#Volatility filter

[theladyfae]

i think human nature/family of blood is a really good two parter in how it manages to show how full of shit ten is 🫶

[honey-pages]

Learn your Lesson - Viktor x Reader

Description -

After an intense lecture, Viktor invites you to his study where he ensures you learn your lesson.

2.7k words

F/M. 18+. Smut. NSFW. Sex. Teacher/Student. Riding.

@kskajjwiqqj

Viktor was nothing like the other professors that you had met. He was younger, known by his first name, and was quite clearly very attractive. You had been invited along to a skills class with the rest of your department and any interested outliers. Viktor was the reason you attended. You aspired to impress him, to become his student. There were always rumours circulating, however with Viktor, the only thing you had heard was how impenetrably private he was.

His back was to you as he wrote on the board in chalk. It was strange seeing someone in the position he was at such a comparable age to yourself. You did not even want to consider how old professor Heimerdinger was. The way he looked standing there authoritatively in his everyday suit was immaculate. It was taking your attention away from his teaching.

“The principles of Hextech's functions are fundamentally rooted in our understanding of magic's interactions with our reality. The volatile nature of unrefined hex crystals stems from this. Magic in and of itself cannot be quantified with precision, only comparatively by constants. “

He was presenting half to himself as the majority of the room looked out of their depth. He stopped asking call and response questions a while ago as he had no responses. Now he was picking on people.

“So, why is it an impossibility for magic to be married to our understanding of, say, gravity? “

No one makes to answer the question. You wait for a few seconds as he looks quite disheartened. He sweeps over the room. Silence. He locks eyes with you. The questions weren’t essentially that difficult, they were just to register attention. Most of the things he asked were things he had previously mentioned or things that were graspable by taking the things he had taught and applying its logic.

You put forward an answer, “It is impossible to apply something which lacks numerical quantification to a concept as characterised by numbers as gravity. You'd end up with too many unknowns. The best you could manage is to average those constants, which is not precise enough when working with hextech “

“Close! It is certainly a challenge, although not impossible, to determine properties of a gravity field under magical influence, in precisely the manner you have described. However, more fundamentally, the issue lies in the fact that the gravitational constant is a dimensional property defined by distance and mass, while any magical constant lacks such constraints. But very very good thoughts Miss (Y/N).”

He knew your name. As he responded to you, he did a double take, watching you. You caught him scanning your whole person, losing his train of thought for a second. He smirks before catching the thought he had just lost. It was quite noticeable, the effect you had just had over him, and you were almost certain that it wasn’t just because you were the only one answering questions. Maybe the times you had thought he was being personable were something more?

He was finishing up his teaching, but still whenever he referenced something you had put forward or said something particularly related to your thoughts, he looked at you.

“We've discussed today a number of approaches to applying magical principles in our limited understanding of physical laws. The crux of what makes this application an impossibility is as follows: A dimensionless constant cannot define a dimensional property. “

He addresses you, “With all the answers you have given, Miss (Y/N), I perhaps should invite you to speak with me privately afterwards.”

As he calls over to you, you realise the invitation he has just extended to you may not be one of a regular professor. Students are beginning to pack up and filter out of the hall, noise levels rise. Your seat on the first row, closest to Viktor, enables you to be one of the first out of your seat. Your courage feels disembodied and far from you now as you face him without the defence of the group setting.

“I’d like that. When are you free?” You ask, smiling and holding his gaze. It feels more difficult at close distance to deal with his focus, like the sun being beamed through a magnifying glass.

“Come to my study.” He suggests.

He collects his jacket from the back of the chair, folding up papers and books from the lectern and placing them into his bag. He holds back a little longer, waiting for the last of the students to have left the theatre. The room feels much smaller now you are alone together.

“I am serious about your potential, Miss (Y/N). I think with some support you could do great things.”

You flatter, “If I had a teacher such as yourself Viktor, I would already be doing great things.”

“You look beautiful today.”

You fluster, it was unexpected. You stumble.

“Flattery doesn’t work on either of us.”

“I’m serious Viktor, take me on as your student.”

He pauses.

“What was my final point in today’s lecture Miss (Y/N).”

Your mind was blank. Not strictly due to a lack of memory, focus or attention as you can guarantee to certainty that your attention was on Viktor, but due to how completely attracted you are to him. As time passes, his gaze becomes more confident. He knows he has you where he wants you.

