

From the other side of the glass, you watched Carrigton with growing irritation. He was the same smug, arrogant bastard you remembered from college, only now it was worse. His attitude hadn’t changed a bit, and neither had his ability to waste everyone’s time with his deflections.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes as he ran his mouth, completely ignoring the fact that three people were dead, his precious club possibly involved. He was too busy leaning back in his chair, playing at some sick power game.

You glanced at JJ, your patience already hanging by a thread. “There’s no cameras here, right?”

JJ, clearly thrown off by the sudden question, gave you a puzzled look. “No… why?”

Without answering, you turned your focus back to Carrigton and felt your hands tighten into fists. His polished smirk made your blood boil, his greasy hair gleaming under the lights. Your shoulders squared, the weight of your frustration making your movements sharper. You ignored Spencer’s curious glance, his quiet scrutiny as he watched you.

You didn’t have time for any of this.

You walked to the door and knocked once, the sound sharp in the sterile room. Before anyone could respond, you turned the handle, stepping into the interrogation room.

Carrigton’s eyes locked onto you the second you walked in. His gaze flickered briefly, a subtle but noticeable flash of discomfort before he quickly masked it with that same patronizing grin.

“Well, well,” he sneered, adjusting the collar of his shirt like he was trying to put some distance between himself and the real world. “I didn’t realize the FBI was hiring gutter rats now.”

Spencer tensed from the other side of the glass, his expression hardening as his frustration mounted. He was clearly growing angrier at Carrigton’s smug demeanor, but you didn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing you were even a little fazed. You simply smirked and kept your focus on the man sitting in front of you.

Carrigton’s glare never left you as you stepped closer, your tone ice-cold. “This ‘gutter rat’ is about to charge you with obstruction of justice if you don’t start talking, Andrew.”

Carrigton's eyes narrowed, his lips curling in a sneer. “That’s blackmail.”

You didn’t flinch. “And if you keep dragging your feet, that’s another charge—contempt of court. Trust me, I’ve got plenty more where that came from.” You leaned in just enough to make sure he heard you loud and clear. “You want to keep playing games, or you want to start answering questions?”

Carrigton shifted in his seat, the cockiness starting to waver, but he still clung to that arrogance like a shield, gripping it with white-knuckled desperation.

“I want my lawyer,” he said, forcing his voice to stay even.

You scoff, tilting your head as if you were genuinely considering his words before your lips curled into something sharp and ruthless.

"Is that your way of admitting you’re not a good enough lawyer to defend yourself?" Your voice was smooth, razor-edged silk, venom threaded through every syllable. "Start talking."

His nostrils flared, a flicker of something—hesitation, anger, maybe both. It was barely a breath, but you caught it.

"From what I know, the admission process has gone to hell," he sneered, grasping at arrogance like a lifeline. "I spoke with their president last week about it. I'm not throwing my money at that place just for them to start letting in anyone."

Rossi’s eyebrows lifted as he slid the crime scene photos across the table, each image a stark, undeniable truth. “Are these people just ‘anyone’ to you, Andrew?”

For the first time, Carrigton’s arrogance fractured. It was subtle—the flicker of his gaze, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed. His fingers twitched, but he didn’t reach for the photos.

And then you saw it. No matter how high his shirt collar was, it couldn’t quite hide the edges of old scars peeking out—angry, uneven marks trailing up the side of his neck, disappearing beneath expensive fabric. 

"We didn’t have anything to do with this," Carrigton muttered, his voice suddenly lacking its earlier bravado. His eyes flickered briefly over the crime scene photos, but his gaze quickly dropped.

"Who’s ‘we’?" Hotch’s voice was cold, demanding, cutting through the silence.

Carrigton didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he shifted in his seat, hands gripping the edges of the table, knuckles turning white. He wasn’t as confident as before.

You could feel it—he was trying to hide the discomfort, but it was there. The truth always made people uncomfortable.

You pushed yourself off the wall, your movement slow and deliberate, your eyes never leaving him as you circled around behind him. He tensed, just slightly at first, but it was enough.

The memory was still fresh, and you knew it. He hadn’t forgotten how you burned him—how the scalding coffee had left that mark on his neck. He was trying not to show it, but it was eating at him, that simmering, seething reminder that you’d done it and he couldn’t touch you for it.

You stopped just behind him, letting your presence loom over him like a shadow. He could feel your gaze, feel the space between you—too close for comfort, too close for someone who hated you as much as he did.

"What’s the matter, Andrew?" You leaned in, your voice low and smooth, but your words sharp as a knife. "Don’t like me standing here?"

"I told him to stop accepting anyone," Carrigton muttered, his voice tightening as he stumbled over the words. "Grayson Locke, that's his name. Legacy admission. But I had nothing to do with this. We even went through some names, cut people off."

You could feel the hesitation in his voice, the way he was trying to distance himself from the mess that was unfolding. His words were almost defensive, as if he was trying to convince himself as much as you. The stammering wasn’t lost on you—it was almost pathetic.

"What names?" Rossi’s voice was firm, but he wasn’t pushing too hard yet. He was letting Carrigton sweat just a little longer, a strategy you were both accustomed to.

Carrigton's jaw tightened, his eyes darting nervously between Morgan and you. "It was a list," he said quickly, almost as though the words were tumbling out before he could stop them. "Just find him. Tell him I told you to give it to you." He swallowed hard, his gaze flickering to the door. "Outside of that, I don’t know anything else."

There it was. The slip. The admission that he was just as tangled in this as the rest of them. But it wasn’t enough. Rossi stepped out of the interrogation room, heading off to search for the list.

“See? Was that so hard?” You taunted, slumping into the chair Rossi had just vacated, your eyes never leaving Carrigton. His smug façade cracked, just enough for you to see the shift. The sense of discomfort that he could no longer hide.

His eyes flicked to you, venom dripping from his words. “You think you’ve won? All you are is a stray dog who’ll burn in hell.” He spat the words, his jaw tight, but beneath the bravado, there was fear creeping in.

You straightened in the chair, completely unbothered by his outburst. “And you’ll be right there with me. I guess you know a thing or two about burning, don’t you?” Your smirk was sharp, a silent jab at the scars on his neck, the ones you’d left there.

His expression faltered, just for a second, but it was enough to make your blood run colder. Without warning, he shot to his feet, slamming his palms down on the table with a force that made it rattle. His face was inches from yours now, his breath stinking of rage and something darker—panic.

“Fuck you, you deranged bitch,” he hissed, his voice barely contained. “You’ll always be the daughter of some filthy addicts. You’ll never belong to this world. My world.”

You didn’t move, didn’t even blink. The words hit, but they didn’t land. “Did I strike a nerve?” You leaned forward slightly, your tone dropping to a razor-sharp whisper. “Or should I say... burn a nerve?”

Carrigton’s entire body stiffened, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles went white, veins bulging from his hands. His chest heaved with the kind of raw anger that radiated off him like a furnace. “You’re still the same psycho bitch I met years ago.”

You didn’t flinch, didn’t let his venomous words land, only smirked. “Have you learned how to make women come, Carrigton? Or are you still calling them hysterical? Is that why your wife is filing for divorce?”

It wasn’t just the words, but the sharpness of your tone, the deliberate push of your venom that made it sting even more. Garcia had provided all the dirt, the skeletons hidden deep in his closet. You weren’t above having a little fun with it, using it to your advantage. Carrigton, though, was losing his composure with every word you threw at him.

You opened your mouth to retort, but Hotch beat you to it, rising from his seat. "Enough. We appreciate your time, Mr. Carrington. We'll contact you if we need further information," he said, his voice calm but firm.

Andrew huffed dismissively, rising to leave. As he reached the door, he paused, casting one last venomous glance in your direction. "You think you’ve got a place in this world? Trust me, you don’t. People like you? They end up alone, scrambling to hold onto the little sanity they have left before it all slips away."

He didn’t wait for a response, Spencer’s gaze locked with yours the moment Andrew was out of the room. His eyes were filled with concern, but you chose not to address it. Now wasn’t the time.

Instead, you stayed silent, the words echoing in your head. Something about them stuck, gnawing at you. Maybe it was the way he spoke—like he knew something about you that you hadn’t even fully admitted to yourself. Scrambling. It was true, wasn’t it? You were constantly on edge, barely holding it together, pretending that you didn’t feel like you were one step away from losing it. Maybe it would be easier to just give in, let go, and fulfill everyone’s expectations of you. Be the damaged, angry, broken thing they wanted you to be.

For a moment, you almost believed his words.

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　

If murdered students weren’t enough to set the rumor mill on fire, your presence definitely did. The thing about rumors is that they spread like wildfire.

“Sooo… guess what we’ve heard?” Emily’s voice broke through the room as she and the others approached, grinning like they had just uncovered the juiciest piece of gossip on campus.

“Anything useful?” you asked without looking up from the file you were flipping through. “Or is this about the librarian hooking up with students in the archives? Because if it is—old news.”

Morgan smirked, shaking his head. “Nah, actually, we heard about some girl who once got a professor fired.”

“And,” Prentiss added, leaning in with a knowing smile, “was banned from mock trial as a freshman after making another student indirectly confess he bought the answers to his exams.”

Your fingers froze for just a split second—the briefest pause, barely perceptible to anyone but Spencer, who noticed it right away.

You shrugged, trying to keep your voice steady. “People get weirdly creative when it comes to making up rumors.”

Emily raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “So you’re telling me,” she pressed, “that you’ve never heard of the girl who burned some rich kid’s manuscript because he plagiarized her?”

You sighed, closing the file with exaggerated nonchalance. “Sounds like a legend. And legends aren’t real.”

Emily snorted, clearly enjoying this. “Or when she threw a chair at a debate judge for interrupting her?”

Morgan gasped dramatically. “And don’t forget when she flipped a Monopoly board at a networking event after some trust fund brat said she didn’t have the ‘pedigree’ for law.”

Emily smirked. “I heard she broke his nose.”

You shrug it off. “Monopoly makes people violent. Everyone knows that.”

You knew they weren’t trying to be mean, but you’d rather die than show any hint of regret. You had made some questionable choices in the past, but those didn’t define who you were now. Right?

Morgan chuckled, crossing his arms. “Right, right. So I guess the whole thing about you making a guy cry so hard during a mock trial that he dropped out of law school is fake too?”

You were forced to pretend not being able to stop the small smirk tugged at your lips, “Okay, in my defense, that guy was pretentious and thought using big words would make him win.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow, “Some student mentioned you, uh, burning people when they pissed you off.” He exchanged a glance with Prentiss, both of them catching on to your lack of eye contact. “Is that what the Dean was referring to?”

You couldn’t help but feel a slight heat creep up your neck, but you managed to keep your gaze on the desk, avoiding their eyes. You didn’t need to give them the satisfaction of seeing how much it bothered you. “People talk,” you muttered. “But if you believe everything they say, you’re as crazy as they are.”

You could’ve fooled anyone in that room full of profilers, because hiding behind your indifference mask was something you were well-practiced at. That was, of course, if they didn’t know you deeply. If they didn’t spend weekends with you, cooking together, exchanging quiet conversations and inside jokes. If they weren’t Spencer Reid—the only one in the room who could read beneath the surface.

He noticed the way you winced when you shifted your neck, the subtle way you massaged the sore muscles with your hand, avoiding eye contact with everyone. To anyone else, it might have seemed like nothing, but to him, it was a clear sign that something was off. You weren’t as fine as you were pretending to be.

"Anyone want anything? I’m doing a coffee run." You don’t wait for an answer, already making your way toward the break room. But the laughter behind you lingers—harmless, good-natured, but still too close to the laughter of your ex-classmates. It curls around your ribs like a memory you don’t want.

You don’t notice Spencer saying he’ll come with you, but you realize he’s there when you hear his footsteps—loud enough for you to hear him, deliberate so he doesn’t startle you.

At the coffee machine, you take a breath, ignoring him. You press the buttons and try to shake the feeling off, but when you glance at him, just for a second, all he sees in your eyes is guilt. Shame.

"What?" Your voice comes out sharper than you mean. "You also think I’m a menace to society? They’re lucky I turned out halfway functional. Statistically, I shouldn’t have.” 

Spencer stays a few feet away—close enough, but not crowding you. The perfect arms-length distance. It was something he understood about you, something you never had to say out loud. Letting you decide if you needed space or needed closeness. Giving you control, even in something as simple as this.

"None of them think that," he says quietly. "I don’t think that."

It takes effort to look at him, but when you do, the tightness in your chest gets worse. You hate it. You hate the way it feels when you take a step closer, resting your forehead against his shoulder. And you hate how naturally his hand finds the back of your head, his fingers brushing through your hair in a slow, soothing motion, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

"I didn’t mean to—God, have you seen the scars on his neck?" Your voice cracks, barely above a whisper. "What kind of… monster does that?"

His hand stills against you for a second.

It breaks his heart every time you talk about yourself like this—like you’re one of the people he spends his life trying to stop.

"Technically, the probability of someone from your background reaching your level of success is less than three percent. And even among that group, only a fraction manage to sustain high-pressure careers."

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Yeah? And what’s the probability of me snapping one day and proving everyone right?"

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t flinch. "That’s not the point."

"Then what is?"

He exhales, steady and patient. "The point is that I could pull up hard data showing how statistically, you shouldn’t have graduated at fifteen. Or made it through law school on a full ride. Or become one of the best prosecutors in D.C. The odds of that happening were lower than one percent. But you did it. So if we're playing by numbers, then statistically… you're exceptional."

He pauses, watching you carefully. Then, softer "And not in the way you seem to think."

Your fingers curl into the edge on themselves, nails pressing into your palms as you process his words. You hate how much they settle into your chest, how they make something raw and aching twist inside you. You exhale, forcing out a scoff, trying to grasp onto the sarcasm that usually keeps you afloat.

"You make it sound like I'm some kind of miracle," 

"You might as well be the proof that God exists to me," Spencer says simply, like it’s the most obvious fact in the world.

Your throat tightens. You shake your head, swallowing past the lump forming there. "I hate how you do that," you murmur.

"Do what?"

"Make me feel like maybe I’m not beyond saving."

His hand stills for a moment before he squeezes the nape of your neck, grounding. "Then I guess I’ll just have to keep doing it until you believe it."

And for once, you don’t have the energy to argue.

　　　　 　　  .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　

The case wrapped up when the team uncovered that one of the students they had interviewed had been fixated on getting into the Seraphic Circle. After his rejection, it became his breaking point, driving him to kill the members in a vengeful spree.

You would have laughed in Andrew Carrington’s face and shown him just how much that exclusive little club had spiraled into something violent and twisted, you would’ve. But, of course, that would’ve been disrespectful to the victims, so you didn’t. You wouldn’t let yourself sink into that bitterness.

But, it didn’t matter in the end. When you landed back in Washington—home, dear home—it didn’t matter. The case was closed, and, for the first time in a long while, you felt a weight lift from your shoulders. Your past mistakes no longer haunted you, and as you stepped into the familiar rhythm of your life, you realized that, just for this moment, you could breathe.

To be honest, you weren’t the same person you were back then. The young teen you once were would have never believed, or even considered, that she could be in a loving relationship with a man who would love her unconditionally, no matter what. She never would have believed that someone like Spencer could ever like someone like you. 

"Are you hungry?" Spencer asked, his voice soft as he dropped the go-bag by the entrance of the apartment. He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead "I saw this new recipe for homemade lasagna," he added, his eyes lighting up in that way they always did when he was excited about something. "It has layers of ricotta, mozzarella, and this really rich, savory meat sauce that I think we could definitely pull off. I thought we could make it together—maybe add a little twist of our own, like some fresh basil?"

You smiled at his enthusiasm, noticing how his fingers brushed through his hair absentmindedly as he spoke. It was always endearing to watch him get excited over the little things. "Homemade lasagna? That sounds amazing," you replied, already picturing the cozy evening ahead.

His grin widened, and he pulled his phone from his pocket, swiping through the recipe. "It’s supposed to take a bit of time, but it’s not complicated...just a lot of love and patience—so, you know, I think we can manage. Plus, it’ll give us time to talk...and eat a lot of cheese."

You laughed, the sound light and full of affection. "I think I’m sold. Lasagna and cheese? Definitely the kind of night I need."

He gave a small nod, as if he were confirming his excitement to himself. "Okay, I’ll grab the ingredients. You’re in charge of setting up the music. Deal?"

"Deal," you said, already feeling that comforting sense of peace that only came from spending time like this—together, in your little shared world, filled with small moments that meant everything.

Who would’ve thought you’d be cooking lasagna with the soft crackle of a vinyl player spinning Billy Joel and Elvis Presley in the background

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　

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[greenglowinspooks]

Hey. Shakes you by the shoulders. DCxDP where Eobard Thawne is Danny’s cool distant “uncle” that he never sees but always sends in the coolest gifts for the holidays.

~

Danny had grown used to seeing people injured at a surprisingly young age.

He wasn’t injured on the regular, or witness to some sort of extraordinary amount of violence; his parents’ lab was just… very volatile, and they were unprofessionally lax on safety measures on the best of days.

As such, when he saw an unconscious, incredibly injured man wearing some sort of superhero suit in their backyard in the early hours of the morning (he had gotten up to get a glass of water when he heard a thump outside), he didn’t panic, as any young child should have in his situation.

No. Instead, Danny dragged the man inside (with considerable difficulty; despite how thin he was, he was heavy), treated his wounds as best he could (it’s difficult for a child younger than 10 to do stitches, you understand), put a blanket over the man, and went back to bed.

After losing a fight to the Flash and passing out in a random suburban lawn, the last thing Eobard was expecting to wake up to was a small child sitting on the floor in front of him, noisily eating a bowl of cereal.

(He had thought, maybe he would have been found by the Flash and brought to some Justice League holding cell. Or, found by a civilian, and brought to the police. Perhaps, in his feverish state, he had remembered the prison he ended up in from his time, with their brands and chemicals and torturous therapies.)

For some unknown reason, this child had found him, not recognized him as the monster he is (perhaps due to the boy’s age), and helped him—even if his healing factor would have fixed him eventually, having all his parts in the right order certainly sped up the process.

Usually he wouldn’t care for civilians. He’d killed enough that he’d lost count what felt like an eternity ago—and yet, somehow, he felt indebted to this boy. This boy, who had helped him so selflessly, who was so entirely clueless to the evil right in front of him.

This boy, who was all alone in an empty house, whose sister was away, whose parents had gone on a trip and left him behind.

(It didn’t matter the explanation the boy gave for it, Eobard’s mind whispered to itself regardless. Kin. Like calling to like.)

And so, he worked hard to free himself from this debt he had incurred.

He traveled through time, working his way into the family whilst posing as a distant relative. It was remarkably easy; the Fentons didn’t have an incredible memory of their relatives; all he had to do was forge a few papers and mention a few people and he was now “Uncle Eo”.

It was, however, taxing on the mind. These people were absurdly friendly, not to mention talkative. The effort had become a multi-year operation, popping in every now and then for large family gatherings and home visits.

It felt… nice, to be wanted for once. To be noticed in his absence for more than just his status.

To be liked.

He made sure to send the boy a gift on the right holidays, as well as on his birthdays. With his skillset, it wasn’t too difficult to follow him around and see what he liked and wanted. It also wasn’t difficult to spy in when he opened them, to ensure that he had done an acceptable job.

Of course, he couldn’t let this sort of thing cut into his time spent fighting the Flash, so he wasn’t too present. The last thing he wanted was to drag trouble into the boy’s life from his presence.

But then, it happened.

He found out that this boy, and the one known in his time as Phantom, were one and the same.

It was, as a historian, thrilling.

It was, as a villain, horrifying.

In all his travels, he had never intended to involve himself with that mysterious being which shadowed the Justice League. That ghost with the power, in some timelines, to bring about the end of all things.

Of course, he was also capable of doing that, but it isn’t exactly fun to meet someone who’s powers are a match for your own.

Especially if you couldn’t find it in yourself to end him, should he make himself your enemy.

Still, he had a debt to repay, and a boy to look after.

He delivered things to the boy’s room to help him; tactical gloves, a lightweight protective suit, weapons and equipment. All uncredited, since the boy seemed to value the idea of a secret identity.

He took it upon himself to shift the odds in his favor a few times, even; making faster-than-light adjustments to the boy and his combatants during fights to shift the odds in his favor.

Somewhere along the years, he had formed some sort of odd affection for the boy, if he was capable of doing so at all.

And so, when that ghost-boy sought his Uncle Eo out all the way in Central City, carved open and scarred, a distant look in his eyes, he took him in without a second thought.

He would protect this boy, who once had protected him.

[riddlesrizzler]

Sigma Nu's Sweetheart

summary: A diamond in a house full of snakes. characters: frat boy! mattheo. frat sweetheart! reader. frat boy! slytherins warnings: mentions of alcohol and making pledges do things (not hazing) word count: 2.3k

They called it the Snake House, though its real name-Sigma Nu-was etched in fading silver above the wrought iron gates that led to the manor. Hidden behind ivy-draped columns and shrouded by ancient oaks, the fraternity estate stood on the edge of campus like a secret too dangerous to be kept in daylight. No one quite remembered when Sigma Nu had been founded-some whispered it was pre-dating the university itself, rooted in ancient rites and blood oaths sworn beneath crescent moons. But in the present, it was feared, admired, and envied in equal measure.