“A dimensionless constant cannot define a dimensional property.” He reiterates. “It is no issue that you have forgotten. I have identified exactly where to begin tonight’s lesson.”

You walk with Viktor through the corridors and leading passages to his study. It is an interesting place in an interesting building. It is decorated beautifully, with full bookcases and large empty boards scrawled with workings. It is a small place that looks well used and lived in, as though it were an external reflection of his internal musings.

“Make yourself at home.” He insists.

You place down your belongings in one corner, neatly out of the way of any space Viktor might need. He sits down in a chair in the corner opposite to the one you stand in, and ushers you to sit in the respective seat. Although you are diagonally placed, the smallness of the room almost presses the caps of your knees together. It is cosy and feels like a special place to be invited to.

“I do not usually invite people here, even if they are prospective students.”

You smile, not knowing quite what to reply to show gratitude, humility and not betray the all-consuming attraction you have towards him. Ever since he said you looked beautiful, any hextech knowledge you may have unlocked had been jumbled and rearranged to make some sexual collage.

“I meant it” He states.

“What?”

“You look beautiful today”

You try to play it off cooly how much that compliment meant to you. “I thought we had agreed not to flatter.”

“I wanted to be clear. I didn’t just say it because I wanted to compliment you. I said it because I meant it (Y/N).”

You freeze up again. Your pulse began to be audible through your ears and your blood ran hot.

“You look flustered.” He recognises, sitting forward.

He reaches out a hand to touch your knee. He looks concerned. He doubts the appropriateness of his actions for a second before reassessing. You are both adults, he has no direct power over you, you are both consenting to being here. Then why did this feel so strange. It felt dream like to him. He had fantasised about you for so long, had stalked your progress in your studies. He had seen potential in you from the moment you were accepted through intake, in fact he made the decision.

You sit up too at his touch. In doing so, you shifted in your chair, your legs widened slightly. Due to the change in position, his hand now sits significantly higher up your thigh. A happy accident. Viktor understands why you are so nervous. He is also aware as to the position he now has you in. In his office, in his chair, with his hand on your thigh.

He tries to make you more comfortable, “Let’s take this back to hextech. Ah yes, perfect, what was the last thing I mentioned in today’s lecture?”

You stared absolutely blankly. Every time you had begun to think real words, Viktor had knocked you back ten steps. Now you were at square one again. You tried to recall the words, but they were fuzzy and blurry and so far out of your reach.

“Viktor, I’m sorry, I can’t remember.” You plead.

“Come on, Miss (Y/N), with your answers earlier we both know what you are capable of.”

“My brain feels foggy. I think I am misremembering.”

“An educated guess is the first big step.”

Throughout the conversation, the intensity of eye contact and body language meant that neither of you had realised that Viktor’s hand now held dangerously highly on your upper thigh. He looked down at his hand on you. It had not felt like he had moved it that far up. You realised that you had gradually been spreading your legs further apart. Gravitating towards one another. Everything leading to one eventual outcome. This was all the confirmation that was needed.

“Come here” He asks, smoothly.

You hesitate, blushing.

He pats his lap, sinking back into his chair. “A good student does what they are told.”

You hesitated not only due to feeling intimidated, but that you were not wearing any underwear. To make it more noticeable to him, you were also wearing a skirt. Of all the days to be sitting on Viktor’s lap, today had to be the one. You climb up onto his lap, sitting side saddle, keeping your knees together.

“So rigid. Where was this posture when you were just spreading your legs?”

“It’s not that Viktor, its- “Your voice trails off.

His hands find themselves around your waist and hips, feeling and calculating, building and rendering what you must look like underneath. His touch is comforting, his hands are hot and hungry. You want to give yourself to him, allow yourself to be devoured.

“I’m not wearing underwear.”

Viktor’s hands stop moving momentarily.

“Is there a reason you came to my lecture without them?”

You don’t answer. You shift more comfortably into his lap, directly onto his crotch. He is satisfied without an answer. He decides that if the outcome of your studies today was to catch him, he was very much in your reach. As you shift in your seat, his hips jolt forward, grinding up into you. It is uncontrollable for him.

“Open them for me Miss (Y/N).” He continues

Viktor guides your hips to move you to straddle him, shifting your legs apart. He watches your movements, eyes focused on you. He raises his hand to his mouth, placing in two fingers, coating them with saliva, before pressing them to you. He slides them over your clit and then down to your entrance. You are already slick with wetness, mainly from the anticipation and mental chess he was playing with you.

“So wet for me already.” His voice is silk. “What a prepared student you are.”

You uncontrollably push forward against his fingers, increasing the pressure against yourself. You moan out accidentally.

“Beautiful” He watches, “And if I place them here, then what noise will you make”

He flicks his fingers over your clit, hovering them over your entrance.

“Please.”

“What was the last thing I said in today lecture Miss (Y/N).”

Your chances of remembering were zero even though he had repeated himself. You really had no excuse for not remembering but it was so impossibly difficult now. You rut against the tips, desperate.

“Viktor, I’ve forgotten again.”

“Such a shame, you seemed so attentive. You will learn and progress, you just need encouragement.”

He unbuttons and unzips his trousers, angling upwards to pull them under his hips and down his thighs to his knees. As his underwear comes away, he springs free. He is exactly as you expected. Seeing him explicitly feels like a sin in itself. With both hands on your hips, he shuffles you forwards to be directly positioned above his waist.

“Information recall is important Miss (Y/N).’ He states. “Repeat after me.”

“Yes.”

He spells the words out slowly. “A dimensionless constant cannot define a dimensional property.”

The words are alien to you, meaningless now. You try to remember, there are two long ‘D’ words, two alliterative ‘C’s. The second he says it, it’s gone from your head again.

“Your turn”

“A dimensionless… cannot contain... dimension” You know it is incorrect even as you say it.

He grins, watching you unfold under the pressure. He begins to stroke himself slowly. You may as well be dripping on him. He lifts your shirt and unbuttons your bra.

“I can do it” You insist.

He removes the shirt and bra, exposing you before him.

“Dimensionless constants contain… no, define…”

He is quickening his pace, pleasuring himself with speed to the vision of you in front of him, stumbling over words he has fed you. So desperate to impress him.

“Viktor, please can you say it again.”

“A dimensionless constant cannot define a dimensional property” He moans and signs as he speaks. Punctuating the words as they fall out of his mouth. He aligns you with him as he prepares for your repetition.

You reply quickly while it is fresh in your brain, “A dimensionless constant cannot define a dimensional property”

He slams quickly upwards and inside of you, stretching you around him. You scream out his name. He doesn’t stop moving, furiously thrusting and thrusting and thrusting. He gets deeper as you sink down on him.

“Again, Miss (Y/N)”

“A dimensionless constant cannot define a dimensional property”

There is no slowing Viktor down and you hold onto the chair for balance. He has both hands gripping either thigh and his face is warped in concentration and pleasure. His fingers are gripping firmly and roughly.

“I am going to fill you Miss (Y/N).” He commands, “So deeply that you will feel me inside of you until your next lecture.”

“Please Viktor- “

You are filling the study with swearing and ecstatic cries. It isn’t soundproof, Viktor knows that well enough in hearing conversations outside of his door. He wonders how they will react to him holding you down on his cock as he finishes, the sounds you will make. Whether people will hear his name, will recognise you as the prospective student who seduced him and got fucked consequently.

He has slowed his pace slightly, using his hand to rub your clit. You feel yourself building, unravelling. He feels you internally tense around him, gripping his cock and pulsating around it. You will finish imminently.

“I’m going to- “you pant. “Your fingers will- “

“Do it, (Y/N).” He is near his end too, “For me. Show me how badly you want it. Give me no choice but to undo you.”

He speeds up his fingers, forcing you through a powerful orgasm.

“Viktor- “You scream out.

You are shaking, quivering but he doesn’t stop. He removes his hand and buries it into your hair, tilting your head back, pulling you downwards as he pushes upwards.

“Take it” He demands, “My perfect student. Look at you - a whore.”

With these words, he firmly grabs you and holds you still, as deeply as you can manage. He feels himself twitch and spasm, coating your insides with his thick load. He begins to thrust a few more times to feel the wet slapping noise that he has reduced you to. He is at a loss of breath, a loss of words.

You collapse onto his chest, folding into his arms. It feels good being held there as your heart rates begin to settle themselves. There is something pure and honest about the way you both interlock after such an extreme session. He smooths your hair back, kissing you across the face, planting thoughtful kisses on your forehead. He sinks deeply into the chair, as you sink deeply into him. Together you fall into a tired, lazy nap.