The president of Sigma Nu was Mattheo Riddle, a name spoken with the kind of reverence reserved for legends and tyrants. Sharp of tongue and sharper of mind, Mattheo ruled the fraternity not with brutish dominance, but with a silken charisma that wrapped itself around you like a noose. He was all marble and firelight: smooth, cold, untouchable on the outside, yet flickering with something volatile beneath the surface.

His second-in-command, Theodore Nott, was the shadow behind the throne. Where Mattheo set the tone, Theo enforced it. He was quieter, more calculated, with a gaze like cut glass and a voice you only heard when he needed to remind someone of their place. The brothers called him “The Watcher”-not because he hovered, but because he saw everything.

The rest of the inner circle rotated like planets in their orbit.

Lorenzo Berkshire, with his floppy brown hair and wicked grin, handled social affairs-if such a title could be applied to the lavish masquerades and forbidden midnight galas he orchestrated. Enzo was charm incarnate, hiding razor-sharp instincts behind a glass of wine and a well-tailored coat. People underestimated him. That was their first mistake.

Draco Malfoy, heir to a crumbling aristocracy, served as treasurer. But that role was a formality. Draco was the gatekeeper to the legacy. His family had once poured obscene amounts of money into Sigma Nu, and though the vaults ran thinner now, his word still carried the weight of dynasties. Cold and calculating, Draco rarely spoke unless it was to remind others they weren’t worth speaking to.

Then there was Blaise Zabini, the strategist. He didn’t run the meetings or throw the parties. He played the long game-the one that was always three moves ahead. A cigarette always rested between his fingers, and secrets curled around him like smoke. Blaise’s role wasn’t official. It didn’t have to be. In Sigma Nu, knowledge was currency, and he was the quiet king of the underground economy.

Together, they formed the serpent’s head.

The house itself was a relic from another time. Stained-glass windows filtered the sunlight into eerie patterns on mahogany floors. The walls were lined with portraits of brothers past-men with hollow eyes and stories that had been scrubbed from official records. A grand staircase, rumored to creak only when someone lied in its presence, split the mansion in two. The basement was off-limits, except for the highest-ranking members. What happened down there was never spoken of, but the muffled echoes that sometimes rose through the vents kept the rumors alive.

Rituals were everything in Sigma Nu. Pledging wasn't just about endurance-it was a test of will, of loyalty, of how far you were willing to crawl for power. And once you were in, you were in. There was no leaving. Not really. Former brothers found themselves mysteriously blacklisted, their futures erased with quiet efficiency. No one crossed the Snake House without bleeding for it.

Yet every year, the line to rush snaked down the cobblestone path, filled with students desperate to touch even the hem of that forbidden tapestry. Power, after all, is seductive. And Mattheo Riddle’s Sigma Nu had power in spades.

But inside those ivy-covered walls, something was shifting. There were murmurs of a fracture in the hierarchy. An outsider watching too closely. A secret the founders had buried that might be clawing its way back to the surface.

And at the center of it all: Mattheo, with a hand on the throne and another on the throttle.

But between the echoes of old secrets and the weight of a legacy stitched in silence, she was the unexpected constant-soft in a world that was anything but. While Mattheo navigated the shifting loyalties and unspoken rules of the house, she remained untouched by the storm, yet always in its eye. She didn’t need a title to hold power; she had something rarer. Influence, without force. Presence, without demand. And though the throne was his to claim, she was the one they all moved around-the one they’d protect without question, even as the walls whispered of betrayal and the past threatened to rise. Because to the outside world, she was just the Diamond of Alpha Delta Pi. But to them… she was the heart of Sigma Nu.

The Snake House had never known softness before she arrived. But now, the scent of vanilla and cinnamon wafted through the halls before chapter meetings, and there were always cookies cooling on the kitchen counter beside the whiskey bottles. Her laugh echoed down the staircase, light and melodic, blending strangely well with the heavy bass of party nights and the creak of ancient floorboards.

She wasn't just a sweetheart by title-she was the heartbeat of the fraternity.

Every Friday, three pledges showed up at her off-campus cottage, armed with mops and laundry detergent, ready to clean top to bottom without question. It had become a tradition-Sigma Nu took care of her. Always. It was Theo’s rule. But it was Mattheo’s order.

The pledges were already working by the time the rest of the world stirred. One was sweeping under the island. Another was wiping down cabinets. A third was sorting her laundry into color-coded piles on the dining room table.

“Don’t forget the lavender dryer sheets,” she reminded one of them sweetly, not looking up from her dough.

“Yes, ma’am,” the pledge muttered, blushing.

“You didn’t have to come clean.” She looked over her shoulder at him, a smudge of flour on her cheek.

“I wanted to.” Mattheo walked in, groggy but sharp-eyed, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

“You send pledges to clean my own house every week. My landlord thinks I have a personal cleaning service." She giggled.

“You basically do,” he said, flicking his lighter closed. “You bake banana bread and let Theo cry on your couch. You’ve earned it.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m right,” he replied, and stepped forward, gently swiping the flour from her cheek with his thumb. “You spoil us. Let us return the favor.”

She looked at him for a long moment, eyes searching.

“You don’t have to keep proving things to me, Mattheo.”

He met her gaze, unwavering. “I’m not. I’m proving it to everyone else.”

At parties, she didn’t need to lift a finger. A pledge carried her drink. Another held her coat. If she looked even slightly tired, someone found her a seat. When she danced, people made room.

The party pulsed like a living thing-booming bass, laughter slurred into inside jokes, the thick haze of too much beer and too little inhibition. Lights blinked across the walls, casting silvers and greens on the sweaty crowd packed into the house’s main room.

Then she walked in.

The chatter didn’t stop-but it shifted. Heads turned. A few of the brothers straightened up. Pledges scrambled to make space near the drinks table. And at the edge of the chaos, Mattheo Riddle watched her with a smirk wrapped around the mouth of his beer bottle.

Diamond House perfection. The only sweetheart Sigma Nu would ever need.

She made her way toward the kitchen, exchanging soft smiles and cheek kisses, until one of the guys shouted, “Sweetheart’s here!”

Cheers erupted like a spell had been cast.

Mattheo didn’t move. Just leaned back against the doorway, letting his eyes follow her every step. When a freshman tried handing her a half-full drink, Mattheo’s voice cut sharp and smooth across the room.

“She only drinks vodka cran, dumbass.” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to.

The pledge blinked, nodded quickly, and disappeared.

She found Mattheo seconds later, a lazy smile tugging at her lips. “You’re going to scare off all the new members.”

“Good.” He looked down at her. “They were getting too bold.”

“You’re acting like I’m made of glass.”

He tilted his head, that smirk deepening. “Nah. Diamonds are tougher than glass.”

She arched a brow. “So I’m tough?”

“You’re dangerous.” His voice dipped, low and dry. “I’ve seen more than a few guys fall stupid over you in five seconds flat.”

“And you?” she asked sweetly. “Still standing?”

Mattheo took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving hers. “Barely.”

When she walked into a tailgate wrapped in an oversized Sigma Nu hoodie-Draco’s once, Blaise’s the next, Enzo’s after that-everyone knew it was only borrowed until Mattheo noticed she was cold and quietly handed her his.

He always did.

The wind whipped around the tailgate like it had something to prove. She stood on her tiptoes, scanning the crowd, the hem of her Sigma Nu hoodie fluttering. Not hers, technically-Mattheo’s. Still smelled like smoke and spice and something she couldn’t name.

He appeared behind her like a shadow.

“Cold again?”

“You have a sixth sense for it.”

“No.” He leaned close, lips brushing her ear. “I just know you.”

She turned with a grin, poking his chest. “So, what’s the plan, President? Going to assign a pledge to hold my hand all day too?”

“Don’t tempt me.” His eyes flickered over her, playful. “I’d make it a rotating shift.”

She laughed, full and bright.

“I could carry my own books, you know.”

“And ruin our entire pledging system?” he asked, mock serious. “What would the freshmen do without you assigning them smoothie runs and study session alarms?”

“You love it.”

Mattheo didn’t deny it.

Instead, he stepped back and tossed her his scarf. “Put that on.”

“Possessive much?”

“Practical,” he said with a wink. “And if anyone asks-tell them it’s house policy.”

Mattheo Riddle didn’t smile easily. But he watched her like she hung the stars. Protective wasn’t the right word-it was something fiercer, deeper. He knew the sound of her footsteps before she even knocked. He knew how she took her tea, what time her classes ended, what books were stacked in her bag on any given day.

And when he wasn’t sitting at the head of the chapter table, you could find him leaning against the counter while she stirred brownie batter, sleeves pushed up, hoodie half-swallowed by her frame. She was always cooking for them-baking too-and she stayed through every meeting, sitting on the arm of Mattheo’s chair like she belonged there.

Because she did.

Theo might’ve been vice president, but she was Mattheo’s right hand. She helped organize formals, charity auctions, service hours, and pledge retreats. The boys listened when she spoke-not because they were told to, but because they wanted to.

She had that kind of presence. Gentle, golden. The kind of energy that softened even the sharpest of them.

Draco, for all his cold poise, once spent an hour carving roses out of apples because she needed garnishes for a spring brunch. Enzo stopped calling other girls “gorgeous” in her presence out of some misplaced loyalty. Blaise-usually detached and unreadable-offered up his rare, real smiles only when she sat beside him, asking how his day had been like she meant it.

She wasn’t just a name on the sweetheart paddle or a girl in the stands. She was the heartbeat of the house-the reason the boys cleaned up before chapter meetings, the reason pledges learned to bake banana bread from scratch, the reason the Snake House didn’t feel like just a frat, but like something closer to home.

She made it feel like something worth protecting.

The brothers would say it, loud and proud, beers raised and sloshing at tailgates- “She’s ours.”

She showed up early to help decorate before parties. She stayed late to clean. She knew all their birthdays, their favorite meals, their secret fears. When Enzo got sick, she made him soup from scratch and handwrote the recipe card so he could brag about it. When Theo failed a midterm, she sat up with him until 3 a.m., mapping out a study plan like his future depended on it.

Draco, who rarely showed softness, once told her, “If I ever get married, it’s because you raised the bar so high I finally found someone who reminded me of you.”

Blaise swore she brought peace into every room she walked into. Lorenzo called her their “lucky charm.” The pledges called her ma’am-but with awe, not obligation.

She wasn’t perfect. But she was real. She laughed too hard. She danced barefoot in the house like she didn’t care who saw. She left behind hair ties, lip balm, and the scent of vanilla in every room. And when the world got too loud, she leaned into chaos with a smile like she’d tamed fire.

And Mattheo?

Mattheo watched it all from the edge. Quiet. Unshakable. Unclaimed but not untouched.

She wore his hoodies, and he never asked for them back. He let her take the best seat at every party, made the boys swap their plans if she needed help, silenced a room with just a glance if anyone dared say her name wrong.

He never said it-not out loud. Never told her that she made the world easier to stand in. Never admitted that he memorized her favorite flowers or that he checked if her porch light was on after every party.

She might’ve worn Diamond blue, but she was etched into Sigma Nu like a secret kept under lock and key.

And Mattheo Riddle didn’t share secrets.

[eternal-evergreens]

｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+*⁠.⁠✧"Into the looking glass - II " ｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+*⁠.⁠✧

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII

Post format: Multipart series

Pairing: Yandere!Male!DoL x Fem!Isekai!Reader

Word count: 5.2k

Synopsis: You gain the chance to wake up in the world of one of your favorite games. Unfortunately, the 'favorite game' happens to be one about rape, violence, and stalking. Not only that, but the game seems to be rigged against you. All you want is to find a way home and put this all behind you, but is that even possible...?

Warnings: Sexual Assault, Attempted Non/Con, Stalking, Violence, Age Gaps, Teacher/Student, Caretaker/Ward, One Suicide Joke, Bullying,

Excellent Good Decent Okay Poor Bad Terrible

What…what does that mean?

Darling? Surely, they don’t mean it the way you think they mean it…

…But, if that were the case, why would it be written in red and pink? You think back on all the strange occurrences of the day and come to a horrifying realization.

Beauty: 7/6 Your beauty is beyond measure. Robin wants to be your best friend.             Love: 100% Confidence: 0% Trauma: 0% Lust: 40% Whitney wants to own you. Love: 50% Dominance: 50% Lust: 100% Kylar is obsessed with you. Love: 100% Jealousy: 55% Lust: 90% Sydney is conflicted. Love: 77% Purity: 44% Lust: 66% Bailey doesn’t want you to leave. Love: 25% Lust: 99% You’re Leighton’s favorite. Love: 10% Lust: 85% Your fellow students desire you.

When they say “Darling,” they mean it as in the victim of a yandere.

This...this isn't DoL.

Your phone buzzes. You’ve gotten a text. 

Congratulations! You’ve made a key discovery and found a fragment of the true nature of this world. 

What the fuck does that mean? Wait, this thing can read your thoughts? 

View fragment?  Y/N

Yes. If you can go home, yes.

There are 7 total fragments.             Fragments found: 2             Fragments remaining: 5 Fragment 1:            Welcome to the alpha of Degrees of Lewdity!           If you want to avoid trouble, dress modestly and stick to safe, well-lit areas. Nights are particularly dangerous. Dressing lewd will attract attention, both good and bad.            The new school year starts tomorrow at 09:00. The bus service is the easiest way to get around town. Don’t forget your uniform and backpack!

You remember getting this message. So, that was a fragment, then? Why weren’t you notified before? Did you need to unlock something first?

Fragment 2: This is a world full of yanderes, so be careful! Balance your social stats between fascination, love, lust, jealousy, and devotion to survive. A quick guide on these crucial four states is provided below:  Fascination indicates how enthralled your yandere is by the idea of you. It’s dangerous to let this get too high!  Love indicates how much a yandere values the authentic you. Putting on airs will lower your yandere’s love, but may be necessary at times. Having a negative love will lead to more dangerous encounters. Lust indicates carnal desire. Higher lust can aid in negotiations if you’re willing to reward them, but if this stat goes up too much, they won’t be willing to hear you out before taking what they want. Jealousy indicates the yandere’s volatility and desire to monopolize you. Some yanderes’ jealousy will go up if you don’t spend enough time with them.  Devotion indicates how far the yandere is willing to go out of their way for you. Having this stat means you can make use of your yanderes, but they may also use their devotion in less productive ways.

Seems like every fragment reveals one truth about the world, as well as some tips on how to make use of the information it provides.

Your phone buzzes.

System error. Please reboot.

You look down at your phone with curiosity. What happened? Not knowing what else to do, you restart your phone and open it again. 

Your social tabs have been updated with more accurate information. View tabs? Y/N

Yes.

Social                Excellent Good Decent Okay Poor Bad Terrible Primary relationships Robin The Orphan Robin wants to be your best friend.       Facination: 100% Love: 0% Devotion: 30% Lust: 40%         Confidence: 0% Trauma: 0% Whitney The Bully  Whitney wants to own you.       Facination: 50% Love: 0% Devotion: 0% Dominance: 50% Lust: 100% Kylar The Loner Kylar is obsessed with you.       Fascination: 100% Love: 0% Devotion: 30% Jealousy: 55% Lust: 90% Sydney The Faithful ? Sydney is conflicted.       Fascination: 77% Love: 0% Devotion: 20% Purity: 44%        Lust: 66% Other relationships:  Bailey The Caretaker Bailey doesn’t want you to leave.       Fascination: 25% Love: 0% Lust: 99% Devotion: 1% Leighton The Headmaster You’re Leighton’s favorite.       Fascination: 16% Love: 0% Lust: 85% Devotion: 0% Reputation  The police aren’t concerned with you, and have no evidence linking you to any crime. The atmosphere in the orphanage is calm. You are considered a normal student by teachers. Your fellow students desire you. Lust: 100% Status: 50%

Before you can properly digest this new information, your phone buzzes again.

Congratulations! You’ve unlocked a new quest.  You have just discovered two secrets of the world, and with it, your understanding becomes clearer. ++Awareness. You feel as if you are on the verge of remembering something important. Discover all there is to know about this place, and perhaps you may be granted the opportunity to escape it. View questpage? Y/N

You might be able to go home? You quickly hit the yes button and keep reading.

Main questline  >Find the remaining fragments and discover the true nature of this world. >Meet the remaining love interests.  Time-sensitive >Bailey wants £100 on Sunday.

…You have to meet the remaining love interests? Doesn’t that mean getting kidnapped?! You stare at your phone dejectedly as you roll over in bed. You’ll worry about that later. For now, you just need to rest. You close your eyes, but you can’t get comfortable. Your phone buzzes for what feels like the millionth time, and you lazily pull it out to check. 

You’ve unlocked a new quest!  Your bed is uncomfortable. All rest points are reduced by half. Nightmares are more intense. Every rest has a 5% chance of waking you up sore. Save up your funds and buy a comfortable bed!  Current funds: £186 Funds needed: £2400 Optional: Decorate your room to match your taste. Current funds: £186 Funds needed: ??? Rewards: Triple current rest points, nightmares reduced Penalty: None Bonus Rewards: +Love to all LI’s, passive stress and trauma decay faster while inside.

Money again, huh? Typical. Still, the rewards are pretty good. You’ll have to do it later. For now, you should probably go to work to make it happen. You change out of your uniform and head to the office building, where you approach the kiosk and apply as a temp. It’s a somewhat risky job, but the pay is one of the best, especially once you start getting bonuses.

Your manager this time is a trim man named Marcus. He shows you around the building and you get to work. It’s not too bad, though your clothes get caught in the shredder more times than you’d like to admit, at least you didn’t fall in the koi pond.

Before you realize it, it’s 22:00. Dark once again. Dark in Doltown with a constantly maxed allure. 

Fuck.

You go downstairs and are debating whether you should risk the bus or the streets when a growling pair of yellow eyes meets your gaze. 

“If I get molested by a dog, I’m actually gonna kill myself,” you say to no one in particular, immediately turning to the direction of the nearest bus stop.

That’s another reason you should work at the dog pound from time to time, actually. Completing various tasks there makes the streets safer at night and beastiality encounters less frequent. 

You end up having to use your sole pepper spray charge on two men from the bus, leaving you unprotected and uneasy. You open your phone and turn on the flashlight, but your eye is caught by your status. Right under the blurb telling you about your current state, is purple text reading: “Something is watching you.”

An idea strikes you. It’s bold, it’s risky, it’s—

This is stupid, you think to yourself. This is so, so stupid. You follow your flashlight to a secluded, dead-end alleyway. There’s only one way for someone to come in here. You check your phone. Something is watching you.

“Hello?” You call out. “I know you’re watching me. Come out already.” You hear a rustling near the garbage bags, then see a short figure dart out and make a run for it. You were expecting this, though, so you immediately break out into a sprint and give chase. You aren’t very fast, but your legs are longer, and you quickly catch up. “Gotcha,” you say, hand on their shoulder as you turn them to face you. “Kylar.”

“H-how did you know?” 

“Forget that. Just know I’m not mad.” 

“Y-you aren’t?” There’s a twinge of hope in his voice. Time to crush it.

“I’m not. Not yet, anyway.” Kylar looks confused. “I hear you’re good at chemistry. Can you make pepper spray?” 

“How did you-” 

“Can you?” You say, allowing your voice to take on a flirtatious lull as you lean in close. “I’d be very happy if you could.” You bat your eyelashes and Kylar gulps. He tries to nod but ends up hitting your head with his own by accident. +Pain 

“Good,” you say. “I want you to make pepper spray for me. Make sure I never run out, and you can follow me to your heart's content. Deal?” You hold out your hand for him to take. Kylar considers it for a moment, then takes your hand. ++Devotion. You shake, but he doesn’t let go. Not wanting to provoke him, you leave it, and Kylar ends up walking you home. It’s silly, but you actually feel a little safer walking with him. +Love.

Together, you reach the orphanage’s entrance. Kylar looks like he wants to ask you to stay the night but quickly flushes and runs away. 

Thank God. 

You climb into bed. It isn’t very comfortable.

——————— 

It is the 6th of September, 2022. -It has been 2 days since the game started. -The game started in autumn.  -It is autumn. -School term Finishes on Friday the 2nd of December. Current Funds: £357 Pain: You feel okay Arousal: You are cold Fatigue: You are alert Stress: You are calm Trauma: You are uneasy Control: You are confident Allure: You look like you need to be ravaged

You walk with Robin to school but part ways after reaching the courtyard. You aren’t sure where Robin goes when you part, but you suppose it doesn’t really matter. You head to the library but are surprised to find that Sydney isn’t there. You guess he must have overslept at the temple again, which means he won’t be back until lunch. 

You suddenly wish you knew where Robin went after arriving at school. It’s probably more dangerous to wander around looking for him, though. So you settle down with a textbook until it’s time for class. When you check your school progress, you’re delighted to see every subject at nearly a 50% understanding for the week already. You’re on track.

The science project is assigned. You decide to do one on lichen. The money will help a lot, and it’ll be a good chance to meet Avery for your quest, too.

Someone spills acid on you during class. It was probably supposed to hit your shirt, but because of how you can’t button it up past your chest, it ended up hitting your breast instead. You spent the rest of class in the infirmary getting lectured about lab safety. Luckily, it was hardly even a first-degree burn. It’ll heal in no time, she said. 

+Pain +Willpower

You return just in time to be late for math. +Delinquency 

“Detention,” River says, not bothering to look up from the whiteboard. 

“But—”

“Don’t talk back to me.”  ++Delinquency

You nod, though you doubt he can see it, and look for a seat. The room is full, save for one seat in the back next to Whitney. It’s covered in boxes full of heavy textbooks.