Tag List - @gubkkki, @veru-boom

[mariasont]

DEAD FROM THE WAIST DOWN

you learned to seduce your way into being loved. hotch wants to teach you that you don't have to earn love at all.

pairings: aaron hotchner x fem!reader warnings: oh hey where does one start! mentions of past emotional abuse, conditioned sexual behavior, sex as a coping mechanism (discussed), hypersexuality, angst, hurt/comfort, established relationship, soft!hotch, happy-ish ending wc: 2.8k

How many times can a man be caught off guard by the same kiss before it stops qualifying as a surprise and becomes a cherished inevitability? You would think Aaron would know by now. 

But no, every time your mouth finds his, it feels like the first time all over again.

He isn’t a romantic, he refuses to classify it in such cheesy terms. (You would passionately disagree).

Instead, he experiences it as pure revelation — how did I forget it could feel like this? Always velveteen and warm with whatever chapstick you’ve been nursing that day. Coconut. Mint. Honeyed vanilla.

Honeyed vanilla is your favorite. His too. It stains his mouth and hours later, he can still taste it. 

He knows where you keep it now. Back left pocket. You’re predictable that way. Only that way. Discovered by accident, though nothing with you ever feels accidental, the first time he came home after a week-long case and you collided into him at the door as though you had been counting seconds rather than days. 

His hand, settling on your ass like the gentlemen he is, had landed on it, the cylindrical outline concealed beneath skin-tight denim. Denim that, even in memory alone, manages to be both curse and benediction, fabric and flesh conspiring to remind him that distance was your shared adversary. One that was conquered with every bruising reunion of lips.

These particular kisses always arrive roughly as if anything less fervent wouldn’t be proof enough of his return. Always full-bodied. Always looking for more.

For a while, he reasoned it away. Novelty, perhaps. The combustible early-stage infatuation, still volatile, still prone to overcorrection. He assumed it would fade, mellow out with familiarity. Rossi called it the honeymoon phase. Said it every time Aaron showed up to work looking distinctly worse for wear in a manner wholly unrelated to the strain of work. Grinning like a bastard. And Aaron thought he wasn’t wrong.

But time failed to temper your hunger. If anything, it grew teeth. 

You meet him at the end of each day with hands that demand, with a body that knows exactly how to ask and what to take. And he lets you. Of course he lets you. He would be out of his mind not to. 

You are generous with your affection, in and out of the bedroom. You love him without filter, without edits. Love him even in the versions he hides. There are days he doesn’t know how to hold it. Doesn’t know where to put the parts of himself that still flinch under kindness.

He is a grateful man. He is a lucky man. But he is not yet certain he is a worthy one.

Your thumbs trace his jaw, and he knows, without needing to ask, that you can feel the strain habitually tucked beneath skin and bone.

Your mouth deepens the kiss before he’s ready to accommodate it, breath merging with breath in a single, faithful puff.

Mint today, he decides. The one with the cheap twist-top and that little green label peeling at the corner.

When oxygen reasserts itself as a necessity, he pulls back, lips ghosting yours, “Missed me, did you?”

“Don’t mock me,” you scold, taking advantage of the fractional distance to catch his lower lip between your teeth. “I really did. I think I started missing you before the door even closed.”

Your hands are moving to his belt, fingers tugging, pulling —

Christ.

His hands snap down to catch your wrists.

"Sweetheart," he murmurs,  "not tonight. I just — I can barely keep my eyes open."

You recoil so fast it disorients him, and before he can think, his hands are reaching out, fingers flexing toward the empty space.

“Oh, of course,” you say, eyes flitting away. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. You must be exhausted.”

Your apology tastes bitter in his mouth. He’s never wanted you to equate exhaustion with rejection, least of all his. He opens his mouth to reassure you, to banish the needless guilt clouding your eyes, but you hurry forward, words tumbling as nervously as your fluttering hands toward the kitchen.

“I made dinner. It’s in the fridge. I mean, I wasn’t sure when you would be home, but it’s ready. I can heat it up right now. Unless you want to just go to bed — I could bring it to you —”

“Hey.” It’s more a plea than command. You freeze, a microsecond of stillness before your hand begins its descent toward the scrunched cotton of your long sleeve tee. He intercepts it, thumb charting the map of your skin from the blue-lit vein to bone to the center point where your hand opens. “That’s really sweet, honey. Thank you.”

"You're welcome." 

“But all I want right now,” Aaron continues, pulling your hand into the center of his chest, a chaste kiss sticking itself to your knuckles, “is for you to come to bed with me.” Then, because he knows you, he adds, “I’ll take what you made for lunch tomorrow. I don’t want it to waste.”

You nod and offer a smile. 

Usually, he loves that seeing that smile of yours, might even call it his favorite pastime, if he were prone to sentimentality.

It’s something he never tires of watching. The way it starts slow, then takes your whole face with it. It shows up in your crow’s feet first — creases he adores, even if you claim to hate them — and then folds into your cheeks until your skin swells too full to contain.

He especially loves your smile that appears when you’re trying not to show how good it feels when he calls you pretty girl. You always hide it behind his shirt, like fabric’s going to keep him from noticing how you preen under the praise. 

This one isn’t that.

It flickers at the corners of your mouth but never quite lands in your eyes. It’s a smile made for strangers. He knows better than to pretend it’s the same.

You’re already walking toward the bathroom before he can say anything, before he can figure out whether he even should. He watches as you go through the motions with the same grace you always have, but he notices the absence more than anything else. 

The things you don’t do.

Normally, you hover. You lean into him as you tug your shirt over your head, brush a kiss against the slope of his shoulder with that casual intimacy you wield like second nature. Sometimes you complain — half a yawn, half a grumble — about the late hour. And pout. And push for a kiss only to pretend you’re not pleased when he gives in.

Normally, you make noise through the quiet. You ask if he locked the front door, remind him the laundry’s still in the dryer. You hum while brushing your teeth. Curse when toothpaste hits your shirt. 

Normally, you’re all subtle magnetism, clinging in that sweetly unrepentant way of yours. When he sits to unbutton his shirt, you’re usually behind him, knees pressing into the mattress, chin of his shoulder, arms looping lazily around his waist. There’s always touch. A palm to the center of his back as you pass, a hand on his arm as you squeeze by.

Normally, you're unapologetic about needing him. Tonight, you move like a guest in your own home.

It’s intolerable. And when you’re both settled into bed for the night, Aaron reaches for you before he thinks better of it, palm flattening against your waist. He feels the shape of you through pajamas and pulls. He doesn’t stop until your chest curves into his chest, until the edge of your calves nudges his. 

"Come here." Aaron threads careful fingers through your hair, pausing at the tender juncture where your neck meets the base of your skull. "Baby,” he whispers, “tell me what’s wrong.”

His eyes don’t leave yours, watching the brief flickers of vulnerability, the sparks of emotion you try to extinguish before they catch fire.

He notices the hesitant parting of your lips, opening as if to spin a half-hearted lie, only to close again once the truth gets too close to your teeth.

"I just... I wanted to be close to you."

Aaron’s brow knits, confusion and concern braided together in the crease above his eyes, arms tightening despite the fact that you’re already pressed against him like a second skin.

"You are close to me, sweetheart."

But even as he says it, he feels the flaw in his words. The way they miss the mark. He senses it in the way you chew at the inside of your cheek, how your shoulders stiffen beneath his fingertips.

Then softer, "Not like that."

"What —,"

But you're already shaking your head. "No, I — , it's not a big deal."

“Anything that involves you is a big deal to me.”

Your thumb moves, tracing circles into the fabric, slow rotations that quickly speed into tighter spirals, as if spinning faster might somehow organize your thoughts. You’ve always done this, reaching for some small, manageable action when the larger ones feel impossible to name. 

“It’s just… easier that way sometimes. To be close like that. Then I don’t have to wonder if we’re okay.”

The realization trickles into his consciousness slowly at first, then rushes in like water breaking through a dam.

He should’ve noticed sooner, how could he not have? 

Because this isn’t new. It’s not just a one-off need or tonight’s tension talking. You’ve always needed him like this. Skin on skin. Mouth on mouth. Your body pressed against his like you’re starving for confirmation. The way you undress him in the doorway. The way you straddle his lap and roll your hips like closeness could fix everything that feels unsteady. You depend on that closeness.

You come to him with your whole body. After long days. After fights. After even the smallest moments of silence that stretches too long. You find him like a blam, like if you don’t touch him, don’t take him, you’ll come apart at the seams. Kisses are never where you stop. You want all of him. Pinned beneath you. Deep inside you. As if that's the only way to believe he loves you.

He thought, for a long time, that it was just your appetite. A high sex drive. A natural tendency. He chalked it up to love language, to hormones, to heat. And he liked it, loved it, more than he was willing to admit at first. 