Your phone buzzes. 

>Move the boxes and sit next to Whitney +Fatigue -Dominance Increases chance of harassment >Sit in Whitney’s lap (Promiscuity 4) +++Dominance +++Lust -Jealousy  >Ask someone to move +Delinquency -Dominance >Leave the classroom +++Delinquency

You sigh and march over to a toned boy sitting in the front. You try to smile but end up grimacing instead. “Could I sit here?” You ask. The boy laughs. River shoots you a look. -Status +Deliquency

>Get physical ++Delinquency +Status ? >Move the boxes and sit next to Whitney +Fatigue -Dominance Increases chance of harrasment >Sit in Whitney’s lap (Promiscuity 4) +++Dominance +++Lust -Jealousy  >Leave the classroom +++Delinquency

You grit your teeth and walk over to Whitney, who pats his lap mockingly. You turn away from him to pick up the boxes, and he lifts your skirt up. You don’t think anyone saw, but it was still humiliating. You quickly move the boxes and sit down, trying to focus on the lesson. You’re doing pretty well despite your low grade, but sitting next to Whitney is definitely not helping. About halfway through the lesson, he throws a note at you, and despite your better judgment, you open it. 

“show us your panties slut”

>Flash (Exhibitionism 1) +Lust +Dominance >Throw away -Dominance >Correct the note and throw back (English: Very difficult) --Dominance

You try to correct the note, but find nothing wrong. You toss it in a nearby bin instead.

-Dominance 

The rest of class passes, and although Whitney tries to undo your bra strap again, he reaches for the back instead of the front, leaving you protected.

You go to English next, your previous encounter with Whitney leaving you motivated to do well. You see Kylar sitting in the back. You ignore him and focus on the lesson instead. It’s boring, but you need the grade, so you muddle through it.

You try to muddle through it, anyway. The person behind you keeps kicking your seat, and then looking away every time you turn to face him.

>Tell the teacher -Status +English >Endure +Stress >Move seats +Delinquency

You quietly inform the teacher of your predicament, and she sends the boy to another seat. Some students snicker at you, but you’re able to finish the lesson in peace. -Status +English

The bell rings, and you head to lunch. Robin is eating with some others from the orphanage; they seem to be having fun. Sydney is sitting behind a large pile of books; he looks stressed. Kylar is eating alone, stabbing food with a fork; he looks bored.

>Sit with Robin +Love -Stress -Jealousy  >Sit with Sydney +Love -Stress -Jealousy >Sit with Kylar +Love -Jealousy +++Pepper spray charge  >Eat Lunch -Stress

You sit with Kylar, and hope no one notices. He immediately perks up upon seeing you. “I-I got you this,” he says, handing you a pepper spray canister. “Should keep the perverts away.” 

You gained 20 pepper spray charges! Talk to Kylar each week to refill. >Take it but say nothing -Love >Take it and thank +Love +Devotion >Take it and kiss ++Lust ++Devotion >Take it and reward +++Lust +++Devotion

You thank him sincerely, and the two of you spend the rest of lunch together. +Love +Devotion

After eating, you buy a coffee and head to the library, walking up to Sydney. “Welcome back!” He chirps from behind the desk. He looks exhausted despite the chipper tone. You hand him the coffee. 

“Don’t overwork yourself,” you say, smiling. Sydney looks surprised but quickly smiles and takes the coffee from you. You look down at the stacks of books on his desk. +Love “Anything I can help with?” 

“Oh, you don’t have to-”

“I want to,” you say firmly. You feel bad just leaving him there, plus…

>Help Sydney +Love +Devotion +School -Sydney’s purity

Well, how can you turn that down? Aside from the purity loss, those are all pretty damn good. 

“Well, if you don’t mind,” he says, fidgeting a little. “Could you help me stamp these books?” You nod, and Sydney lets you in behind the counter. +Love +Devotion +School

The two of you chat while you work, and it actually ends up being pretty enjoyable! -Stress -Trauma +Love

Your hands brush with Sydney's while you work. -Sydney'd purity.

“Hey, Syd! Oh, and [First], too!” Someone says, walking up to the counter. It’s Sirris, Sydney’s father and your science teacher. “How are you doing, love bug?” Sydney looks embarrassed but still answers. “Oops! I forgot I’m not supposed to call you that at school. Sorry, hon.” You get the feeling he did it on purpose, but if Sydney also thinks this, he doesn’t say anything. The two of them chat for a little bit, with Sirris mostly ignoring your presence. You feel a little awkward, but it’s cute to see the two of them getting along so well. Sirris leaves after a few minutes, waving to you both.

You smile at Sydney. “Seems like you and Dad are pretty close, huh?” He flushes. 

“L-let’s get back to work,” he says. You decide not to tease him further. The two of you finish the rest of the work in silence, and the bell rings, so you get up and head to History class.

A mousy girl is sitting in your seat next to Robin. You ask her to move, but she won’t budge. You already have detention today, so you decide not to push it and sit somewhere else. Robin looks at you sadly from across the room +Jealousy

You’re called up by Winter to demonstrate the pillory in front of the class, you hesitate to step up, but, remembering Leighton’s punishments, decide to risk it. Unfortunately, luck is not on your side, and Winter is called out while you’re still locked in the pillory. 

“Who thinks the lesson should continue?” Says a slight boy. He gets up from his seat and begins to saunter over, but Robin stands up, too, and blocks his path forward. 

“Stop,” he says, tone even and steady.

“Oh? And what’re you going to do about it?” The slight boy asks. Robin seems to falter for a moment, and the slight boy takes advantage, pushing past him and walking up behind you. You don’t see what happens next, but one moment Robin is in front of you, and the next, he’s gone. You hear a smacking noise behind you, and then a thud as if something had just hit the ground. The class looks incredulous. Winter walks back in. 

“Assaulting another student? I expected better from you, Robin,” he says. 

“Wait, I can explain–” 

“Detention.” 

The slight boy smacks your ass on the way back to his seat. 

+Trauma +Stress

You go to swimming, but your earlier run-in with acid leaves you unable to participate, so you just sit by the pool in your swimsuit until class is over. When you get back, you notice your underwear is missing. You put your clothes on over your swimsuit. It looks a little funny from the front, but it’s better than nothing.

Actually, you might start doing this more often. A swimsuit is tight and harder to get off, no one can unclasp your bra, you don’t have to change, and it’ll actually cover your boobs, even with the shirt unbuttoned. This is a great idea, you think to yourself, feeling a little proud. 

You start to walk to the front courtyard when your phone reminds you of your detention. Shit. You’d forgotten. At least Robin will be there with you? 

Sighing, you head back inside. 

“Keep writing, and don’t stop until I tell you to,” Leighton says. You glance at Robin, who’s working diligently. You decide to work hard, too. +Fatigue 

Robin asks to walk home with you, but you tell him you’re going to the park instead. He waves you off, but there’s a glint in his eye that wasn’t there before. +Jealousy

You go to the park and meet Avery, asking for help gathering Lichen. You tell him about your school project, and he offers to take you out for drinks. You don’t really want to get involved with him, but you’re a little afraid of refusing him.

>Go for drinks +Facination +Dominance +Love? >Refuse -Love +Lust +Rage

None of those options look good, but you remember the guide saying that negative love leads to more dangerous encounters. You take his hand, and the two of you go out. The place he picked is cute, and the employees there seem to recognize him. 

“Can I recommend you a drink?” He asks. “I think I know what you’ll like.” 

>Buy Avery’s recommendation +Facination +Dominance +Stress >Pick your own drink +Love -Stress -Dominance -Fascination -Endearment

You pick your own drink and the two of you find a quiet corner to sit down in. +Love -Stress -Dominance -Fascination -Endearment

Your phone buzzes. 

You’re on a date with Avery! How do you want to conduct yourself? >Act cute +Facination +Endearment >Act shy +Facination -Endearment >Act aloof --Endearment ++Lust  >Be natural -Facination +???

You choose to act natural, hoping he’ll lose interest in you. You don’t voice any complaints, but you don’t bother to hide your discomfort, either. You fidget, you avoid eye-contact, and you don’t listen when he speaks to you.

-Fascination --Endearment +Love

When the date is over, Avery looks annoyed. He doesn’t say anything to you as he walks you to the exit, though his hand still rests on the small of your back.

You go to the manhole next. You don’t really want to, but you want that lichen. Luckily, you encounter no problems getting it. But that says nothing about what happens after.

You’re accosted by a giant lizard. If the game hadn’t told you what it was, you would have thought it was a crocodile based on its sheer size alone. It attacks you from behind, and you struggle to get it off your back. It claws at your clothing, leaving it worse for wear, but you’re able to roll over onto your back. The lizard is pinned underneath you now, but you still can’t reach it. You roll over and feel your shirt rip, exposing your back. You reach into your bag and pull out your pepper spray, aiming for the lizard’s eyes. It scurries away, leaving you panting in the sewers. You get a good workout.

You want to leave, but you still need that Lichen. 

You crawl out of the sewers and head to the tailor, who offers to fix your clothes for £29.99. You accept and head to the office building, where you work as a temp for the next few hours, fighting through the exhaustion. You make £126.

You pass out on your way home and wake up in the hospital. Dr. Harper introduces himself and asks a few questions, but you leave out any details that could cause him to ask you to go to “therapy” with him. You’re discharged soon after, and Bailey picks you up.

“Don’t make me do this again,” he says. 

When you get home, it’s already past midnight. You don’t bother putting on Pajamas, just stripping and hopping under the covers. 

… 

……

………

You should’ve worn clothes, you think to yourself as you feel Kylar’s breath on your face. He’s hard; you can feel the outline of his penis through the blanket. You try to steady your breathing, too embarrassed to open your eyes. He shifts on top of you, and then lifts your blanket from your body. You react without thinking, immediately sitting up in a panic. You just barely avoid colliding with him. Your eyes meet his, and he looks down, getting a fully unobstructed view of your breasts. He flushes deeply and scrambles away. ++Lust

After taking a moment to collect yourself, you stand up to close your window. You notice that it doesn’t have a lock.

You put on pajamas before going back to bed this time and wonder if you can find some way to board it up. You close your eyes, but rest never comes. You’re too on edge. You roll in bed for hours, never relaxing enough to fall back asleep. When you finally give up, it’s already 06:00. You remember your idea from earlier, and decide to wear your swimsuit under your uniform today.

It is the 7th of September, 2022. -It has been 3 days since the game started. -The game started in autumn.  -It is autumn. -School term Finishes on Friday the 2nd of December. Current Funds: £454 Pain: You feel okay Arousal: You are cold Fatigue: You are fatigued Stress: You are strained Trauma: You are uneasy Control: You are insecure Allure: You look like you need to be ravaged

You decide to spend some time in the garden growing daisies. It’s relaxing. By the time you finish, your hands are covered in dirt, and it’s 07:30. You wash your hands and go to Robin’s room to play video games for the next half hour.

“This one’s a cooperative game,” he says. “It’s known for being really difficult.” 

“How do I play?” You ask, taking the controller. Robin leans over, wrapping an arm behind your back and taking your hands in his as he guides your hands to the correct positioning, fingers lingering over yours for a moment longer than necessary. You feel his breath on your skin as he walks you through the controls, his head over your shoulder and his arms still wrapped around you. +Lust

The two of you play for a little bit. Neither of you are very good, but you have a good time regardless. -Stress -Trauma

You and Robin are about to walk to school together when a car pulls up beside you. You brace yourself for the worst, but the window rolls down to reveal Avery instead. “I thought I recognized you,” he says, smiling warmly. “How about I give you a lift?” He glances dismissively at Robin.”Your little friend can come along, too.” Robin looks at you, clearly nervous. 

>Ride with Avery +Robin’s jealousy >Ride with Avery and Robin +??? >Walk with Robin -Love +Lust +Rage -Robin’s jealousy

You try to smile at Robin, but it comes out strained. You hop into the car with Avery. Robin reluctantly follows your lead. You try to act naturally, bringing Robin into the conversation whenever Avery ignores him. Robin seems happy you’re paying attention to him, but still extremely out of place. -Robin’s Jealousy +Robin’s love +Avery’s love -Avery’s Fascination 

Avery leaves, and you head to the library. Sydney isn’t there, so you study by yourself until it’s time to go to Science. A group of students pass by you in the halls; they leer at you but don’t say anything. 

Science, math, and English all pass by without incident, for once. You feel yourself begin to relax as you head to the canteen, only to jump when an arm wraps around your shoulders. You turn around. It’s Whitney.

“I’m hungry,” he says. “But I don’t want anything here. Come with us to get a snack.” Your sense of control wavers. Fearful of his intentions, you shove Whitney off of you and try to run, but he grabs your arm. Delinquents pull out their phones and circle around you. You lift the arm he’s holding and swing it to the side, using the created opportunity to elbow him with your unobstructed arm. He staggers and lets go of your arm, nearly falling but just barely managing to regain his balance. You rush to the least populated area of the circle and try to push past the delinquents, but they grab you and push you back in instead. 

You reach for your pepper spray but notice your backpack has been taken from you. You glance behind you, and sure enough, a group of students are rifling around your things. You lunge for them, but they toss it to the students across from them, playing keep-away. 

Whitney is glaring at you from the other side of the ring. He rushes you, and you fail to dodge. He pushes you to the ground, his friends scattering out of reach. You headbutt him on the way down, but he’s got your arms in a tight grip. You struggle against his hold, kicking and squirming under him. Whitney sits over you, straddling your waist and holding your arms in place beside your head. His face is inches from yours, and you can feel his heavy breath on your skin. 

You try to bridge him, but he’s too heavy. You’re quickly losing strength, and Whitney can tell your struggles are becoming weaker. “Just give up,” he says. “Or I might have to do something worse.” Your sense of control weakens. He leans down over you, rubbing his penis against your stomach. You freeze, a sense of cold, numbing dread overtaking you as Whitney climbs off of you. He offers a hand to help you up, and you, briefly forgetting your situation, take it. 

He pulls you up and into his arms with surprising strength, smirking at you as your noses brush. He releases your hand but still wraps an arm around your waist, keeping you from leaving. 

“Can I have my bag back?” You ask, hopefully. Whitney looks over your shoulder at the people rifling through your things. One of them reaches for the side zipper you keep your pepper spray in, and you freeze. 

“She’s got pepper spray!” The short boy exclaims. 

“Holy shit,” a lithe girl says. 

Whitney releases you from his grip on your waist but soon grabs your arm and forces it behind you. You move your left leg around his and plant it on the ground, then you twist yourself away from him until your arm is beside you again. You plant your other foot and lift your left, kicking him in the back of his knee. He falls, but you fall with him. He lets go when you land, and you roll over off of him, quickly standing. You kick him in the groin for good measure and then walk up to the delinquent, holding your backpack and pepper spray. You hold out your hand expectantly and hands it to you stiffly. +Status

You decide to skip lunch and go to the mall instead. You pick up a keychain with a latch and attach your pepper spray to it, hooking it onto your skirt’s belt loop. It took you a while to find the right kind of keychain, and by the time you’re back on campus, it’s already 13:06. +Deliquency

You quickly head into history class, where Winter takes note of your tardiness, and sit next to Robin. He notices your ruffled hair and asks if you’re okay. You smile at him as you take your seat, but he seems unconvinced. You spend the rest of History daydreaming. 

When you get to your swimming lesson, you don’t even have to get naked. Your swimsuit is already under your uniform, so all you have to do is take them off. Your injury yesterday has healed well enough to allow you into the pool, too, so you get to improve your swimming grade. It isn’t until after the lesson is over, and you emerge from the pool, dripping wet, that you realize the fatal flaw with your underwear idea. 

You have to put clothes on over your wet swimsuit. 

Not seeing any other viable option, you put your clothes on over your wet swimsuit. The fabric clings to your body, but it does that anyway. You leave the changing room and head to detention, trying to ignore the stares of your peers as they gawk at your see-through shirt (they can’t even see anything through it, you aren’t sure what they’re staring at.).

Detention only takes ten minutes, so you’re still able to walk home with Robin. He doesn’t say anything, but you catch him taking peeks at your chest every so often. +Love +Lust +Stress

You go to the temple after changing and pick up some pink lichen for your science fair project. 

You think about the last sample of lichen you need and wonder if a £500 prize is worth being molested by ghost tentacles. You wonder if £2,000 is worth being hunted with a vengeance every blood moon.

You do need the money…

——————— 

<Prev Next>

[madamepestilence]

The Chemical Structure of Redstone

So I was curious about what the chemical structure of Redstone looks like, and Minecraft Education Edition, albeit unintentionally, gives us a canon look into what Redstone is made of:

In Minecraft Education Edition, putting a Redstone Block into a Material Reducer shows that it's composed of 31 Carbon, 31 Uranium, and 38 Unobtanium, which we can assume to be measured in grams

Dividing the Redstone Block into Redstone Dust, each Redstone Dust is then composed of approximately 3.4 Carbon, 3.4 Uranium, and 4.2 Unobtanium

Again assuming that's measured in grams, that's 0.17 cm³ of Uranium, 1.496 cm³ of Carbon, and ???³ of Unobtanium per Redstone Dust

So what does this tell us about the chemical structure of Redstone? Basing this on Redstone Dust's composition, we can estimate that each Redstone molecule is composed of 3 Carbon atoms, 3 Uranium atoms, 4 Unobtanium atoms, a little under half of the time it binds to an extra Uranium and/or Carbon, and 20% of the time it binds to an extra Unobtanium

This also has some horrifying implications for how Redstone works:

Redstone would be extremely volatile as the radioactive decay from Unobtanium and Uranium would occasionally release Helium ions through alpha radiation, sometimes breaking apart Carbon into two Beryllium atoms (as it absorbs the extra proton and neutron from the Uranium) or merging into Oxygen

So Redstone should, in theory, be extremely flammable and potentially explosive, which implies that cave static, or the player mining Redstone with an Iron Pickaxe, could lead to a spark that causes an explosive cave-in

As Unobtanium is just a placeholder for unobtainable elements (hence the name), I'm going to estimate Unobtanium in this case as Unbinilium, the placeholder name for element 120

Why?

I'm estimating the Unobtanium as Redstone as being larger than the largest man-made element, Oganesson, which holds an impressive 118 protons

Each valence electron shell, from innermost to outermost, can bind with 2, 8, 18, 32, 32, 18, and 8 shells respectively, so I'd like Unobtanium to be an element we haven't discovered yet, and consequently I'd like to jump up to the next shell

While I could estimate with element 119's placeholder, Ununennium, it would have one electron in the next shell, so Unbinilium allows for easier chemical binding

So what does this molecule look like then? Well, horrifyingly...

It looks like this. As Redstone forms in crystal lattices, and only two Carbon atoms are free to bind, I can absolutely see why it's so brittle that it breaks into powder.

This makes the structure of Redstone:

C3U3Uno4 (55% of molecules) C4U3Uno4 (13% of molecules) C3U4Uno4 (13% of molecules) C4U4Uno4 (7% of molecules) C3U3Uno5 (5% of molecules) C4U3Uno5 (3% of molecules) C3U4Uno5 (3% of molecules) C4U4Uno5 (1% of molecules)

An extremely radioactive, flammable, and explosive compound.

[reasonsforhope]

Paywall-Free Version

"Massachusetts’ so-called “millionaires tax” appears primed to actually deliver billions.

State officials said Monday that the voter-approved surtax on high earners has generated more than $1.8 billion in revenue this fiscal year... meaning state officials could have hundreds of millions of surplus dollars to spend on transportation and education initiatives.

The estimated haul is already $800 million more than what Governor Maura Healey and state lawmakers planned to spend from its revenue in fiscal year 2024, the first full year of its implementation. Most of the additional money raised beyond the $1 billion already budgeted would flow to a reserve account, from which state policymakers can pluck money for one-time investments into projects or programs.

The Department of Revenue won’t certify the official amount raised until later this year. But the estimates immediately buoyed supporters’ claims that the surtax would deliver much-needed revenue for the state despite fears it could drive out some of the state’s wealthiest residents.

“Opponents of the Fair Share Amendment claimed that multi-millionaires would flee Massachusetts rather than pay the new tax, and they are being proven wrong every day,” said Andrew Farnitano, a spokesperson for Raise Up Massachusetts, the union-backed group which pushed the 2022 ballot initiative.

"With this money from the ultra-rich, we can do even more to improve our public schools and colleges, invest in roads, bridges, and public transit, and start building an economy that works for everyone,” Farnitano said.

Voters approved the measure in 2022 to levy an additional 4 percent tax on annual earnings over $1 million. At the time, the Massachusetts Budget and Policy Center, a left-leaning think tank, projected it could generate at least $2 billion a year.

State officials last year put their estimates slightly lower at up to $1.7 billion, and lawmakers embraced calls from economists to cap what it initially spends from the surtax, given it may be too volatile to rely upon in its first year.

So far, it’s vastly exceeded those expectations, generating nearly $1.4 billion alone last quarter [aka January to March, 2024 - just three months!], which coincided with a better-than-expected April for tax collections overall...

State Senator Michael Rodrigues, the state’s budget chief, said on the Senate floor Monday that excess revenue from the tax could ultimately come close to $1 billion for this fiscal year. Under language lawmakers passed last year, 85 percent of any “excess” revenue is transferred to an account reserved for one-time projects or spending, such as road maintenance, school building projects, or major public transportation work.

“We will not have any problems identifying those,” Rodrigues said. “As we all know, [transportation and education] are two areas of immense need.”"

-via Boston Globe, May 20, 2024

[vaguely-concerned]

the things it adds to both of the characters involved that lucanis used to have a thing for viago could not have been more tailor made to be for me. literally the ideal thing to come out of this game for me personally and specifically and spiritually. I mean I'm teia x viago trash until the day I die and nothing will ever change this (and with the best will in the world and even the power of lucanis' big beautiful soulful eyes, that would never have worked out even if viago DID somehow understand he was being propositioned. which I'm not convinced he did. the mutual 'so. snakes are pretty cool huh. and. knives. also' awkward energy without someone of teia's charisma and people skills involved to mitigate it... it would have been dire), but on so many levels I find it so incredibly charming for what it says about them both that the (one-sided) attraction was there once.

what's more, it means the man about whom this legendary paragraph was written:

Viago was not a typical Antivan. He liked facts—checklists, numbers, precise measurements. Heart palpitations, clammy hands, tight pants—Viago did not like these things. In fact, he would go so far as to say he hated them. Mild curiosity was his favorite mood.

has got some of the hottest coolest deadliest people in thedas down so catastrophically bad it's got them acting unwise. teia had to wait a UST-drenched decade for him to be ready to take his fucking gloves off for her. and she did!! the tetchiest most neurotic least approachable little vetinari knockoff of a man you ever saw has game for days and days and lives rent free in heads for years. in eight little talons viago consistently feels so inadequate up against dante and it's like. man I'm shaking you by the lapels you have what he'll never have. the ability to bewitch body and soul with your terrible personality and long thin legs. do not waste the gift you've been given go get her she's waiting!!!

(lucanis is really good at reading people, so I wonder if maybe he saw through all of that to some of the steadiness and incredible capacity for warmth and tenderness in specific interpersonal relationships you see viago have with teia when he finally opens up enough, and maybe that was part of it. either way it's so perfect that both he and teia have regarded viago with this affectionate intrigued amusement. lucanis still seems pretty fond of him in a 'viago continues to be exactly himself no matter what else happens or goes wrong. comforting universal constant' sort of way, he brings him up quite a lot in party banter.)

you've seen lucanis' game in this day and age, arguably or at least hopefully older and wiser -- can you imagine how catastrophically bad it must have been back when he presumably handed viago, most paranoid man in thedas all years running, a knife like this expressed everything it needed to. people give him so much shit for the cake moment being his big romantic lock-in, but considering where we started that is GROWTH and I for one am so proud of him fhsdkjaf.

also I wonder at what point vis-a-vis that whole Situation teia and viago met for the first time, leading us to ask... just how much was it a matter of lucanis simply being ignored out of a lack of interest on viago's part (tbf, not entirely unlikely). how much was it lucanis truly not managing to make himself understood. (all but certainly. literally how would one understand that. I think it says some sweet things about rook and lucanis' dynamic that they -- somehow -- DO pick up what he's putting down in a similar scenario presumably b/c they know him pretty well by then haha.) how much was it viago interpreting the romantic move as a death threat from one of the most dangerous people alive and freaking out. (1000% and indubitably.) and how much was it andarateia steal-your-girl cantori turning up and thus setting off whatever spectacular, volatile, awesome-in-the-original-sense chemical reaction between the substances of her and viago's souls that goes on to this day and makes everything else kind of a side note at best. a gentle mix of several of these things, perhaps. ...god I love all these characters so much

[the-goose-caboose]

I think a lot of what makes the tma/tme and transandrophobia discussion so volatile is people forgetting systemic vs personal opression

Like I think a lot of tumblr leftists learned “bigotry isn’t just personal! It’s also systemic opression of marginalized groups.” But forgot the “just” and instead started thinking bigotry only exists on the major scale.

Yeah, misandry isn’t a real systematic problem, but you are still capable of personally being bigoted against masculinity.

This is what leads to people telling transfems who disagree with them to kill themselves but still believing themselves to be good transfeminists. They think that acknowledging and fighting against systemic oppression is the only measure of activism

[mommykye]

All demands

young!Ambessa Medarda x pregnant!wife!reader

summary: Ambessa gives into her wife’s demands

warnings: you guessed it, smut. ambessa’s has a dick

request are open

masterlist

The estate of Ambessa stood as a testament to power and refined brutality. Hewn from massive blocks of stark white and deep black marble, the imposing structure dominated the surrounding landscape, a physical manifestation of the formidable woman who resided within its walls. Even under the muted, overcast sky that perpetually seemed to hang over Noxus, the polished surfaces gleamed, the contrasting colors a deliberate and meaningful choice made years prior by Y/N. It was her subtle, constant reminder of the intricate balance she perceived within her wife – a dance between ruthless strength and unexpected tenderness.

Inside, the cool, echoing halls stretched into seemingly endless perspectives, the silence broken only by the soft, almost imperceptible padding of Y/N's bare feet against the smooth, unyielding floor. Despite the advanced stage of her pregnancy, the five-month swell preceding her like a proud banner, she moved with a fluid grace that spoke of her royal upbringing. At twenty-eight, Y/N possessed a maturity and poise that both complemented and subtly contrasted Ambessa’s own intense, almost volatile energy.

She found her wife in the strategy room, a chamber that hummed with the silent language of war and conquest. Massive maps, depicting conquered territories and potential battlefields in intricate detail, were spread across a colossal table of polished stone. Flanking this table were intricately carved chairs of polished darkwood, silent witnesses to countless hours of planning and deliberation. Ambessa, a towering figure even when seated, was hunched over a particularly detailed map of a volatile border region, her brow furrowed in the deep lines of intense concentration. A single, focused beam of light pierced through a narrow aperture in the high ceiling, illuminating the scene below like a macabre yet captivating painting, highlighting the stark angles of Ambessa’s face and the unforgiving lines of the maps.

Ambessa exuded a raw, untamed power, a force of nature barely contained by the stone and mortar of the room. She was a study in contrasts, a paradox of brutal efficiency and unexpected depths. Her face, often stern and unyielding, softened almost imperceptibly as she sensed Y/N's presence, a subtle shift that only Y/N had learned to recognize. Her golden eyes, usually sharp and assessing, held a fleeting flicker of warmth, a private ember lit only for her wife. Her powerful frame, honed from years spent on the battlefield and in rigorous training, was still, yet it emanated an aura of controlled strength, a coiled tension that spoke of her readiness for any challenge. She looked every bit the Noxian warlord, a woman who commanded respect and fear in equal measure. Her hair, the color of midnight, was pulled back from her face in a tight, intricate braid, revealing the strong lines of her jaw and the high, sharp planes of her cheekbones. She wore simple, functional clothing: dark, plain tunic, practical attire for a life spent navigating both the complexities of the war room inside their home and, as Y/N knew with intimate familiarity, the passionate entanglements of their shared bedchamber.

Y/N leaned against the heavy stone doorframe, her arms crossed beneath her burgeoning breasts, observing her wife for a long moment. She knew this room intimately, knew the intricate details of the maps, knew the brilliant, ruthless strategic mind that worked tirelessly behind those intense eyes. But more importantly, she knew the woman beneath the warlord, the woman who, for the past decade, had been her wife, her lover, her anchor in the often-turbulent seas of Noxian politics. Their shared history stretched back to a chance encounter during a delicate diplomatic mission years ago, a clash of wills that had unexpectedly and fiercely blossomed into an enduring love, a bond forged in mutual respect and undeniable passion.

Y/N had been immediately drawn to Ambessa's unwavering conviction, her fierce loyalty, and the barely leashed passion that simmered beneath her formidable exterior. Ambessa, in turn, had been captivated by Y/N's regal bearing, her sharp intellect that could dissect political intricacies with effortless grace, and the surprising vulnerability she occasionally allowed to surface, a fleeting glimpse behind the carefully constructed walls that she herself had conquered to earn a blissful life.

"You'll strain your eyes in this light," Y/N said, her voice a low, melodious drawl that broke the heavy silence of the room. It was a voice that had once commanded audiences, swayed councils with its persuasive cadence, but now, it held a unique intimacy, a silken thread woven into the rich tapestry of their shared life, reserved almost exclusively for Ambessa.

Ambessa glanced up, her sharp expression shifting almost imperceptibly from focused concentration to something softer, something that bordered on a rare and cherished amusement. "And you'll strain your back, standing there. Come, wife." She gestured to the chair beside her, the one usually reserved for her most trusted advisors, a silent yet profound acknowledgment of Y/N's pivotal role in her life, both personally and politically.

Y/N pushed herself off the doorframe, her movements still fluid and deliberate despite the gentle yet undeniable sway of her pregnant form. She walked towards the massive table, her bare feet making no sound on the polished floor. She reached Ambessa and, instead of taking the offered seat, she settled onto Ambessa's lap, facing her. The weight of her, the solid curve of her belly pressing intimately against Ambessa's chest, was a familiar and welcome sensation, a tangible connection that grounded them both.

Ambessa's dark eyebrows rose slightly, a silent question in their sharp arch, but she didn't protest. This was Y/N. This was how she was, especially now, with the heightened emotions and insistent desires that seemed to accompany the burgeoning life within her. Ambessa found a certain possessive satisfaction in Y/N's unwavering need for her, a primal pull that mirrored her own fierce devotion.

"Is that wise?" Ambessa asked, her voice a low rumble that vibrated against Y/N's back. "With the precious thing you carry?" Her large, calloused hand instinctively went to Y/N's rounded stomach, her touch gentle, a stark contrast to the brutal strength of her warrior's hands.

Y/N snorted softly, a sound that was both elegant and utterly irreverent. "I'm hardly made of glass, Ambessa. And I'm certainly not an invalid." She shifted slightly, adjusting her position so she was more comfortable, her hands resting on Ambessa's broad shoulders, her fingers digging lightly into the hard leather of her armor. Her eyes, dilated into the color of a stormy sea just before a tempest, locked onto Ambessa's. "Besides, I have a need."

Ambessa's gaze darkened, a slow, possessive burn igniting within their depths. "A need?" The single word was laced with a possessive curiosity, a hint of anticipation.

Y/N's lips curved into a sultry smile, a flash of the regal power that still resided within her, a power that Ambessa found endlessly alluring. "A very specific need. One that only you can satisfy." Her voice was a husky whisper, laced with a demanding edge that would have sent lesser beings scrambling for cover. But Ambessa was not a lesser being. She was Ambessa Medarda, and this woman, this demanding, pregnant woman, was her wife. And she found it exhilarating. The inherent power dynamic in their relationship, the constant push and pull of dominance and submission, was a source of intense and mutual pleasure, a silent language they both understood intimately.

"And what need is that, my demanding one?" Ambessa asked, her voice a low growl that resonated deep within Y/N, stirring a familiar heat in her core. Her hands settled on Y/N's hips, her strong fingers tracing the curve of her swollen belly, a silent acknowledgment of the life they had created together, a life that now amplified Y/N’s desires.

Y/N leaned closer, her breath warm against Ambessa's face, carrying the faint, exotic scent of the tea she favored, a fragrance that Ambessa had come to associate with her. "I need you, Ambessa. I need you inside me. Now." The directness of the request, the complete lack of preamble or coyness, was a deliberate act, a testament to the raw intimacy and uninhibited passion they shared. The sheer audacity of it, even in the relative privacy of their own estate, sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated desire through Ambessa. It was this very quality – this fearless, unapologetic desire – that had captivated her from the moment their paths had crossed. Y/N had never been one to shy away from what she wanted, even when what she wanted was the formidable Ambessa Medarda.

"Now?" Ambessa echoed, her voice a dangerous purr, her grip tightening slightly on Y/N's hips. "Here? On the strategy table?" The thought was undeniably arousing, the forbidden juxtaposition of war and intimacy, of strategic planning and raw, primal desire, a potent combination that resonated with the core of her being, a thrilling transgression against the very order she often imposed.

Y/N's smile widened, a predatory gleam in her stormy eyes. "The table is large. And sturdy. Much like its owner." She jokes, trailing a hand down Ambessa's chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath the fabric, the steady beat of her wife's heart quickening beneath her touch. "And the thought of you, taking me here, surrounded by your maps, your plans, the idea of being caught, it excites me." Her eyes gleamed with a primal hunger, a reflection of the deep, almost visceral connection they shared, a bond that transcended the battlefield and the intricate dance of Noxian politics. Pregnancy had amplified her desires, stripping away any lingering pretense of demureness. She was raw, demanding, and utterly irresistible in her newfound intensity.

Ambessa's control, always there, wavered precariously. The intoxicating combination of Y/N's scent – a heady mix of exotic perfumes and the subtle, musky undertones of arousal – her nearness, the warm weight of her in her lap, and the sheer eroticism of the request was almost overwhelming, threatening to shatter the carefully constructed walls of her composure. The strategic maps, the very symbols of her power and ambition, suddenly seemed insignificant, mere parchment and ink compared to the vibrant, demanding woman in her arms.

"You are…insatiable," Ambessa murmured, her voice thick with burgeoning desire, her thumb tracing the delicate curve of Y/N's jawline, a possessive caress.

"Only for you," Y/N purred back, her fingers now playing with the edge of Ambessa's collar, her touch both possessive and exquisitely provocative. "And the babe. The babe wants its mother happy." She knew how to manipulate Ambessa, how to crack the littlest of pressure points, continue on their growing family, into the tapestry of her desires, a subtle yet effective leverage.

Ambessa knew, with a certainty that resonated deep within her, that Y/N was using the pregnancy, using the innocent babe, to get exactly what she wanted. And, truth be told, she didn't care in the slightest. The thought of Y/N, carrying their child, craving her with such unbridled intensity, was a potent aphrodisiac, a constant reminder of the deep and unbreakable bond they shared, a testament to the love that lay beneath the surface of their often-brutal world.

"And what if I were to say no?" Ambessa challenged, her voice low and husky, a playful edge to her tone, though the heat in her eyes betrayed her true desire.

Y/N's smile turned predatory, a flash of sharp teeth beneath her full lips. "You wouldn't." It wasn't a question, not even a hint of doubt. It was a statement of absolute fact, born of years of shared intimacy and a profound understanding of her wife's deepest desires. Y/N knew the fire that burned beneath Ambessa's controlled exterior, the fierce passion that Ambessa rarely unleashed on anyone but her. She knew that Ambessa was as utterly enthralled by her as she was by Ambessa. And she was right. Ambessa wouldn't say no. Not when Y/N looked at her like that, her stormy eyes blazing with unadulterated need, her body radiating a palpable heat. Not when the thought of possessing her, of filling her, right here, right now, was so utterly compelling, so deliciously forbidden.

With a swift, decisive movement that spoke of her inherent strength and unwavering resolve, Ambessa stood, lifting Y/N with her as if she weighed nothing, her powerful muscles belying the delicate nature of her precious cargo. She didn't break eye contact, her dark gaze locked intently on Y/N's, her own desire a tangible force that crackled in the air between them.

"Then let us not waste any more time," Ambessa said, her voice a low growl that sent shivers of anticipation down Y/N's spine. Instead of turning towards the hidden doorway that led to the privacy of their opulent chambers, Ambessa took a deliberate step back, positioning herself firmly between Y/N's legs, the cool, smooth surface of the massive stone table pressing against the backs of Y/N's thighs.

Y/N's breath hitched, a sharp gasp of surprise and burgeoning excitement. She had instinctively expected their usual retreat to the secluded intimacy of their rooms, but this…this was a delicious deviation, a raw and impulsive act that spoke volumes about the intensity of Ambessa's desire, a willingness to transgress the boundaries of their usual rituals.

Ambessa's hands tightened on Y/N's hips, steadying her as she subtly shifted her weight, ensuring her wife's comfort while simultaneously asserting her control. The cool, unyielding surface of the table was a stark and thrilling contrast to the rising heat radiating from their intertwined bodies. The maps, the carefully laid plans of conquest and dominion, were now beneath Y/N, a silent and potent testament to the fact that, in this moment, nothing in the vast Noxian empire held more significance than the fierce and undeniable connection between them.

"Ambessa…" Y/N breathed, her voice laced with a mixture of surprise and rapidly escalating excitement.

"You wanted me now," Ambessa murmured, her gaze dropping momentarily to the gentle swell of Y/N's belly, then rising again to meet her eyes, a possessive gleam in their dark depths. "And I aim to please."

With deliberate, almost ritualistic movements, Ambessa reached down and began to unbuckle the fastenings of her dark clothing, the soft clinking of metal echoing in the heavy silence of the room, each small sound amplifying the growing tension between them. Y/N watched her, her heart pounding a heavy rhythm against her ribs, her own desire intensifying with each passing moment as the warlord began to shed her layers. The controlled exterior was slowly giving way to the passionate lover beneath.

Ambessa’s pants fell to the floor with a soft thud, leaving her in the tunic. Her strong, calloused hands then moved to the hem of Y/N’s flowing gown, the supple fabric offering little resistance to her touch, sending shivers of anticipation dancing across Y/N’s skin. Ambessa slowly pushed the gown upwards, revealing the delicate curve of Y/N’s bare legs, the soft skin flushed with rising desire.

Y/N instinctively wrapped her legs around Ambessa’s waist, pulling her closer, the intimate friction igniting a spark that threatened to consume them both. The feeling of Ambessa’s hard, muscled body pressed intimately against her own, the life within her a soft, precious cushion between them, was intoxicating, a tangible reminder of their shared love and future.

Ambessa’s hands continued their exploration, tracing the delicate curve of Y/N’s thighs, the gentle swell of her hips, her touch both possessive and reverent, acknowledging the beautiful changes that pregnancy had wrought upon Y/N’s body, changes that Ambessa found undeniably alluring, a testament to their shared creation.

"You are magnificent," Ambessa murmured, her voice thick with desire, her lips brushing against the sensitive skin of Y/N's neck, sending a jolt of pure sensation through her. "Every curve, every swell…you are breathtaking."

Y/N tilted her head back, allowing Ambessa greater access, her own breath coming in short, shallow gasps. "And you are taking far too long," she whispered, her own impatience growing with each teasing, passing moment. The intoxicating scent of Ambessa, a heady mix of leather and musk and something uniquely her own, filled her senses, further fueling the insistent ache within her.

Ambessa chuckled softly, a low rumble against Y/N’s skin that vibrated through her very core. "Patience, my love. What is worth having is worth savoring." But even as she spoke the words, her actions belied her claim. Her hands moved with increasing urgency, pushing Y/N’s gown higher, until it was bunched around her waist, exposing the soft skin of her thighs and the delicate curve of her pregnant belly as she places a soft kiss to her cheek.

Y/N reached down and gripped Ambessa’s tunic, pulling it upwards with a demanding tug. She wanted to feel Ambessa’s bare skin against hers, the raw heat of her body a tangible reassurance of her desire. Ambessa obliged without hesitation, stripping off the tunic and tossing it carelessly aside, her eyes never leaving Y/N’s, their depths filled with a primal hunger.

The contrast between them was stark and beautiful, a testament to the complementary nature of their desires. Y/N, with her softer, more yielding curves and the delicate flush of arousal blooming on her skin, and Ambessa, all hard muscle and controlled power, her eyes burning with an intensity that mirrored Y/N's own. They were two halves of a whole, their differences only serving to amplify the intense and undeniable connection between them.

Ambessa’s hands returned to Y/N’s hips, her strong thumbs pressing into the sensitive skin just above her pelvic bones, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from Y/N. "Tell me what you want," Ambessa commanded, her voice a low growl that resonated deep within Y/N, stirring the insistent ache in her core. "Tell me exactly what you need."

Y/N’s eyes darkened with a primal desire. "I want you inside me, Ambessa. Deep inside. I want to feel you filling me, claiming me, making me yours." The words were a raw, uninhibited expression of her need, a testament to the deep physical and emotional connection they shared, a bond that transcended the constraints of their often-brutal world.

Ambessa’s gaze intensified, a possessive fire burning within their depths. "And you shall have it, my queen." Ambessa pulls down the remainder of her clothing, allowing it to pool at her ankles, revealing the hard, undeniable length of her desire straining against her dark undergarments. The air in the strategy room crackled with an almost palpable anticipation, thick with unspoken desires and the promise of raw intimacy. The maps beneath Y/N, depicting the strategic layouts of conquered territories and potential future campaigns, became silent witnesses to their passionate encounter, the intricate lines and symbols of war momentarily forgotten in the face of a more primal, all-consuming need.

Ambessa positioned herself more firmly between Y/N’s parted legs, her strong hands sliding beneath her wife’s thighs, lifting them higher, arching Y/N’s back against the cool stone. Y/N instinctively tightened her grip on the edge of the table, her body already anticipating the exquisite pleasure to come, her hips tilting upwards in silent invitation.

The first touch was electric, a searing spark that ignited a raging firestorm of desire within them both. Ambessa’s entry was slow and deliberate, a tender consideration for the life they were creating, allowing Y/N’s body to adjust to her size, yet the intensity of their connection was immediate and undeniable, a visceral merging of two souls bound by fierce love and insatiable desire.

Y/N gasped, a sharp, involuntary sound escaping her lips, her head falling back against the cool stone, unyielding marble as she felt Ambessa fill her, stretching her, claiming her in a way that transcended mere physical intimacy. Ambessa paused, her hands gripping Y/N’s thighs, her dark eyes locked intently on her wife’s flushed face, searching for any sign of discomfort.