But this wasn’t just want. 

This was fear, bleeding out beneath your need, disguised as pleasure.

He’s supposed to be good at this, at reading people, parsing motive from movement. But somehow, he missed this.

Because somewhere along the line, someone taught you that love was transactional. That affection had to be purchased in pieces of yourself, repaid in skin and surrender. That if you didn’t offer yourself fully, you weren’t worth holding onto. And now here you are, still paying for what someone else stole from you.

And fuck, fuck, fuck, he feels sick.

His fists curl before he knows it, nails digging into his palms. His jaw locks tight. Because if the person who planted such a belief were here — if he could see the face of whoever made you believe you had to fuck your way into being loved — he wouldn’t blink. It wouldn’t matter what badge he wore. What oaths he swore. He would make sure they never touched anyone again.

“Is that what it feels like when I say no?” He doesn’t ask it accusingly. “Like we’re not okay?”

“I know it sounds dumb. I just —”

“Hey. It’s not dumb.” He pauses, brushing your hair behind your ear. “It makes more sense.”

“It does?”

“Of course it does. You want something that confirms what words sometimes don’t. I get that. I do.” He swallows hard. “But I don’t want you to feel like we’re only okay when we’re in bed.”

“I know. I just… I don’t know how to stop.” 

There’s something else sitting in your mouth, he can see it. A confession, maybe. Or just a few loose scraps of thought you haven’t stitched together yet.

“It’s okay.” He offers up an open door.

Your eyes flick down, then up again, and finally you nod in concession. He can’t tell if you believe him. That it’s okay to be honest with him.

“I spent a long time thinking touch was the only thing I had to offer. That if I wasn’t beautiful or willing or available I didn’t have value.” You say it slowly, like you’re afraid of saying it aloud. “It’s not something I think about. Not consciously. I just… feel the silence, or the tiredness, or I can’t read you… and suddenly I’m scrambling. Trying to stop it. Trying to keep from being… dismissed, I guess. And I know you’re not… him. I know that. But sometimes my body forgets.”

You laugh, but it’s hollow.

“So I kiss you. I touch you. I try to make myself irresistible so I don’t have to ask if I’m still wanted. Because I don’t know how to ask without feeling pathetic.”

He watches as you hold back the tears fighting to stake claim on your lower lash line.

“It’s not that I don’t believe you love me,” you add. “It’s that I don’t know how to feel safe unless I can see it. And I hate that. I hate that I’m still wired for panic every time you flinch or look away or —”

Your voice catches. Whatever you were about to say fractures somewhere in your throat and never quite makes it to sound.

He doesn’t reach for you despite every neuron firing in his brain that begs for the opposite. It feels wrong, somehow, to respond with touch when you just confessed how often it’s been your only way of being heard.

So he stays still, watches the curve of your shoulder rise and fall under the slow drag of breath. Watches your gaze veer just left of his face, like you’re already bracing for disbelief, or worse, kindness that feels like pity.

You exhale instead then close your eyes.  “I don’t want you to feel obligated to fix this. I’m not trying to unload it on you. I just… I want you to know why I act like I do sometimes. It’s not mistrust. It’s old wiring. And I’m trying.”

He doesn’t speak right away.

Not because he doesn’t have something to say. He does. A thousand things, actually. Some sharp, some soft.

But you’ve just peeled your chest open with surgical precision, laid the whole bloody, tender mess of it in his lap, and the last thing he’s going to do is rush to stitch it shut with half-baked reassurance.

You shift, maybe reflexively, but you still don’t meet his eyes. So he softens. Adjusts. Meets you halfway.

“I don’t think it’s pathetic. I don’t think you’re broken. I think your nervous system is doing exactly what it was trained to do, sound the alarm at the first sign of disconnection. Fight to restore the bond before it can disappear.” His breath hitches, just enough to break through the formality of it. “But you don’t have to do that with me. You don’t have to fill the silence. You don’t have to seduce me into staying. If I pull away, I need you to know I’m not punishing you. I’m not… evaluating you. Sometimes I’m tired. Or quiet. Or somewhere else in my own head. But I’m not leaving. I’m not rescinding anything.”

Finally, his hand brushes gently — gently — over your arm.

“You don’t have to perform love here. Not with me. You get to just… have it. As it is. As you are.” He studies you. “I know you can’t unlearn it overnight. I don’t expect you to. But I’d rather you come to me scared and uncertain than go silent and spiral. Let me be the one who doesn’t make you pay for needing reassurance.”