"Does it feel good, my love?" she murmured, her voice thick with desire, a hint of tenderness lacing her usual commanding tone.

"Yes," Y/N breathed, reaching out to grab onto Ambessa’s shoulders allowing her fingers to dig into the muscle, her body already beginning to move instinctively against hers. "Oh, yes. But don't be so gentle, Ambessa. I need you rougher. I want to feel you." The words, a raw expression of her heightened desires, hung heavy in the air, a direct challenge to Ambessa’s initial tenderness.

A flicker of something primal ignited in Ambessa’s eyes. The warlord in her recognized and responded to the demand. With a low growl that rumbled deep in her chest, she surged forward, slamming into Y/N with a force that made her cry out, yet she remained acutely aware of the precious life they carried, her movements powerful but carefully controlled.

"Pregnant whore," Ambessa growled, the words a rough caress against Y/N’s ear, a dirty endearment that sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through her. "You want me rough, you'll have it."

"Yes," Y/N gasped, meeting Ambessa’s fierce gaze with a hunger of her own. "Fuck me, Ambessa. Like you mean it. Make me feel this."

And Ambessa obliged, her movements becoming more insistent, more demanding, yet always mindful. The rhythm of their bodies intertwined, a primal dance of need and fulfillment, a language spoken in the thrust and parry of their hips, in the ragged gasps that escaped their lips. The only sounds in the room were their increasingly frantic breaths and the soft thud of Ambessa’s powerful body against Y/N’s.

Y/N’s senses heightened, every nerve ending alive and tingling. The intoxicating scent of Ambessa filled her nostrils, the feel of her wife’s hard, muscled body pressed against her own was a potent aphrodisiac. The pressure deep within her grew with each forceful thrust, building towards a crescendo of exquisite pleasure.

"That's it," Y/N moaned, her hips bucking against Ambessa’s. "Harder, Ambessa."

Ambessa’s movements became more demanding, her controlled strength unleashed in a torrent of raw passion, her own control beginning to slip as her desire surged, threatening to overwhelm her. She leaned down, her lips finding the sensitive curve of Y/N’s neck, her teeth gently nipping at the soft skin, eliciting a sharp cry from her wife.

"You feel so good," Ambessa grunted, her breath hot against Y/N’s skin. "So tight."

"And you feel like heaven," Y/N gasped, her body arching higher against Ambessa’s, her legs tightening around her waist, pulling her deeper. The strategic maps beneath them rustled and shifted with their frantic movements, the carefully drawn lines of conquered territories and potential battlefields becoming increasingly blurred and insignificant in the face of their primal embrace.

"Tell me you're mine," Ambessa commanded, her voice thick with possessive desire.

"I'm yours," Y/N cried out, her voice raw with passion. "Always yours, you brute."

In this moment, there was no Noxian warlord and no past royal. There were only two women, deeply in love and fiercely connected, lost in the all-consuming intensity of their shared desire, their bodies moving as one. Ambessa’s pace quickened, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. She could feel Y/N’s body clenching around her, the unmistakable signs of her impending release.

"Y/N…" Ambessa groaned, her own carefully constructed control finally shattering.

Y/N cried out again, a long, keening sound that echoed in the silent room, her body convulsing around Ambessa’s. Waves of intense, exquisite pleasure washed over her, each one more powerful than the last, threatening to drown her in sensation. She clung to Ambessa, her nails digging into her wife’s back leaving long red lines, her head thrown back against the cool obsidian in an expression of pure ecstasy.

Ambessa held her tight, her powerful arms wrapped securely around Y/N’s trembling body, riding out the waves of her wife’s pleasure, her own release following swiftly on its heels, a guttural roar escaping her lips as she poured herself into Y/N. She buried her face in Y/N’s neck, her body shaking with the force of her orgasm, the scent of just straight Y/N filling the air around her.

They remained locked together for a long moment, their breathing slowly returning to a semblance of normalcy, the echoes of their passionate encounter still reverberating in the heavy silence of the strategy room. The weight of Y/N’s pregnant belly pressed intimately against Ambessa, a tangible and precious reminder of the life they had created, the future they shared, a future born from their fierce love and unyielding passion.

Finally, Ambessa pulled back slightly, her eyes filled with a tenderness that she rarely showed to anyone else, a vulnerability reserved solely for Y/N. She gently brushed a stray strand of sweat-dampened hair from Y/N’s flushed forehead, her touch surprisingly delicate.

"Are you alright, my love?" she murmured, her voice still rough with the remnants of passion.

Y/N smiled, a soft, contented expression spreading across her face, her stormy eyes now filled with a peaceful serenity. "More than alright," she whispered back, her voice still slightly breathless. "Perfect."

Ambessa leaned down and kissed her gently, a lingering touch that spoke volumes of the deep love and unbreakable connection between them, a silent promise of more to come.

"We should move," Ambessa said eventually, gesturing to the rumpled maps beneath them with a wry smile playing on her lips. "Lest our strategic planning become compromised."

Y/N chuckled softly, a warm, throaty sound. "Perhaps. Though I daresay we've just engaged in a different kind of strategic maneuver."

Ambessa’s eyes darkened again, a hint of the possessive fire rekindling within their depths. "Indeed. And one I find far more rewarding." She carefully disentangled herself from Y/N, her movements surprisingly gentle considering the raw passion they had just shared. She then lifted Y/N with the same effortless strength, cradling her in her arms.

"Where shall we go, my queen?" Ambessa murmured, carrying her towards the hidden doorway that led to their private chambers.

"Our bed," Y/N whispered, nuzzling against Ambessa’s neck. "And then perhaps we can discuss further strategic engagements."

Ambessa’s lips curved into a predatory smile. "I believe that can be arranged." She stepped through the hidden door, leaving the rumpled maps and the echoes of their passion behind, carrying her beloved wife towards the sanctuary of their shared chambers, the promise of more intimate battles hanging sweetly in the air.

[gav-san]

Pipe and Prejudice

Main Masterlist Here

One Piece Masterlist

Oneshot Length: 3.5 K+

Pirate law says don’t screw the crew. Beckman says: Not unless it’s him.

To gently encourage @jintaka-hane to never stop writing Benn Beckman.

Benn Beckman doesn’t walk. He arrives.

Every step is deliberate. Every movement measured, like he has all the time in the world and no intention of wasting a second of it. He’s tall in the way that makes people straighten their backs when he passes, broad-shouldered and lazy-limbed like a wolf that hasn’t bothered to hunt yet. Everything eventually comes to him.

Salt-kissed hair falls in careless waves, streaked with silver at the temples in a way that shouldn’t be hot, but absolutely is. There’s stubble along his jaw, the kind that begs to be scraped against skin. His voice, when he actually chooses to use it, is low and smooth with just enough gravel to feel like sin you can’t afford but want anyway.

He doesn’t speak much. He doesn’t need to.

One glance from under those heavy-lidded eyes and people either shut up, shape up, or rethink their life choices. He carries himself with the quiet confidence of a man who could kill you with a look. He’d rather ruin you slowly though. A hand on your throat. A smirk at the edge of his mouth like the punchline to a private joke.

And that damn cigarette?

Always within reach. Cradled between his fingers or tucked into his mouth like a warning. He lights it lazily, exhales like he’s bored, and watches you like he’s anything but.

His lips are always slightly curled, like he knows something you don’t.

Spoiler: he does.

And his hands. Scarred, steady, infuriatingly controlled. The kind you imagine gripping the wheel of a ship or the curve of a thigh with the exact same precision.

Benn Beckman isn’t loud. He’s just there. In your space. In your thoughts. In your blood.

And if he ever really touched you?

You’re pretty sure the ship would burn down from sheer atmospheric tension. He wouldn’t even flinch.

He’s so hot. And it’s starting to make you a little pent up.

Okay. A lot.

Especially since, you know, it hasn’t exactly been easy being part of his crew.

And that hypocritical asshole Benn Beckman?

Still has the nerve to act like you’re the one who can’t behave.

He knows exactly what he’s doing. And he’s doing it on purpose.

You know it. The crew knows it. Even the damn birds flying overhead know it.

Ever since you glanced, and yes, it was just a glance, thank you very much, at that long-legged mercenary in port (the one with the smirk and the suspiciously clean fingernails), Benn Beckman has made it his life’s mission to personally torpedo every attempt at affection in a fifty-nautical-mile radius.

Which would be fine. You’d respect the effort.

If it weren’t his rule.  And if you weren’t quietly nursing the unspoken, increasingly loud need to climb him like a tree. 

But he said:

No crew hookups, he said.

No emotions. No entanglements. We’re pirates, not a soap opera.

No babies (Bold, and underlined three times)

He said it with all the smug wisdom of a man who could bed half the port with nothing but a smirk and a well-timed flash of abs. At the time, you thought it was pretty reasonable.

And yet, months later, you’re the one dry as the Calm Belt and twice as volatile.

It started subtly.

A look. A step. That pipe leaned too casually on his shoulder as he just so happened to be standing between you and a promising flirtation. Then, almost lazily, he tapped the ash right onto the poor man’s sleeve.

No apology. Just a low, amused hum and a look that said, “Oops. My bad. You were in the way.”

And then it escalated.

You tried to sneak off during docking to meet that handsome tanner with the kind hands and the stupid, endearing laugh. Benn suddenly developed a deep, burning interest in knife-throwing drills. Right outside the exact door you needed to slip through.

You tried a drink with a sailor from another crew. Benn sat beside you without invitation, then proceeded to clean his pipe with the slow, deliberate menace of a man gutting a fish. Somehow, soot ended up directly on your date’s collar. The man excused himself immediately. You didn’t even get a sip.

You flirted with a charming rogue who wrote you a song. Benn whistled the same tune behind him. Off-key. Loud. Deeply disrespectful. The poor man gave up halfway through the second verse and muttered that he “wasn’t feeling it anymore.”

You chatted with a quartermaster from a supply ship. Benn strolled past, eyes flat, voice cool. “Didn’t know you were into men who can’t read a tide chart.” He was gone before the poor guy could finish blinking.

You danced. Just danced. With a noble in a tavern.

Half a spin in, Benn appeared like a mid-boss encounter. He stole the man’s drink right off the table, took a slow sip, then leaned in and muttered something so vulgar it made you blush. You. Who once out-cursed Shanks during a hurricane and won a bottle of rum and a lifetime of respect from Lucky Roux.

It was psychological warfare. And he was winning.

The crew?

Of course they noticed. But they said nothing. They remembered the rule.

Benn’s rule.

No emotional or physical entanglements within the crew.

For harmony. For professionalism.

For reasons™.

Which would be fine. Noble, even. If Benn Beckman weren’t out here acting like you belong to him, without having the decency to follow through.

Every time someone flirts with you? Benn shows up. Every time you flirt back? Benn exists louder.

And you?

You haven’t even kissed anyone in months. Not a stolen kiss in a shadowed hallway. Not a drunken mistake after a raid. Not even a pity peck from a crewmate with too much rum and not enough self-preservation.

You’re going mad. Horny. Lonely. Emotionally blue-balled by a man who won’t even break his own damn rule.

And worse?

He’s not possessive in a way you can fight. He’s calm. Polite. Maddeningly composed. No theatrics, no yelling. No sulking in the corner like a jealous idiot.

And it’s not even jealousy. He’s not possessive.

He’s interfering.

Casually. Constantly. Confidently.

And the worst part?

You’re starting to think he’s enjoying it.

Every thwarted suitor. Every lingering stare. He plays the calm, superior puppetmaster of your dry spell every moment.

A one-man blockade.

A silent, pipe-smoking shadow who somehow appears at just the right moment to obliterate your chances at intimacy like it’s a goddamn hobby.

You're not even sure why anymore. Does he think he’s protecting you? Is it some twisted sense of duty? Or is he just a power-tripping hypocrite who enjoys watching you suffer?

At this point, you’re not sure whether you want to slap him, kiss him, or set his stupid pipe on fire.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

You try. Gods, you try.

You flirt.

You flutter lashes. You laugh at jokes that aren’t even funny. You lean forward during card games and pretend not to notice when shirts ride a little low. You compliment knife skills. You fawn over his muscles. You even complimented a very unfortunate mustache because the owner had good calves.

None of it works.

Because Benn Beckman is everywhere.

Like salt in the sea, like mildew on wood, like some extremely judgmental barnacle that has emotionally latched onto your libido and refused to release it from the hull.

You try again with a visiting swordsman. A tall one. Sweet. Mutter's poetry when drunk.

Benn walks by mid-conversation, glances at your companion’s sword, and says, “Bit small for compensation, isn’t it?”

The man leaves instantly.

Then there's the shy medic from a nearby ship, who offers you flowers. Real flowers! You get one whiff before Benn “accidentally” drops his coat over them and says, “Allergic?” You aren’t, but the medic panics and runs anyway.

The next guy, you try to kiss. Try. You’re in a shadowed hallway, lips inches away, and a pipe taps lightly on the wall beside your head.

You both freeze. And Benn, not even looking at you, says casually, “Captain’s looking for you. You were going to report in an hour ago.” The man flees like a rat from a sinking ship. You’re left alone. Again. With a heat in your veins and a scream caught behind your teeth.

You really try to be normal about it, at first.

You flirt like a polite menace. You offer compliments. You even bake—bake—a pie for a carpenter who helped fix a busted plank near your quarters.

Benn drops the entire dessert into the ocean with a casual “Oops.” The carpenter pretends it never happened and never speaks to you again.

Fine.

You flirt harder. You wear a necklace with cleavage implications. You lean against barrels in suggestive ways. You ask questions like “Do you believe in soulmates?” with all the sultry poise of a woman about to commit crimes.

Each time, Benn appears. Never angry. Never loud.

Just present.

He looks at men like they’re bread left out too long. One man you try to woo tells you, “I’m sorry, I’m just not ready to be buried at sea.”

You blink. “What?”

He gestures vaguely in Benn’s direction. “He looks like the type to anchor a man with weights.”

Eventually, you grow unhinged enough to ask Shanks for help.

Desperate times. Desperate measures. Spoon in hand.

“Shanks. I haven’t been kissed in six months. I’m going to throw myself off the side of this ship and hope I land on something hot.”

He doesn’t even blink. Just grins that ridiculous grin and takes a sip of his drink like you didn’t just declare a romantic emergency at sea.

“Sounds like you already did,” he says. 

You throw a spoon at him. Not hard enough to cause damage, but with intent.

He ducks, still laughing, and yells, “Yasopp, she’s officially snapped! We’re five days from a Beckman-related homicide!”

From the crow’s nest, Yasopp calls back, “I give it three!”

Down on the deck, Lucky Roux mumbles something about prepping a mop, just in case.

And somewhere behind you, you can feel Benn’s gaze burning into your back like a storm rolling in.

You don’t look.

You’ve got at least one more spoon in your pocket. And if he says something smug tonight, it’s going straight between his collarbones.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

The celebration night starts simply.

Rum flows. Music plays. The Red Force is riding high off a fresh victory, and for once, you think…maybe tonight?

You wear your best shirt. The one that says, "I’m available, dangerous, and fully prepared to ruin lives with eye contact alone."

You lock eyes with a visiting sharpshooter. Dimples. Fast hands. Good aim. He makes a joke that’s actually funny, and you nearly cry from the sheer relief.

He invites you to dance. You accept before Benn can emerge from the shadows like the final boss of celibacy.

The deck glows with lanterns. The stars are bright. The music is rowdy, but melodic. The sharpshooter’s hands settle just right on your waist. Confident. Respectful. Warm.

You laugh at something he says. You lean in a little. It feels… nice. Not electrifying. Not dangerous. Just easy. Normal. The kind of moment you haven’t had in months.

He dips you in a practiced move. Eyes bright. Smile easy.

The air tightens. The laughter dulls, like someone turned the volume down on the world. The music still plays, but now it echoes like it’s coming from the bottom of the sea.

You don’t have to look. You feel it.

The storm has arrived.

You turn your head just slightly. And there he is. Benn Beckman.

Leaning against the mast like he owns the moonlight. Not borrowed. Not shared. His.

His coat hangs open, sleeves pushed to the elbows like he just handled something violent or intimate—maybe both. The lantern glow catches the line of his throat, the edge of his jaw, the slow drag of smoke curling from his lips like he’s sculpting the tension on purpose.

Hair tousled by the sea breeze. Scar barely visible under the lamplight. Cigarette balanced between two fingers like a threat. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t blink.

He just watches.

Not even looking at you. He’s watching him. The sharpshooter who unknowingly walked into his territory.

Assessing. Judging.Plotting a deeply personalized murder, with footnotes and a dramatic conclusion. Complete with a warning label and monogrammed body bag.

You try to ignore it. You force yourself to keep dancing. You laugh again, louder this time. Sharper. Petty. Just to prove you still have free will.

But Benn’s gaze doesn’t shift. He’s locked on you like you just committed high treason in full view of the mast. Like the moment you let another man’s hand touch your waist, you started a war.

The sharpshooter dips you again, still smiling, still unaware he’s dancing in a blast radius. You meet his eyes. And then, he kisses you.

Soft. Simple. Perfectly acceptable. You let it happen.

It’s not fireworks. It’s not poetry. But it’s something. And for one brief, fragile second, you think maybe the curse has been lifted.

But in your periphery, Benn straightens.

He moves with that infuriating calm. Like gravity, parts for him. One step. Two.

Towering. Broad-shouldered. All slow fury and sharp angles, radiating heat like he just walked out of a fight, or your last three fantasies.

His coat shifts with every step, open just enough to flash the knife-honed lines of his chest, sea-worn and sun-bitten. That scar along his side catches the lantern light, his cigarette glowing dim between his fingers like a fuse counting down.

His eyes, half-lidded and unreadable, flick to the sharpshooter with all the warmth of a storm cloud about to ruin someone’s year.

And he stops.

Just close enough to make your skin burn.

The sharpshooter opens his mouth to say something.

But nothing comes out. Not a word. Not even a breath.

Benn doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.

The look he gives is a sentence, a verdict, and a funeral all in one.

The poor bastard swallows hard, nods like it was his own idea to leave, and looks away so quickly you wonder if he regrets ever being born.

Benn turns to you. Slow. Unhurried. Dangerous.

His eyes drag over you with the weight of something that sees too much and dares you to flinch.

You say nothing. You can’t.

Not with that look.

Not with the way your pulse trips in your throat like it forgot how to function.

He takes another drag from his cigarette, eyes still locked on yours.

Then he exhales. Smoke, silence, and something that coils in the air between you like a wire pulled too tight.

He doesn’t touch you.

But your whole body knows he could.

And if he ever did?

You’re not sure the ship would survive it.

You’re not sure you would.

“Get. Off. Her.”

Benn doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. It slices through the music like a blade to canvas; clean, cold, and final.

Your poor dance partner releases you like you’re made of dynamite. He takes one last glance at Benn, stammers something about needing another drink, and vanishes like a man fleeing death.

You turn. Jaw tight. “What is your problem, Beckman?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “You.” His voice is low. Controlled. Deadly.

“You and your damn flirting. You and every bastard who thinks they can put their hands on you.”

The words hit like a gut punch, sharp and unforgiving. You’re too stunned to speak. Too furious to breathe.

And then he steps closer. Too close.

Close enough that the scent of smoke and sea salt curls into your lungs, warm and dizzying. Close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his skin like he’s been holding back fire, and you’re the match that finally struck.

His eyes never leave yours. They’re dark, hungry, infuriating. And his voice drops. Smooth. Dangerous. Unapologetic. The sound of a man who’s done waiting, and doesn’t give a damn about consequences.

Your voice is low. Shaking. With rage. With exhaustion. With months of unmet needs and tension wound so tight it’s a miracle you haven’t combusted on the spot.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just leans in, all six-foot-something of sun-bronzed, scar-marked, sea-weathered menace, radiating heat and bad decisions.

His shirt’s open at the collar, the dip of his throat catching the lantern glow. That scar along his ribs was just visible beneath the edge of his coat. His hair was tousled like he had just rolled out of someone’s bed, his cigarette was forgotten between two fingers, and smoke was curling lazily past lips you’ve spent far too long imagining.

And his eyes, dark, hooded, locked on yours with the precision of a man who already knows what you taste like. A man who could wreck you with a look. A man who is.

He steps closer. Close enough to feel. Close enough that your breath stutters, and your pulse has nowhere to run.

“You’re not mine.” He breathes the words like a vow, slow and deliberate. Low enough that they settle against your skin. “But if I’m not allowed to have you—no one is.”

Silence. Around you. Between you. Like the moment before a storm breaks. Still, sharp, electric.

And he just stands there, too good-looking to be legal, with the firelight turning him into temptation carved from smoke and salt and every bad idea you’ve ever wanted to make twice.

Someone drops a mug. Somewhere, Shanks mutters, “Thank the sea gods—I was two weeks away from staging a fake wedding.”

You don’t blink. You don’t breathe.

You slap him.

Hard. Sharp. Satisfying.

You kiss him.

Harder. Hotter. Meaner.

It’s not sweet. It’s not gentle. It’s months of frustration. Of sabotage. Of cockblocking so relentless it deserves its own bounty poster.

It’s a collision. Of ego. Of need. Of finally.

And he kisses you back like he’s been waiting, like every smug look, every quiet stare, every damn lit cigarette was just foreplay he’d been layering like kindling.

You don’t remember how you ended up below deck. One second you’re biting his lip; the next, there’s a wall at your back and Benn’s hands at your hips, kissing you like he’s starving. Like he’s been starving. For you. Specifically.

He doesn’t fumble. He doesn’t rush. He devours with the steady, unhurried confidence of a man who’s thought about this in excruciating detail.

Later, when you’re pinned against a storage crate, breathless, barely dressed, and actively questioning your spinal alignment, you pant against his throat.

“Is this against your rule?”

He doesn’t even pause. Just mutters against your skin, warm and wicked: “An exception.”

Clothes? Gone. Pipe? Dropped and probably rolling somewhere beneath a barrel. Your dignity? Folding like a busted card table.

You moan something that might be his name or might be a new swear invented on the spot, probably one the crew will adopt out of context.

He kisses your throat again, biting this time. A warning or a reward. Then mutters, “New rule. Just for you.”

“What’s the rule?” you pant, somewhere between delirious and ready to throw him down again.

His mouth brushes your jaw as he grins, slow and cruel in the best way: “No one touches you but me. Emotionally. Physically. Biblically. Twice on Sundays just to be sure.”

You don’t argue. You can’t. You’re too busy making absolutely sure he never rewrites that rule again. Possibly ever.

Up above, the crew takes bets on how long you’ll last before you both break something important.

Shanks wins. He bet on ten minutes and a broken table.

You wake up in a supply room. Naked. Sore. Smug.

And unfortunately? So is he.

Benn Beckman, in all his post-sin glory, is still half on top of you. Bare chest rising and falling, scarred and golden in the early light slanting through the hull beams. His hair’s a mess, his lips are kiss-bitten, and one hand is still resting possessively on your hip like he’s asleep but ready to fight anyone who looks at you wrong.

And he’s hot. So hot it’s personally offensive.

The kind of hot that should come with warning signs. All long limbs, sharp edges, and that low, lazy strength that screams if you run, I’ll catch you—and not in a healthy way. Even now, bruised from your fingernails and still smug from last night, he looks like he walked straight out of your most unhinged fantasy and into a problem.

You glare at his perfect jawline and whisper:

“You’re still an asshole.”

He doesn’t even open his eyes. Just smiles, the smug bastard, and murmurs,

“You can glare all you want. Doesn’t change who you woke up under.”

The worst part? You can’t even pretend to be mad. Not when your legs are still jelly. Not when his scent is still warm on your skin. And definitely not when his hand is still resting exactly where it shouldn’t be, curled possessively on your hip like he knows you’re not going anywhere.

Because you’re not. Not yet. Not when he’s this warm, this close, and just barely awake enough to be soft about it.

You sigh. "You’re lucky you're pretty."

He grins without opening his eyes. "That’s not the only reason you kept me."

You smack his chest gently. Mostly.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Upstairs, Shanks updates the crew manual. Section 6B now reads:

Crew fraternization is forbidden.

Addendum: Unless your name is Benn Beckman and you're a tall, pipe-smoking menace with sniper eyes and slutty forearms.

In which case, fine. But at least pretend you’re conflicted, you smug bastard. Also, buy her dinner, you coward.

[mysteria157]

Pairing: Nanami Kento x Black Fem Reader

CW: Profanity, Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content, Missionary, Doggystyle, Fingering, Oral (m! receiving)…

WC: ~10k (grab your snacks)

Summary: 

Nanami runs into a problem that every man dreads.

Now, you find yourself navigating the treacherous waters of his bruised ego and growing hysteria, armed with nothing but your unwavering love and a seemingly endless supply of patience, as you try to help him overcome this unexpected hurdle.

Notes: Hello! Trying to get back into the swing of writing again after so many weeks on a break and naturally Nanami is who I gravitate towards. I thought this one shot would be a funny idea, and as someone once told me, I wrote this with “my c*it on the keyboard.”

Please do not ask me for more related to this story. This is just a one-shot of a random idea, please enjoy it for what it is lol. Thank you all for understanding!

Reblogs, likes, or comments are always appreciated! Happy reading!

Dividers: @cafekitsune | Header: made by myself

Masterlist | Ao3 | Twitter |

©mysteria157, all rights reserved. DO NOT copy, plagiarize, reupload, modify, or translate (without permission) my work to other accounts and platforms.

“Fuck, Kento,” you breathe, fingers digging into the satin of the pillow case beneath your head.

The soft, warm glow of the bedside lamp bathes your intertwined bodies in a honeyed light, casting shadows that dance across your rich brown skin. Nanami’s lips, hot and insistent, trail a path of fire down your neck, pausing to lavish attention on the sensitive hollow of your throat. He drags his teeth along your clavicle, brushes his lips between the skin of your breasts. A breathy moan escapes you as his tongue traces lazy, deliberate circles around an already-sensitive nipple, sending sparks of pleasure racing through your veins.

His hands, strong and sure, yet infinitely gentle, knead the soft flesh behind your knees, coaxing your legs to open wider, allowing him to sink deeper into the welcoming heat of your body. The blunt head of his cock grazes that sweet spot inside you with each measured thrust, and you can’t help but arch your back, silently begging for more.

Your hair, messy from his fingers, frames your face in a splatter of curls, some clinging to the sheen of sweat on your cheeks. The sight of you like this—open, wanting, completely his—nearly steals the breath from his lungs and makes him double down his efforts.

It’s been weeks since you’ve had this. Weeks of Kento stumbling home late from working overtime, collapsing into bed still fully clothed. Weeks of missed connections, family obligations, and movie nights cut short with you both passing out on the couch. But tonight, finally, you have each other, free from the demands of the world outside.

As Nanami moves within you, his honey-wheat hair, usually so perfectly styled, falls in soft, tousled waves across his forehead, clinging to the perspiration that glistens on his brow. The strong line of his jaw is taut with concentration, a muscle jumping beneath the skin in a way that makes your fingers itch to trace its contours. His eyes, normally a cool, observant umber, now burn with a fierce intensity, a volatile mix of desire and something else, something harder to define.

But even as you lose yourself in the rhythm of your lovemaking, in the exquisite slide of skin against skin, you can’t help but notice the weariness etched into the lines of Nanami’s face, the slight tremor in his hands as they map the contours of your body. He’s been working himself to the bone, pushing himself to the brink of exhaustion, and it shows in the tension of his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes. You had tried to get him to sleep when he sagged through the front door, but he was insistent, clawing at your too-big t-shirt, silent and too stubborn to listen to his body as he licked into your hot mouth.

He’s so tired. Mind still running through quarterly reports and half-completed project plans. But he won’t let that deter him. He’s determined to focus—to savor this moment, to lose himself in the intoxicating scent of your skin, to surrender to the tremors that course through him as your fingers ghost up his back. You marvel at the play of muscles beneath his skin, at the flex and release of his broad shoulders with each movement—a reminder of the strength he usually keeps so carefully controlled.

But as he leans in to capture your lips, that traitorous whisper of doubt in his mind grows in volume. That exhaustion that melted away from your touch has retreated to within him, to course through the blood in his veins and manifest again in its own, evil way at the apex of his thighs. Nanami’s movements falter, his rhythm turning erratic, unsure. You feel a change in him, a hesitation that wasn’t there before, and your heart clenches with concern. His brow furrows, his lips pressing into a thin line as he tries to hold onto the moment, to keep the passion burning between you. The confidence that usually radiates from him when you are both between the sheets seems to waver, leaving in its wake a man grappling with an unfamiliar sense of inadequacy.

He doesn’t want to believe it. He refuses to acknowledge the treacherous thought creeping into his mind. His cock, moments ago hard as a rock and pulsing within you, is betraying him. He digs one hand into the pillow beneath your head, fingers tangling in your curls, savoring the sharp gasp you shake out, desperately willing himself to focus on your heat, on your breath ghosting across his face—anything but the waning firmness of his erection.

With a low grunt, he thrusts deeper so there’s no room for his cock to leave you. The movement is sharper than usual, a force that has no trace of his care behind it and it immediately makes you blink through the fog of pleasure in your mind. You notice the change, concern filling you as you take in the tumultuous emotions on his face. His blonde hair falls in thick tufts over his forehead, brushing against the deepening crease between his eyebrows.

“Ken?” Your voice is soft, a gentle caress. You bring a hand to his cheek, and he leans into your touch as if your soft skin might anchor and keep him focused. “Is everything alright?”

Everything is far from alright.

It’s a nightmare scenario that Nanami can’t bring himself to voice. But he knows you feel it. Instead, he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in harsh, ragged pants against your vanilla skin, his fingers digging almost painfully into the flesh of your hips. He drives his hips deeper, angling upwards, trying desperately to lose himself in your pliant body.

But with his next thrust, the cruel truth becomes undeniable. What was once hard steel is now unbearably soft, slipping out of you as his hips collide with yours. Your gasp mirrors his shock as he jerks his head up to meet your gaze. The mortification in his eyes is palpable, a stark contrast to the passion that burned there mere moments ago.

“Ken, it’s okay—” you begin, but he’s already retreating, both physically and emotionally, his walls slamming back into place, shutting you out. You can practically see him retreating into himself, his shoulders hunching, his jaw clenching with a stubbornness of wounded pride.

“Hey, no, we aren’t doing this,” you insist, voice firm and laced with quiet determination.

You reach for him, your fingers wrapping around a thick wrist, anchoring him to you. You’ve spent years chipping away at his defenses, learning every facet of his being, and you refuse to let him shut you out now over something like this. This isn’t just embarrassment—it’s a fundamental shaking of his self-image, a crack in the foundation of who Nanami believes himself to be. An affliction that every man prays to the gods never finds them.

Limp dick.

You gently pull Nanami back to rest between your thighs, his weight a comforting shield against the cool air of your shared bedroom. Your fingers weave through his hair, feeling the tension thrumming through his body as he settles against you.

“Kento,” you murmur, your voice a low, soothing melody in the quiet room. “Look at me.”

He stills for a heartbeat, two, before raising his head, his eyes meeting yours. In their depths, you see a swirling maelstrom of emotions—frustration, embarrassment, shame. He’s tousled hair and flushed cheeks, an overwhelming exhaustion and stress etched beneath his eyes.

“It’s okay,” you breathe, cradling his face in your hands. Your thumbs trace the high arch of his cheekbones, feeling the heat of his skin. “This happens. It doesn’t change a thing—not how I feel, not how much I love you, none of it.”

Nanami’s jaw clenches under your palms, the muscle pulsing, a physical manifestation of the turmoil brewing within him. His gaze falls, unable to hold yours, as if the weight of his perceived failure is too much to bear. “I should be able to—”

“To what?” you interject, your voice gentle but firm. “To be some infallible sex god?” A soft laugh escapes you, your lips curving into a tender smile. “To never have limp dick?”

Those warm eyes glare at you, not at all amused by your light-hearted but poignantly accurate joke. “Now is not the time for a joke,” he grits out, his voice tight, strained.

“Now is exactly the time for a joke,” you counter, your thumb tracing the slight cracks of his bottom lip. You can sense his next moves, your body attuned to his very soul, feeling his inclination to withdraw, to roll over and brood, to let this momentary setback fester into something more. You tighten your thighs around his waist, refusing to let him drift away. “How long have we been together, Kento?”

“Three years.” His answer is immediate, automatic, a testament to the depth of your bond.

“And in that time, has this ever happened before?”

Your eyes lock—a silent battle of wills, logic against stubborn pride. He understands your point, recognizes the truth in your words, but his stubbornness matches your own. “No,” he admits, the word a reluctant concession.

“You’re human, Kento. Wonderfully, beautifully human, and the sexiest man I’ve ever known. Performance issues or not.”

He scoffs, but you feel his shoulders slacken, his body melting into yours as he exhales, the tension slowly bleeding from his muscles. His arms tighten around you, calloused hands splaying across the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, as if your touch alone could chase away the demons of self-doubt. Those beautiful golden strands tickle your cheeks as he nuzzles closer, his breath warm against your neck.

“Is that so?” he finally murmurs, and you can hear the small smile in his voice, a welcome change from the earlier tension. For as reserved as he is, Nanami preens under any sort of compliments you give him, a chink in his armor of cool composure.

“Mmhmm,” you hum, your hands sliding down to appreciate the firm planes of his back. “It’s a shame, really. You attract too much attention. I’ve been too generous with how long I let you out of the house.”

You feel more than hear his soft chuckle, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into yours. Nanami pulls back slightly, his dark eyes meeting yours. The vulnerability from before hasn’t completely faded, but it’s tempered by a familiar spark of determination kindling in their depths. You don’t know if the subject has completely dropped. But for now, he doesn’t seem to dwell on it, content to focus on you instead.

“Well,” he begins, his voice dropping to that deep, velvety tone that never fails to send shivers cascading down your spine, “I should ensure your satisfaction. Maybe then you’ll extend my hours outside.”

Before you can respond, he’s moving. He sits up on his knees, hot hands wrapping around your waist before yanking your hips closer to him, a delicious show of strength that has your breath catching in your throat. Your giggle of surprise quickly morphs into a gasp as his lips find that sensitive spot just below your ear, tongue sliding against the skin before it trails down the rest of your body, leaving a path of desire that makes you shudder against him.

You expected a period of adjustment, a gradual return to the easy intimacy you and Nanami had always shared. But as time passed, you began to notice a shift, subtle at first, but growing more pronounced with each passing day.

That first sign of something odd presents itself on day three since that night, a quiet Saturday morning that dawns with a gentle golden light filtering through your bedroom curtains. You wake up to find Nanami’s side of the bed empty, the sheets cool to the touch. Puzzled, you pad into the living room, your bare feet silent on the cool hardwood floor, your eyes roaming the space for any sign of him.

Nanami sits at the dining table, surrounded by a veritable fortress of books, their spines forming a colorful barricade around his hunched form. His laptop glows in the morning light, casting his features in a pale blue hue, multiple tabs visible on the screen. He’s hunched over and shirtless, his bare back a canvas of dark moles, constellations you’ve traced countless times with reverent fingers, your lips mapping a path between each celestial point.

As you circle the table, drawing closer to his absorbed form, you’re struck by the intensity of his concentration, the furrow of his brow, the set of his jaw. His fingers fly over the keyboard with a single-minded purpose, a man on a mission, lost in a world of his own making.

“What are you doing up so early?” you ask, running a hand through the short, silky hair at his nape.

He glances up, and the determined glint in his eye catches you off guard. “Research,” he replies simply, as if that single word explains everything.

Curiosity getting the better of you, you lean in to examine the book titles scattered across the table, your brow rising with each passing second:

Male Sexual Health

Nutrition and Libido

Stress Management for Peak Performance

What the—?

A mix of emotions bubbles up inside you—amusement at his determination, concern for his state of mind, a touch of exasperation at his stubbornness. Part of you wants to tease him mercilessly, to watch that adorable flush creep up his neck, to see him squirm under your playful attention. But you bite your tongue, sensing the fragility of the moment, the rawness of his exposed insecurities.

“Ken,” you begin, your voice a delicate balance of understanding and concern, “is this about what happened the other night? I thought we talked about this, baby.”

“We did,” he nods, not looking up from his screen. “And I appreciate your understanding. But I can’t let it happen again. I’m going to fix this.”

There’s so much you want to say, so many reassurances you want to offer. You want to tell him how normal this is, how surprised you are that it hasn’t happened more often given his grueling work schedule. But you bite your tongue, sensing that this is something Nanami needs to process on his own.

“Don’t you think this might be…a bit much?” you try one last time, your fingers tracing soothing patterns on his bare shoulder, careful not to make him feel defensive and push him further into his own head.

“Nothing is too much when it comes to satisfying you.”

And with those words, spoken with such conviction, such raw honesty, your heart swells, a tidal wave of love and affection crashing over you. He won’t be swayed, and there’s no point in trying to argue with him when he’s set on something. You can’t help but sigh fondly, running your fingers through his hair again, your nails gently scratching his scalp in the way you know he loves. He leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment, a low groan of appreciation rumbling from his chest as he guides your fingers to just the right spot.

As Nanami launches into an explanation of the benefits of Ashwagandha root, his fingers running along a line of text in one of the magazines, you can’t help but shake your head affectionately. You love this man, even (or perhaps especially) when he’s being ridiculously over-the-top, his determination to be the best partner he can be, even if it means diving headfirst into a world of herbal remedies and performance-enhancing techniques.

The days slip by, each one blurring into the next, a haze of normalcy tinged with an undercurrent of unease. It’s not until the morning of day ten that the true extent of Nanami’s newfound obsession becomes impossible to ignore.

The soft schick of his razor fills the bathroom, a rhythmic counterpoint to the rush of running water. He stands before the mirror, shirtless, a towel draped over his broad shoulders to catch stray flecks of shaving cream. You watch, transfixed, as he meticulously glides the razor along the sharp line of his jaw, each stroke precise, measured.

You stand beside him, your own morning ritual underway, massaging a rich, creamy lotion into your melanin-kissed skin. Your favorite scent of vanilla fills the air, mingling with the crisp, clean aroma of Nanami’s shaving cream. It’s a familiar dance, this shared moment of grooming, of preparation for the day ahead.

But as you reach for your leave-in, your eyes catch on something new, something that sends a jolt of surprise through your system. There, amidst the clutter of skincare products and toiletries, sits a new addition to the growing collection of bottles on the counter. The mustard-yellow label boldly proclaims: “Maca Root: For Vitality and Stamina”.

“Ken?” you murmur, plucking the bottle from the counter, your eyebrows dipping in confusion. “What’s this?”

Nanami’s eyes flick to yours in the mirror, his hand pausing mid-stroke, the razor hovering just above his skin. “Just a supplement,” he evades, his voice carefully neutral, a forced casualness he uses to avoid arguments he won’t win that always sets your teeth on edge. “For…overall health.”

You turn the bottle in your hands, eyebrow arching higher in disbelief with each word you read as you take in the bold, almost aggressive labeling. Your gaze darts to the other bottles littering the counter, a growing sense of unease settling in the pit of your stomach as you take them in for the first time.

“Uh-huh. And the Zinc? The Ginseng? The…” you squint at another label, your voice dripping with skepticism, “L-arginine? All for ‘overall health’ too?”

He clears his throat, his gaze darting away from yours, focusing intently on his reflection as he studiously avoids your probing stare. “That’s right.”

“Baby—” you begin, but he cuts you off, setting down his razor with a definitive clink and shutting the water off, turning to face you fully.

The sight of him, bare-chested and gleaming under the harsh fluorescent light, sends a bolt of desire through you, a hunger that’s been left unsatiated for far too long. The thick cords of muscle that stretch across his chest and arms, the taut planes of his abdomen, the trail of dark blonde hair that disappears beneath the low-slung waistband of his sweatpants—it’s exquisite torture, a feast for your senses after days of famine.

But there’s a tension in the set of his shoulders, a skittishness in his gaze that sets off warning bells in your head.

“It’s the research I’ve been doing,” he admits, almost apologetic as he pulls the towel from his shoulders, wiping away the last traces of shaving cream from his jaw. “From what I’ve read, these have proven benefits for…various aspects of wellbeing.”

He seems almost afraid, as if he’s bracing himself for your reaction, steeling himself against the inevitability of your displeasure. Fortunately for him, the words are like a match to kindling, a spark that ignites a flame of mischief in your belly. You step closer, your hands coming up to rest on his chest, the supplement bottle forgotten on the counter behind you.

“Various aspects, huh?” you tease, your voice dropping to a sultry whisper. This moment—when he smells of fresh soap, shaving cream, and mint toothpaste before cologne masks his natural scent—is one of many favorites. It’s one of the most arousing forms of Nanami Kento before he slides on his work clothes and gives the world a straight face and measured words. “Care to demonstrate some of these benefits?”

Your fingertips trace the muscles of his chest, slide along his skin with more purpose, your nails dragging lightly over his nipples, a teasing hint of pain that you know drives him wild. He inhales sharply, his muscles tensing beneath your hands, his jaw clenched tight, a reaction that’s as familiar to you as your own heartbeat.

For a moment, you think you have him, that he’ll give in to the desire that darkens his eyes, that he’ll roughly bunch your skirt up around your waist, hike your legs up and around him and make the bathroom mirror knock against your back until you’re gasping out his name as you tighten around his cock.

But then he’s stepping back, his hands coming up to gently catch your wrists, pulling your hands away from his skin.

“We’ll be late for work,” voice strained, conveying his own battling desire. He brings your hands to his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to the delicate skin of your wrists, your forehead, your mouth.“Let me make you breakfast instead.”

And then he’s gone, slipping past you and out of the bathroom, leaving you standing alone, frustration and disappointment warring in your chest. Your gaze falls on the supplement bottles, a physical manifestation of his growing hysteria, and for a moment, you’re seized by the urge to sweep them all into the trash, to rid your home of these unwelcome interlopers.

But you resist, drawing in a deep, steadying breath, your fingers pinching the bridge of your nose as you silently repeat the mantra that’s become your lifeline in recent days: I love him. I love him. I love him.

But as you square your shoulders and stalk out of the bathroom to start your day, you can’t shake the feeling that something’s got to give, that this tenuous balance can’t hold forever.

Day seventeen. It feels like an eternity, a cruel and unusual punishment for a crime you didn’t commit. You’re a prisoner in your own home, trapped in a world where the man you love is just out of reach, tantalizingly close but impossibly distant.

Seventeen days too long when you live with a man as loving, kind, and attentive as Nanami Kento. Seventeen excruciating days since the concept of getting dicked down was a given, a pleasure you could indulge in whenever the mood struck. Now, you’re reduced to grasping at sloppy seconds, thirds, fourths—anything for a crumb of cock, a fleeting taste of the intimacy you crave.