And then, only then, his voice drops, hoarser. 

“I don’t want to be another place you have to earn safety. I want to be the proof you don’t.”

He doesn’t know if the words land. Not fully. He thinks you heard him. Thinks you wanted to believe them. But that’s different from knowing. So he doesn’t say anything else, just lets you throw his arms around neck and press your cheek into his shirt.

He feels the heat of tears soaking into his shirt. He kisses your forehead first, then your hair, whispers something that neither of you really needs to understand.

And even though he’s running on fumes, he stays awake until your breathing slows. Until he’s sure you’re asleep.

Because if you’re going to believe him, really believe him, it won’t be because of what of what he says, but what he does.

It hits him between your third or fourth breath against his chest that this was the first time you didn’t try to apologize with your body after a difficult conversation. Just warmth. Trust. Skin on skin because you want to be held, not because you’re trying to keep him from vanishing. It’s small. But to him, it’s the most profound shift in the world. 

And in the weeks that follow, he sees it again. The way you kiss him and then stop as if you trust he’ll kiss you back. 

It doesn’t happen all at once. You still hesitate when he says no. Still freeze up on the bad nights. 

But you don’t crumble anymore. You pause.

You pause and sometimes your hands shake, but you reach for him anyway.

And every time, he meets you halfway.

a/n: this sat half-finished in my drafts for soooo long because i wasn't sure i could land it, emotionally or otherwise. and i felt like it's one of those things that feels like it says more about me than i probably mean it to. if u see urself in this as well, hi. i hope it makes u feel a little less weird for the things u need, or the ways you've learned to ask for love that doesn't always make sense out loud

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanded! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[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.

[prettealolilol]

i like to think about the duality of the kids about people shipping Bruce with anyone, because the guy has been elected as the most handsome man in the country for years, has this whole playboy Brucie persona and is often seen with someone at his arms (men and women)

on one side, they'll be like "ew god no, i do not want to imagine dad like-" and "oh my god some people actually ship Bantman and Joker wtf ??" and they'll do their best to filter every social media to avoid any thirsty or shipping content about Bruce

when the press ask them about it, they be like:

Tim : "Would you like it if I asked about your thoughts on your dad cheating on your mom with his secretary ? No ? Then mind your own business." when the dad was in fact cheating with his secretary and now everybody knew because Tim was live when he answered

Jason, pulling out a gun : "i swear to god i'll shoot the next person who asks me this and then i'll shoot myself. Ugh, do i look like i fucking care about the old man's sex life ?"

Dick, smiling uncomfortably : "i don't really live at the manor anymore and i barely see him with my job so you know..." when it has been in fact a week he's been sleeping at the manor after patrolling with Batman

Damian, frowning as usual, looking at the guy who asked him as if he did not have a brain : "Father is careful in not mixing his carnal activities with the family life so i do not have any hindsight on his sex life. i do not wish to know regardless." the journalist is taken aback by the explicit answer of this ten year old, while his brothers are trying not to laugh behind him (Jason was not hiding his snickering)

on the other side, you cannot tell me those guys are not the biggest shippers in the world

like Jason would want Batman to date Wonder Woman just so she could be his step mom. i strongly believe the guy has a ao3 and tumblr account and is very much active on both. he definitely reads batman x green lantern fics just to annoy Bruce (even though his dad has no idea, but still gets shivers when Jason is reading one)

Dick and Duke both ship SuperBat although for different reasons. for Dick, that's his uncle there, he was there when they met and saw them as they slowly became best friends. he strongly believes they are made for each other. Duke just think it would be super cool (no pun intended) if the Superman and the Batman were dating.

Stephanie just likes to roll with it, some days she feels like shipping superbat, others she'll be more into batcat, or batlantern. she's pretty volatile and doesn't really have a favourite, but when she gets into one she's all in. she'll be arguing and insulting people online who disagrees, sharing crazy theories...