You’ve become a connoisseur of stolen moments, of fleeting glances and brushing touches that once held the promise of so much more. A shared look in the bathroom mirror that used to lead to soapy sex in the shower. The brush of his hand against the small of your back as you pass in the hallway, a touch that used to lead to him pulling you flush against his body, his lips claiming yours in a searing kiss. Now, you’re like an addict, desperately chasing the ghost of a high, sucking at nicotine-stained fingers for the essence of a hit.

In a last-ditch effort to reignite the spark to show him just how much he’s overreacting, you’ve taken to wearing his shirts around the house. You leave the top buttons undone, a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage on display, the hem riding high on your thighs to reveal the faint marks that he likes to lick against. But each night when you reach for him, Nanami simply presses a tender kiss to your forehead, his lips trailing a path down your body in a reverent exploration, worshiping you with his mouth and fingers until you’re trembling and spent.

But never with his cock. Never with the part of him you crave most, the part that once made you feel so deliciously full, so utterly claimed.

You feel dramatic when you think about it because it always brings tears to your eyes, hot and stinging with frustration and despair. Like you’re a petulant toddler wanting a cookie that’s been sitting on the counter all morning.

You’ve never been one to let a man dictate your life, to let his whims and insecurities hold sway over your own desires. But Nanami has always been a man to put you above and beyond anything before himself. If the women of the world knew what they were missing, if they could experience even a fraction of the pleasure Nanami Kento can provide, they’d be falling to their knees in supplication, just like you.

How far you’ve fallen.

And how little you care.

Tonight, you vow, will be different. You slip into the silk nightgown he loves, the one that clings to your every curve like a second skin, the baby blue fabric whispering against your heated flesh as you step out of the bathroom. Your heart races with anticipation, your body thrumming with need as you picture his reaction, the way his eyes will darken with desire, the way he’ll pull you into his arms and finally, finally give you what you both so desperately need.

But the bedroom is empty, the sheets still neatly made, mocking you with their pristine perfection. You frown, a sense of unease settling in the pit of your stomach as you pad down the hallway, your bare feet whispering against the cool hardwood. As you approach the kitchen, a pungent, almost medicinal smell hits your senses, growing stronger with each step, mingling with the whir of a blender.

You round the corner and freeze, taking in the scene before you. Nanami stands at the kitchen counter, surrounded by an alchemist’s array of strange-looking roots and powders. The blender in front of him churns away, filled with a murky-greenish-brown liquid that looks more like something out of a horror movie than anything fit for human consumption.

“What are you doing?” you ask, your voice thin and strained, confusion and exasperation warring for dominance in your tone.

He looks up, startled, nearly knocking over a jar of what looks like dried herbs. “It’s…a health shake.”

You want to argue, to shake his shoulders and scream that this has gone too far, that he’s lost sight of what really matters in his quest for some unattainable ideal. But the determination in his eyes, the set of his jaw, the way he grimaces as he chokes down a sip of the vile concoction—it all speaks to a desperation that breaks your heart even as it fuels your frustration.

As he takes another sip, nose twisted to the side to avoid the foul smell, his eyes catch your frame. They roam over you, taking in the nightgown, giving you the exact reaction you pictured before coming out here.

For a moment, you see that flicker of desire in his eyes that you’ve been craving.

But then it’s gone, replaced by something that looks suspiciously like guilt.

“I’ll come to bed soon,” he promises, grimacing through another sip of his vile brew. “Get some rest. I know today was rough at work.”

His words are like a knife to your gut, a reminder of the distance that’s grown between you, the way his obsession has consumed him so completely that he can’t even see the pain it’s causing you both.

All of this, because of one night.

You press your toes into the hardwood, your fingers twisting in the hem of your nightgown as you fight back the tears that burn the corners of your eyes.

“You…you don’t want to come to bed with me?” you whisper, hating the way your voice breaks, the way the hope that once buoyed your words has been replaced by a hollow, aching despair and annoyance.

“I want to finish this and catch up on a few things for work before I come to bed.” His gaze slides away from yours, unable to meet the hurt and frustration in your eyes. Unable to see just how in his head he has become with all of this. “It’ll be a little while. Sleep for me? Please?”

The rejection, however gentle, leaves you feeling exposed and bereft, a physical blow to your gut. You nod, not trusting yourself to speak anymore, and turn to head back to the bedroom, your vision blurring.

There’s so much more to this than just you wanting to have sex. You want to be supportive, to give him time and space to work through whatever this is. But you hate just how disillusioned he has become. His gaze and his touch are tainted now—held back by shame and fear of disappointing you. And you can’t help but feel like this is getting more out of control instead of getting better.

You love him, more than anything. But right now, listening to the distant sounds of him choking down that awful-smelling shake, you’ve never felt further apart.

It all comes to a head on day twenty-five. The day dawns like any other, the sun’s warm rays filtering through the windows of your shared apartment, casting a soft glow on the well-worn furniture and the mementos of your life together. It’s your day off, a rare respite from the chaos of the work week, and you find yourself moving through the space with a sense of purpose, straightening and cleaning, trying to bring order to the disarray that seems to mirror the state of certain parts of your relationship.

As you work, your mind wanders, replaying the events of the past month like a melancholy film reel. The distance, the tension, the way Nanami has been pulling away from you, retreating into himself in a desperate attempt to fix what he perceives as a fundamental flaw in his being. Insisting that he won’t let this happen again even though he won’t actually fuck you.

It’s a weight that’s been bearing down on you both, a shadow that’s slowly suffocating the light and love that once filled every corner of your lives.

Your feet carry you to the bedroom, to the closet you share. As you reach for Nanami’s side, intent on straightening his crisp dress shirts, your hand brushes against something unfamiliar, tucked away in the shadows. Curiosity piqued, you pull it out, revealing a plain, unmarked brown box.

For a moment, your heart stutters in your chest, a cold fear gripping your insides as you lift the lid, praying that it’s nothing that would point your partner in the direction of infidelity. But no, you shake your head, banishing the thought before it can fully form. Nanami would never betray you, never seek solace in the arms of another because there’s only has and ever been you.

It makes complete sense in your head, but lately—

You yank open the lid and gape.

Inside, nestled among crumpled tissue paper, are items you never expected to find in Nanami’s possession. Your fingers tremble slightly as you examine them—a cylindrical pump, clear save for the rubber base, and an orange prescription bottle, its label stark against the translucent plastic.

You stare at the objects, your mind whirling with a chaotic storm of emotions. Shock, disbelief, a rising tide of frustration and despair. This isn’t just Nanami being health-conscious anymore, not just a passing phase or a well-intentioned attempt at self-improvement. This is something deeper, something more desperate, a manifestation of the fear and inadequacy that’s been eating away at him since that fateful night.

Carefully, you replace the items, your movements mechanical, your thoughts a jumbled mess. A part of you wants to laugh, to find the absurdity in the situation, to release the tension that’s been building in your chest like a pressure cooker. But you can’t bring yourself to even stifle a giggle, the weight of your worry too heavy.

You sink down onto the bed, the cool sheets soothing the heat of your legs, and draw in a deep, shuddering breath. The weeks of distance, avoidance, the way Nanami has been retreating further and further into himself, straying more and more from reason. There’s so much more to your relationship than just sex, but it’s a big part, a well-practiced part that you both can be your rawest selves during.

But all of this is a spiral that’s slowly dragging you both down, a vortex of unspoken fears and mounting frustrations on both ends.

And in that moment, surrounded by the remnants of your shared life in your apartment, the photos and trinkets that chronicle your love story, you know that something has to give. And it looks like you’ll have to take matters into your own hands. This ends today.

Tonight, when Nanami gets home, you’ll address this head-on. No more dancing around the issue, no more swallowing your grievances in the name of patience and nonexistent understanding. It’s time to remind him of who he is, of the man you fell in love with, the man who’s always been more than enough for you.

The sound of the front door opening pulls you from your thoughts, the soft shuffle of Nanami’s footsteps echoing down the hallway. “Love, I’m home,” he calls out, his voice weary but warm, a balm to your frayed nerves.

He appears in the doorway, his tie loosened, speckled black on yellow draped over his shoulders, the top buttons of his blue shirt undone. His glasses are gone, discarded in his haste to shed the trappings of the office, to leave the stresses of the day behind. “Look at you,” he murmurs, his eyes softening as they land on you, a reverent smile playing at the corners of his lips. “So beautiful.”

Your heart flutters in your chest at his words, at the love and adoration that shines in his gaze, even though you’re in a ratty t-shirt and shorts, your curls thrown into a careless and messy bun.

“You always speak as if it’s the first time you’ve ever seen me,” you tease, tilting your head back to accept his kiss, a chaste press of his lips that nonetheless ignites a spark of longing in your core.

“Because it’s true,” he replies simply, his fingers brushing a stray curl behind your ear. “I’m going to shower.” He sounds despondent, unbelievably ragged with the weight of the day clinging to him like a second skin.

“Rough day?”

“A very rough day, my love,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair, disrupting the sharp part that he makes every morning. He reaches a hand out to you, an invitation, a plea for your company. “Join me?”

The bathroom is a sanctuary of steam and heat, the air thick with the mingled scents of your body washes—cucumber melon and sandalwood. You perch on the counter, a fluffy towel wrapped around your body, watching as Nanami goes through his post-shower routine, his movements methodical, almost meditative.

Water droplets cling to his skin, tracing tantalizing paths down the planes of his chest, the ridges of his abs. Your mouth goes dry at the sight, your fingers itching to follow those rivulets, to map the contours of his body with your lips and tongue.

“Let me,” you murmur, your voice husky with repressed longing. Your legs spread, the open lapels of your towel exposing a creamy brown thigh that Nanami’s eyes flicker to before he meets your gaze. You reach for him, pulling closer until he’s standing between your parted thighs, the heat of his waist seeping through the thin barrier of your towel.

With gentle fingers, you work through the rest of his skincare routine—toner, serum, smoothing eye cream over the delicate skin beneath his lashes. The domesticity of the moment, the intimacy of caring for him like this in whatever way you can, it’s a way to show him that you’re here—that you’re not going anywhere, no matter how lost he may feel.

Your fingertips glide over his skin, applying the last of the face cream with gentle circular motions. As you finish, your hands move to his damp hair, brushing the strands away from his forehead. The strong line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the subtle crinkles at the corners of his eyes that crease faintly when he smiles.

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you pull him closer, a soft smile playing on your lips. Nanami’s hands come to rest on your waist, his thumbs tracing small circles on your towel-covered skin.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, thickly. His eyes, those warm pools of mahogany, are soft with gratitude and affection.

“Always,” you whisper back, your heart swelling with love for this man.

Nanami leans in, pressing his lips to yours in a gentle kiss. It’s meant to be a simple gesture of gratitude, but something shifts in the air around you. Whether it’s the intimacy of you both so close or the heat on your skin—the kiss deepens, slow and exploratory, as if you’re rediscovering each other after a long absence.

Your fingers thread through his damp hair, tangling in the strands as his hands tighten on your waist. Your tongue slides along his bottom lip, tasting the coffee he must have had on the way home, the hint of want that he wants to crumble into. He returns with equal fervor, pressing closer to you, sliding his tongue against yours, shivering from the soft moan that shakes from your wet lips when you both finally break apart. A gossamer thread of saliva connects you before he pecks your lips one last time. Nanami’s chest rises and falls deeply, coiled masculinity oozing from his pores, tangling with the downy hairs on his chest.

“Kento,” you breathe, your voice barely above a whisper, “we…we need to talk about what’s been going on.”

Your hands train down his chest as you speak, mapping the familiar terrain of his body. Beneath your fingertips, his heart thunders like a trapped bird, betraying the melting calm facade he’s trying to maintain. The defined muscles of his abdomen twitch under your touch, a visceral reaction he can’t control.

“The magazines, the supplements, the smoothies,” you continue, gentle but firm. “This has gone too far. One off night, Kento. That’s all it was. Yet here you are, acting like you’re broken, like every moment we’ve shared before was somehow lacking.”

Nanami tenses, his body coiling like a spring beneath your hands. But you’re not letting him retreat—not like that night—and certainly not right now. Your legs wrap around his waist, the gap of your towel widening as you yank him closer, anchoring him to you, skin to skin.

“You think that I would look at you differently?” you murmur, catching his distressed eyes every time they try to evade your gaze, willing him to understand. “Think I would think of you as a failure? You like logic, Kento and I’m telling you the facts. You were tired, case closed.”

“But I—” he starts, his voice rough with emotion, eyes narrowing in frustration as he tries to defend himself. You silence him with a thumb to the plump skin of his bottom lip, tracing the divots of soft, pink flesh.

“You’re the healthiest man I know, Ken.” Your other hand drifts lower, brushing through the trail of dark golden hair that disappears beneath his towel. “You take such good care of us. And you never, ever fail to satisfy me.”

His breath catches as your fingers ghost over his hipbones, alternating between soft cotton and the sharp cut of his skin. “One night doesn’t change that,” you whisper, the hand on his face sliding to card through his hair, you lean in to press your lips to the strong line of his jaw. His fingers dig into your waist from your touch, Adams apple bobbing against your gliding lips as he swallows the burning desire that’s slowly searing him from the inside out. “It doesn’t make you any less amazing, any less desirable.”

You pull back, meeting his eyes. In their warm depths, you see a swirling mix of vulnerability that makes your heartache.

“I just…I don’t want to disappoint you again. While I know that you don’t care, being unable to provide for you fully is something that I never wanted to experience.” The confession is thick in the air, sloshing with what remains of the steam from the shower, coating your skin.

“Oh, Kento,” you sigh, pressing your forehead to his. The scent of his skin—clean soap and something uniquely him—envelops you, offers that blanket of protection that you couldn’t imagine going away. “The only thing disappointing me is how you’ve been pulling away. I’m tired of you feeling inadequate when you’re anything but.”

You pause, weighing the options in your head before you take a bounding leap, throwing care to the wind. Slowly, deliberately, you slide off the counter, your body brushing against his as you descend. The cool tile of the bathroom floor contrasts sharply with the heat radiating from your skin.

Kneeling before him, you look up, your gaze never leaving his. Hands slide up thick thighs, the hair on his legs brushing against your fingertips as you travel further toward the rigid heat of where you need him most. The hitch in his breath is faint, almost nonexistent when your fingers toy with the towel’s edge around his waist. You only wait a moment, three seconds too many as your hand undoes the tight knot and the towel pools at his feet and your knees on the floor.

He’s just as he always is—thick and heavy from your proximity alone, hard and filled with the blood that pumps wildly in his veins. When you wrap your hand around him, the heft of his cock makes your cunt squeeze. You know exactly what it feels like to have the most intimate part of him carving out your insides, and god do you need it right now.

You give only one stroke and the effect is instant; Nanami hisses, fingers flexing at his sides, extending and then curling in a fist as a means to keep his hands to himself, the head of his mushroom tip red and prickles with a thick gathering of precum. Just the sight makes your mouth water.

“I found those things in your closet, you know,” you purr softly, stroking him at an excruciating pace. “You actually think you need something like that, baby?”

A flush creeps up Nanami’s neck, blooming across his cheeks in rushing embarrassment even though his pupils are dilated from the sight of you on your knees. He opens his mouth to speak, fumbling for words that choke around another hitch with your next stroke.

“You don’t feel like you would need something like that.” And you don’t wait a second longer, opening your mouth, dragging the flat of your tongue up the backside of his cock. Each taste bud slides against rigid bumps of veins, gathering with more spit as he groans from your attention. You offer a gentle kiss to his tip, licking the salty taste of his precum from your lips. “You sure don’t taste like you would need something like that.”

The rise and fall of his chest is quickly leaving the pace of steady, his eyes locked on you and jaw flexing with growing desperation. You squeeze his cock on an upward stroke, your own body beginning to heat up just from watching him fall apart.

“Look at you now,” you tease, widening the gap between your knees, the heat between your legs radiating against your ankles. “You don’t look like you need help. Responding so beautifully to me. Not a hint of hesitation.”

The velvety hardness of him in your palm twitches from your words, hard steel that’s blazing hot, and just the sight of him above you is more than enough for a whine to build in your belly, an innate urge to have any part of him inside of you.

Nanami’s eyes flutter, long lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones as you lean in. When you finally take him into your mouth, your name falls from his lips like a prayer, brown eyes rolling halfway to the back of his head, eyebrows furrowing in equal confusion and pleasure.

You’re too eager to give him time to adjust—tongue swirling around the crown of his head and softening underneath him before building a nice, slobbery rhythm. In and out, in and out. Every stroke of your mouth around his cock makes your mouth water even more and your body relax, the dig of the tile on your knees forgotten.

“Fuck,” he pants, the rare curse slipping from his lips as one hand comes to rest gently on the back of your head. You hum in appreciation—in encouragement—building his confidence to squeeze the curly strands. The vibration of your hum of attention causes Nanami’s hips to buck involuntarily and you let your throat relax without thinking, let him hit the back before you swallow around him. “I-” he bites his lip, groaning from deep in his chest.

The heat of the bathroom is suffocating, your neck covered in curls prickling with sweat, sliding down your clavicle and onto the towel around your breasts that’s quickly loosening. Or maybe it’s your own body burning from the inside out, your blood pounding and surging to your core, swelling with arousal that leaks from you without even touching yourself.

And you’re dripping. The hand not at the base of him—stroking what you can’t swallow—reaches between your thighs, rubbing a clit that’s sopping wet with slick that drips between your fingers and onto the tile floor.

It doesn’t take long for that familiar ache to build in your jaw, a growing reminder of the thick cock between your mouth. But his throaty moans keep you going, keep your cunt pulsing and squeezing around the two fingers that quickly slide inside of you.

Nanami’s eyes, dark with desire, take you in—your messy hand twisting at the base of his cock, the hint of saliva on your chin, the prickle of tears at the corners of your eyes from the way he keeps hitting the back of your throat. Only he gets to see you like this. Only he gets to be with someone who will stop at nothing to make him feel supported and loved over something as trivial as a night of bad luck.

“I…you’re…” he gasps, unable to complete his thoughts when you moan around him. “Please just—just keep…don’t stop…don’t—”

As the tension builds, Nanami’s control begins to slip. His thrusts lose their measured control, the hands in your hair tighten, the quick breath from his mouth becomes tight as he bares his teeth and fucks your mouth. His abs are glistening with sweat, tight and flexing as he fights to stay sane.

You’re ready to burst from the seams, pleasure coiling at the base of your spine with each curl of your fingers inside of you, moans tight and sporadic in a familiar sign of your impending orgasm.

It’s when his eyes catch you fingering yourself that his control snaps in half, setting him off. He’s grabbing at you, yanking you from your knees with a strength that shocks you, your towel finally falling off your body and exposing you to the heat of the bathroom. Before you can protest, Nanami moves in a flourish, the last threads of his control dissolving at the shocked but excited gasp that leaves your lips.

In one fluid motion, he spins you around to face the bathroom mirror. Your breath catches at the sight of you both—flushed, desire-drunk, tanned and freckled muscles pressed against your back. His eyes meet yours in the reflection, a primal hunger burning in their depths, black eating away the warm brown.

The press of his cock against your lower back makes you arch your back, leaning over the counter without a second thought, taking him in through the mirror. His hands roam over your body with renewed confidence, cupping the heaviness of your breasts, sliding down tiger-striped brown skin to grip your hips. His eyes trail over the mess of curls on your sweaty back, the curve of your ass, the glistening of your cunt as it catches in the bathroom light.

He looks focused, almost angry—determined to make sure he does exactly what he’s supposed to do. Your body shivers in anticipation. This is the Nanami you’ve been missing—strong, confident, and utterly, deliciously yours.

Without preamble, you part your legs more, opening yourself up to his leering gaze as he watches you slide two fingers through your sopping folds. “I need you,” you whisper, your other hand kneading the flesh of a breast, pinching the nipple to make you arch your back more into him.

He presses forward at the sound of your voice, a beacon for him to bring you whatever you desire. “You have me.”

You feel him, hot and hard against you, and you can’t stifle the moan that escapes you. “All of you Kento,” you whimper, pushing back against him and stroking your clit faster, your slick sliding down your fingers to the center of your palm. “No more holding back, no more doubts. Show me how much you want me.”

In the mirror, the trepidation in his eyes, the worry between his brows. The disappointment from that night is surely playing in his head, teasing him evilly that he will never be able to make love to you again. But you won’t let him feel that way again, you’ll never let him feel inadequate. So you turn slightly to reach behind you, smooth a hand up the side of his face, caressing his jaw, angling your head to the side to kiss him softly. “You’re perfect,” you breathe, the words barely a whisper between you both, the perfect combination to relax the subtle tension in his shoulders. “So perfect for me, Kento.”

He releases a shaky exhale against your lips from your words, the vibration traveling through your body where you’re pressed together. With one hand braced on your waist, the other guiding himself, his eyes not leaving yours, Nanami pushes into you slowly. Finally. Twenty-five days too late and the feeling of completeness, of absolute rightness, is overwhelming. It’s as if a missing piece of you has been slotted back into place.

You whimper, panting into his mouth, sliding your lips messily against his. Your body stretches to accommodate him, a delicious burn that makes your toes curl and your cunt pulse around him.

“Oh fuck, Kento,” you keen, “you’re so fucking big—fill me so well—” His hips snap forward, cutting you off, a sharp cry punching from your lungs.

“I-I shouldn’t have—” he pants against your lips, ready to apologize from the force but you don’t let him finish.

“Yes,” you encourage, your voice breathy from the delicious zing of pleasure that throbs between your legs. “You feel amazing, Ken. So perfect.”

He shivers from your words and starts a slow, almost tentative rhythm. But your continued praise spurs him on. His thrusts become more confident, more forceful, driving you both higher in the stifling heat of your bathroom.

The room fills with the sounds of sex—the slick smack of skin on skin, breathless moans from his full lips, whispered praises from your mouth.

“So good,” you moan softly. “You feel so good inside me.” The hand on your clit resumes its pace, wanting Nanami to be fully immersed in focusing so he can get past this terrible roadblock in his mind.

“More,” he demands, kissing you deeply, the side of your jaw, nibbling your ear, begging you silently for more love and praise. “I-I have to know I’m doing well. That I’m making you feel good—"

“You are,” you gasp, his name a prayer on your lips as he hits that spot deep inside you that makes white spots blot the edges of your vision. “You are—you are, Kento—shit fuck me harder. Give it to me.”

He bends to your will immediately, the pull of your voice—of your demands as easy as breathing, and he’ll give whatever it takes to make sure he can lay everything at your feet. “Fuck,” he groans, digging his fingers into the meat behind your knee, yanking it up onto the counter and you’re opening more, wider for him to slide in further.

It’s messy and animalistic, a building of sweat between your sliding bodies, a gradual intensifying thrum between your legs with each smack of his balls against you. Your body jerks with each thrust, pleasure scratching down your skin with sharp nails as your mind grows hazy, mouth falling open as the tip of his cock kisses that sweet spot inside of you, over and over and over with each inward stroke. The hand on your clit flies up to grab the sweaty porcelain of the sink in front of you, fingernails digging into the rubbery sealant along the sides. The other hand reaches back to tangle your fingers in his hair.

You’ve gone almost a month without him in the most primal way and your body is struggling to keep up. Your lungs struggle to pull in enough air, your slick-coated fingers slip against the sink, your hips burn from the open angle of one leg up on the counter.

But you can’t bring it in yourself to care, too deep in bliss to worry about your wellbeing, the pressure at the base of your spine building and building, molten pleasure bubbling in your gut as you feel yourself teetering on the edge.

“That’s it, baby,” you gasp as you both climb together, meeting his thrusts as the tension coils tighter in your core. “You’re so strong. Love me so well. Fuck me so well.” Nanami groans harshly, shivering from your praise, reaching down to stroke your neglected clit, and you tense around him, choking at the pleasure that wraps around your throat, your cunt pulsing as it tries to swallow his cock and never let it leave.

You watch in the mirror as Nanami loses himself in the moment, all his doubts and insecurities forgotten. His face is a mask of pleasure and concentration, his body moving with a grace and power that takes your breath away. His hips falter, stuttering briefly to signal his match of mounting pleasure. He leans over you, his face in the crease of your neck, body bowing over to make you press further into the counter, teeth grazing your skin as he groans and pants against you with feral need.

He presses his fingers harder against your clit, rubs with a practiced motion and you’re tensing against the counter, scrambling for purchase on the sink as high-pitched keens shake from your throat. “Fuck right there, Kentooo,” you moan tightly. He moans harshly into the skin of your neck, relishing in the way your hot and wet walls tighten around him, doubling down, the fingers on your waist digging crescent moons into your skin. “Make me cum. Oh fuck, make me cum pleasepleaseplease—”

The hand in his hair tightens around silky strands, your body tenses up, your nose scrunching, pleasure pulsing and building in your cunt as you climb and climb and climb until you shatter.

A cry of his name, loud and primal, rips from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you. Ecstasy floods your system in overwhelming waves, each one threatening to pull you under. Tears gather in the corners of your tightly shut eyes, born from the sheer intensity of your release.

And like always, your pulsing walls are the final push Nanami needs. He thrusts into you harshly with deep punctuating strokes until his balls draw tight, fingers digging deeper, a deep, guttural groan shaking from his body as he finally climbs up that wall of shame and follows you over the edge, his release pulsing hot and deep inside you as your body continues to shudder with aftershocks.

Nanami doesn’t have the energy to pull out, collapsing onto you without grace. The cool counter against your cheek is a balm for your burning skin. As you both come down from your high, trembling and panting, you stroke his scalp with the hand still twisted in his sweaty hair, fading spots behind closed eyelids painting your vision.

After a few moments, Nanami stirs, pressing a gentle kiss to your shoulder before carefully withdrawing from your body. You whimper at the loss, but he soothes you with another soft kiss on your temple. You hear the sound of running water, the tub filling slowly as Nanami retrieves a warm, damp washcloth.

With tender care, he cleans you up, the soft cloth gliding over your sensitive skin. His touch is reverent, worshipful, as if he’s handling something precious beyond measure, and you melt further onto the counter. Once you’re clean, he guides your leg down from the counter, massaging the muscles of your hips and thighs to ease any lingering tension.

You let him lead you to the tub, sighing in bliss as you sink in the hot, soothing water. Nanami climbs in behind you, pulling you back against his chest as he settles you between his legs. The heat seeps into your aching muscles, the steam smelling faintly of lavender, the gentle lapping of the water against your skin a soothing lullaby.

For a long moment, you simply rest together, your head tipped back on his shoulder, his arms wrapped securely around your waist as a thumb strokes the skin. The bathroom is quiet, save for the occasional drip of the faucet and your slow, even breathing.

Your mind drifts to the vulnerability you’ve witnessed in Nanami, the raw, unguarded moments he’s bared his deepest fears and insecurities. And only you will be the one to see that. You’ll be the only one to build him back up when he’s stripped down, to remind him of his worth, to love through every storm. Even storms that are as weak and barely damaging as limp dick.

“Thank you,” he finally speaks, rich voice vibrating against your skin, filling you with warmth from the inside out. He nuzzles his nose into your hair, inhaling deeply as if to memorize the smell of your leave-in. “For being patient with me…for being supportive…” You feel the tension drain from his body as he exhales, slowly, as if he’s releasing the last of his worries into the steam-filled air. “I love you. Deeply.”

You smile softly to yourself at the declaration and turn your head to meet his gaze, your eyes sparkling with a mix of adoration and mischief.

“This wasn’t an easy assignment you know,” you tease, your voice lighthearted even as emotion threatens to overwhelm you. “I expect payment for my unwavering devotion.”

Nanami’s eyes, hazy with post-orgasmic bliss, roll playfully, a smile tugging the edges of his lips. “What’s my bill?”

"Moissanite,” you declare matter-of-factly, nestling back against his broad chest with a contented sigh. “The carats are up to you, but—“

“A gold band,” Nanami interjects, warm with affection and certainty. “Emerald cut. I have it memorized, my love.”

He punctuates his words with a tender kiss to your temple, his arms tightening around you as if he never wants to let go. Your heart flutters wildly in your chest, a kaleidoscope of butterflies set free by his words.

“The box in the closet? Throw the penis pump and the Viagra in the trash,” you add, playfully jabbing your elbow into his side. “You won’t be needing those anymore.”

Nanami’s laughter rumbles through you, a deep, satisfying sound that fills the room and washes over your skin like a physical caress. “And if I want to be prepared, just in case?” he counters, his tone light and teasing.

“You’re 28, not 50,” you remind him, your own laughter mingling with his.

“Humor me.”

“I guess I could gather up all the magazines, powders, supplements, and various “aids” and present them to you in a nice box for you to use one day. Of course, you’d be single, so I’m not sure what good they’d do you then.”

Nanami’s body shakes with mirth, his breath puffing warm and sweet against your hair. “In the trash they go.”

You hum in agreement, an eyebrow raised before you tilt your chin. And like always, because you never have to ask, Nanami obliges, his lips slanting over yours in a slow, deep caress that steals your breath and fills your heart all at once.

Thanks for reading!

[wendichester]

｡𖦹°‧ across the room⁵,

summary.you’ve seen sam around. he’s seen you too. all you’re both waiting for is the perfect opportunity to go from strangers to something more.

pairing. stanford!sam winchester x reader   genre. slightly angsty--drama incoming!

wordcount. 1191

notes / warnings. since you all seem to love this series... here's part 5! let me know if you'd like more~ // swearing, emotional miscommunication, rumors, insecurity spiral, near-crying, jealousy, soft makeout + sam’s baggage

ᯓ★ read part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

It starts the way it always does lately—with your back against Sam’s dorm door and his hands under your thighs, warm and sure and greedy.

You don’t even remember walking upstairs. One second, he was teasing you outside the psych building, thumb brushing your wrist like it wasn’t a big deal. The next, you were here—pressed up against cheap wood and kissing like you’d both die if you didn’t.

And you like this. God, you do. The way he touches you like you’re something rare. Like he’s memorizing you. Like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that’s ever made him full.

Except tonight, for some stupid reason, it’s different. You’re different.

Because the voice in your head—the one that usually shuts the hell up when he’s biting your lip—is loud tonight. And cruel.

“He’s not the relationship type.” “I heard it’s just hookups.” “She’s wearing his hoodie like it means something.”

It was whispered behind a coffee cup, across the room during class. And you’re not supposed to care. You’re supposed to roll your eyes, maybe laugh, kiss Sam harder next time just to prove a point.

But now his mouth is on your neck, and his hand is sliding up your bare thigh, and all you can hear is:

what if they’re right?

You don’t even realize you’ve stiffened until his hands still. “Hey,” he murmurs, breath hot against your skin. “You okay?”

You nod. Too fast.

He pulls back enough to see you. Really look at you. You hate how warm his eyes are. How soft. Like you’re something he wants to keep.

“I’m fine,” you lie. “Just… tired.”

He frowns. “Tired usually doesn’t make you flinch like I’ve got knives for fingers.”

You force a laugh. “You don’t.”

“Don’t bullshit me.”

The words are sharp. Not cruel—but sharper than Sam ever is with you. And maybe it’s the tone, or the way he backs off slightly, arms dropping from your waist, but something inside you snaps.

“You know what?” you say, voice too thin. “Fine. People are talking.”

He stills.

“About us,” you clarify, because now it’s all rushing out—your anger, your doubt, the humiliation that’s been coiled tight in your chest since lunch. “They’re saying I’m just one of your things. That this is just… what you do.”

His eyebrows knit. “What I do?”

“Hookups, Sam,” you spit. “People think you’re just screwing around. That this thing between us is nothing. That I’m stupid for thinking it’s more.”

You feel him stiffen the second the words leave your mouth.

And shit. You wish you could claw them back, bite them down, pretend they never existed—but it’s too late. You see it in the way his shoulders tense. In the way his jaw clicks. In the way the room tilts.

He steps back from you, slow. Measured. Like you’re something volatile.

“What the hell does that mean?” His voice isn’t raised—but it doesn’t need to be. It’s cold. Razor-edged.

You fold your arms over your chest, defensive. “It means I don’t know what this is. What we are. You’ve never said.”

“Because I didn’t think I had to!” Now he’s raising his voice. “You come over almost every night. You fall asleep in my bed. You steal my food and wear my clothes and text me stupid memes at 2am. What the fuck did you think that was?”

“I thought maybe it was just… fun. Casual.”

“Casual?” He laughs. Laughs. But there’s no humor in it. Just disbelief and pain. “Is that what I am to you? Fun?”

“No! Sam, that’s not—”

“I left my entire fucking life behind for a chance to be normal. Stable. Safe.” His voice cracks on the last word. “And the first person I let close—really close—just stands there and says I don’t care?”

“That’s not what I said,” you whisper.

“No, you said you don’t know what this is.” He runs both hands through his hair, pacing now. Like his skin doesn’t fit. “God, do you even get what this is for me? I’ve never had this. Not once. Not without strings or guilt or someone waiting to use it against me.”

You flinch. “I’m not trying to use anything against you.”

“Then why are you twisting this into some ‘convenient hookup’ bullshit?” His voice breaks again, and it guts you. “You think I bring just anyone into my life like this? You think I let just anyone see me like this?”

“Sam—”

“No, you don’t get to say my name all soft and sorry now. You don’t.” He stops pacing. Faces you fully. Eyes bright and furious. “Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to trust people?”

You swallow hard. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“But you did.” His voice is quieter now. Dangerous. “You told me—without even flinching—that this might not be real to me. That you might not be real to me.”

Your lip trembles. “I just got scared.”

“And I didn’t?” He shakes his head, bitter. “I’ve been scared since the second you walked into my life. Scared you’d figure out how fucked up I am. Scared you’d run like everyone else.”

You take a step forward. “I didn’t run.”

“You pulled away,” he says flatly. “You doubted me. You stood in my space—wearing my hoodie—and told me I don’t make you feel safe.”

And that does it. The final blow.

Your eyes sting.

“Sam,” you whisper, voice cracking, “I feel safer with you than anyone else.”

He looks at you for a long second. And in that silence, everything shifts again. His fury doesn’t fade—but it folds. On itself. Like exhaustion.

“Then why are we standing here like this?” he says hoarsely. “Why did you come in already assuming the worst?”

“Because,” you rasp, “I’ve never had this either. And people are talking. And I panicked. Because it matters. Because you matter. And if this is just temporary for you, I don’t know how I’ll survive it.”

He closes the distance in two steps.

“Nothing about this is temporary,” he says. Voice rough. “And I’m pissed as hell right now, but that doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

You sniff, trying to laugh, but it wobbles. “You’re pissed?”

He huffs a breath. “Of course I’m pissed. You questioned the one thing I’ve been holding onto like my goddamn lifeline.”

Your eyes meet. And everything else fades—classrooms, gossip, fear, all of it.

You whisper, “So what are we?”

He leans in, forehead pressed to yours. Still breathing hard.

“You’re mine,” he says. “And I’m yours. No more guessing. No more halfway bullshit. We’re in this. All the way.”

You nod. Tearfully. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

Then he kisses you—messy and hard and emotional. Like it’s an argument and an apology and a claim all wrapped into one. His hands find your waist again, grounding you. Yours slide up to his chest, curling in the fabric of his t-shirt.

And when the kiss slows—when it turns into soft presses and gentle touches—there’s still tension. Still a storm in the room.

But you’re both soaked in it now. And neither of you is walking away.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[fangswbenefits]

A Series of Firsts

𓂅 𓄹 Summary: You and Miguel are ready to become parents and you must now go through a series of firsts together.

𓂅 𓄹 Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x spider-woman!reader

No warnings. Just pure fluff. Mentions of pregnancy. Dad girl Miguel. Protective dad Miguel.

First Kick

“What colour should we have on the walls?” Miguel asked one day.

“Beige?”

“Boring.”

“Red?”

“Too much.”

“Red and blue?”

“That’s too… spidey.”

You giggled at his remark. “We’ll just pick a neutral one and let her decide as she grows up.”

“That’s settled, then,” he murmured, resting the side of his head on your baby bump as both of you lay comfortably on the bed.

“Fingers crossed for a zebra pattern in purple and green,” you teased.

“She can have whatever she wants,” he said simply and you knew he meant it.

Warmth spread in your heart, realising Miguel would give her anything she’d ask for. Even the moon.

As you rolled a single strand of his hair around your finger, you gasped abruptly and halted.

Miguel shot up straight in full alert mode. “What is it? Are you okay?”

You nodded, running both hands along your belly, waiting to feel it once more.

He immediately picked up on the meaning of your sudden silence and placed a splattered hand next to yours.

It didn’t take long for a second kick to be felt and you watched his face awe. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” you whispered adoringly at his concern.

He paused briefly. “That was a strong kick.”

You placed your hand atop his. “She’ll take after you, then.”

First Time Meeting

Jessica placed the little bundle of joy into his arms as soon as the spider-nurses were done checking the vitals and dressing her.

“What is this?” Miguel asked with a light scowl, shifting to have the sleeping baby face you.

Even through your post-labour exhaustion you managed to giggle.

She was dressed in a red and blue suit-like onesie that had Peter’s face printed onto the fabric as rainbow coloured words read ‘my 1st spider suit’.

“Remind again me why we let him choose.”

“You know how Peter is,” you said softly. “It’s a very cute gift.”

“Right.”

Miguel didn’t seem all that convinced, but brought her back against his chest protectively.

You watched as Miguel’s hardened face immediately softened in adoration and, for a couple of minutes, he just stood there, rocking her lightly in his arms.

“She’s… tiny,” he concluded, fingers probing around her hand. “She’s perfect.”

He raised her slowly up to his face and he planted a soft kiss to her forehead, earning a sudden yawn.

“Welcome home,” he whispered to her, completely transfixed. “I’ll always protect you.”

Something inside you stirred. This big grumpy man with volatile moods had just been disarmed by a tiny baby.

That was definitely a sight to behold.

First Sleepless Night

“We’re not having another baby.”

“Agreed.”

“Ever.”

Miguel let out a measured sigh in agreement. “Ever.”

The two of you lay sprawled across the large bed, facing the ceiling as the first rays of sunshine began to lit up the room.

Your daughter had finally fallen asleep after hours of fighting against it, nearly driving both of you crazy in the process.

As you readied yourself to slide off the mattress, you felt Miguel’s hold on your wrist stilling you.

“Don’t move,” he whispered. “Please.”

You groaned inwardly. “I need to go pee, Miguel.”

Sleepy and bloodshot eyes met yours. “It took us hours to drain her energy… hold it in for a while,” now that was a desperate tone if you’d ever heard one from him.

You heaved a long and heavy sigh, feeling his thumb gently rubbing at your pulse point in sheer gratitude.

“Yup. No more babies, O’Hara.”

“Maybe one more?”

You shot him a death glare and he swallowed hard.

“… or not.”

First Scare

You paced around the apartment, having already lost count of the amount of baby monitors that Miguel had spread all over the place.

“This is a bit too much, no?”

Miguel was checking on the sleeping baby through the orange-tinted screen of his dimensional travel watch when he turned to glare at you like you had just said the most abominable thing ever.

“You can never be too careful,” he said in disbelief.

It was to be expected, really. Miguel was always obsessed with security no matter the context, so you couldn’t really say this surprised you.

“Even the watch?” you asked in awe.

“Of course. It’s a looped system that transmits directly to both our watches,” he said with a nod. “Any alteration in her bedroom trigers an alarm.”

Ever the scientist.

His eyes dropped to the hologram on his wrist and he let out a gasp.

“What?”

“She’s gone!”

Your heart nearly collapsed as a feral Miguel immediately set himself on all fours towards her bedroom, clawing at floor.

“Miguel!” you called after him in a hurry.

Once you reached the open door, you were presented with Peter holding your daughter as Mayday chuckled happily, seated on his shoulder.

“Peter!” Miguel growled, yanking your daughter from his hold and bringing her close to his chest defensively.

“Miguel! We were just paying a visit,” he chuckled. “Cute baby, by the way,” he turned to you with a smile and a flick of his fingers.

But Miguel was having none of that. “Out!”

Mayday stuck out her tongue at him right away, a habit she had yet to let gonof whenever Miguel was around.

“Lyla, why wasn’t the alarm triggered?”

The AI appeared by his shoulder at once, filing her nails. “You forgot to activate the security system, boss.”

First Word

“Pa~pá! Say it. Paaa~pá!”

“Cheater!” you exploded as you entered the kitchen in large steps.

Miguel turned to face you as your daughter giggled.

“We promised to let it be something spontaneous,” you lifted an accusing finger at him. “Cheater!”

He lifted both hands defensively. “I’m just giving her some help.”

In truth, you weren’t upset with him in the slightest. He had been such a constanr presence in his daughter’s life even through an exhausting amount of work around Nueva York.

You feigned indignation crossing your arms across your chest.

Miguel picked her out of the baby chair and walked towards you with a tentative smile.

“I’m sorry.”

Your front broke right away as he leaned to nudge his forehead against yours. “You’re still a cheater,” you accused, not able prevent your lips from curling into a smirk.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

Your daughter started clapping enthusiastically. “Petaah~” and then burst into laughter.

Miguel looked down at her in shock. “What?”

It was almost comedic irony that the first word your daughter said was Peter, which had Miguel sulk for a couple of days.

First Steps

You missed kissing Miguel with no interruptions. Having some alone time in between taking care of your daughter was not easy to come by.

So whenever there was an opening, you’d both make it count.

He had your back pressed against the cold surface of the bedroom wall in no time, framing your face with both hands to deepen the searing kiss.

You melted into his touch right away, yearning for more.

Miguel broke the kiss momentarily to check his watch, panting lightly. “She’s still in the living room.”

You sighed in relief as he took your lips in his once more, hungrier this time. Both of your hands were resting on his firm chest, enjoying the way his muscles rippled under your touch.

Miguel hummed into you, swallowing your gasps and moans.

Your eyes were about to flutter shut when you detected movement out of the corner of your eye.

Panic took over and you immediately pushed Miguel away with a yelp.

Standing by the door was your daughter, gripping the frame with tiny hands, barely able to keep her balance.

Miguel offered her a kind smile. “Hey, you… come here.”

Your heart was hammering hard in your chest as you struggled to even your breathing.

She broke into an amused chuckle, wobbling in Miguel’s direction as he dropped to one knee. “Come here,” he encouraged.

But she would only take a couple of steps before her legs gave out under her to have her sit on the floor.

This was evidently very amusing as she kept trying to mimic her first attempt in between laughter

Miguel exchanged a proud smile with you and, for the first time in a long, you didn’t mind being interrupted.

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