Cass doesn't really care, she'll listen to any of her siblings ranting about their thoughts (especially Steph) and juts find it adorable (and funny how much they care)

Tim probably ships superbat because they are completely opposed, and he finds the parallels really interesting. he definitely writes fics (Jay reads his fics and they exchange about it without knowing it's each other)

Damian doesn't really see the point. but he has drawn of few fanart (Jason tried to bribe him with money once and Damian had to remind him of his inheritance) when Bruce benched Tim and him and he ended up drawing some batlantern that Tim printed and plastered all over the manor. Bruce had to restrain the access to the printer (Tim hacked into it the next day)

Barbara, although she doesn't really ship, is the one you go to if you search some content, she'll find you the most heart wrenching, 200 thousand words, slow brun, angst/comfort fics you'll ever read (the type of fic that changes you deep into your soul). she still likes debating with the batkid

Regardless, if there's one things they all agree on, it is Bruceman (love those fics were the batkids just go along with it). like it's hilarious but the fans make some pretty good points and they are in fact impressed. it's also the safest ship as it would not happen in any situations so they don't have to worry about their dad being stolen

[dollwrites]

ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴠɪʟ’s ᴡɪғᴇ ┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° ᴋᴜʀᴇ ʀᴀɪᴀɴ

ｃｏｎｔｅｎｔ ｔｙｐｅ ┊ standalone

ｃｏｎｔｅｎｔ ��ａｒｎｉｎｇｓ ┊ smut ( minors dni ), fem!bride!reader, forced marriage, mentions of blood, rough sex, breeding kink, cervix fucking, all characters featured are aged 18+

ｉｍｐｏｒｔａｎｔ ┊ please reblog && leave feedback. not proofread so there’s probably mistakes. thanks for reading < 3

Raian was never stealthy, nor did he care to be. after all, did a lion tiptoe around the savanna in fear of being caught?

you’d noticed this early in the marriage, when you were still too skittish to fall asleep and stay asleep, how he would come home in the wee hours of the morning, stalk around, curse under his breath, come get in bed, and force his way with you— he’d never cared if you were awake and trembling when he wanted you; he simply took you. then, you would be unable to sleep while he dozed off for a few hours. you’d still be awake when he left you there, without so much as a kiss goodbye or a word of farewell. back then, you were grateful that he ignored you most of the time, stayed gone for weeks —sometimes months— at a time, and only used you when he wanted his balls drained.

however, you found your heart thumping— rattling against your rib cage when you were awoken these days for a different reason. not fear, but excitement. when the rawest scent of your husband enveloped the room, your core dampened, as if upon instinct, ready to welcome him home and inside you.

like tonight, when you awoke to the sound of the door opening. you didn’t stir just yet, but instead listened. no one would be stupid enough to break into The Devil’s home, so you knew it wasn’t an intruder, but other members of the Kure Clan filtered in and out of the building at all hours of the day or night, so before you got too antsy, you wanted to be certain it was Raian.

sure enough, the heavy stomping up the stairs belonged to your husband, and your heart raced in anticipation as you sat up in the bed. the bed that was much too big for you alone, yet seemed two sizes too small when Raian laid in it. your fingers rubbed at the fabric of the sheet draped across your lap, chewing on the inside of your cheek. even though you were fairly sure you were excited to see him, you couldn’t help but also feel nervous when Raian was around. he was volatile and unpredictable, even with you.

but you didn’t have much time to think about being anxious, before the door to the bedroom flung open. in the threshold stood Raian in all of his glory. the broadness of his frame blotted out the dim light from the hallway. the muscles that bulged in his biceps grazed the doorframe as he swaggered inside, dipping his head just enough to fit in. your breath catches— that familiar scent of his sweat and other’s blood invades the room right along with him, and you clench your thighs together to keep the pooling in your core as under control as you could.

“This is the second time.” Raian scoffs, gripping several stacks of banded bills in one grip. his fingers are thick, like tree roots. caked under his short nails is black blood, leaving a rancid residue on his fingers from whatever job he’d just come from.

“The… second time…?” you repeat, perplexed, one hand reaching to the bedside table, you turn on the lamp, bathing the bed and a quarter of him in a warm, yellow hue.

Raian watches you like a predator hunting his next victim, scelera eyes following the movement of your dainty hand. as it wanders back towards its place in your lap, he snatches it up with a gigantic, powerful fist wrapped around your fragile wrist. “The second time I’ve come home and you weren’t pretending to be asleep.” there’s a faint amusement in his rumbling baritone, as if he found joy in the way that you used to try and deter him from touching you ( or, perhaps he thought it was funny that it never worked? )

your breath is temporarily caught in your throat, freezing in place as he tosses the money on the floor by the table. he knew you would pick it up, count it, and organize it tomorrow morning after he left again. pulling your wrist closer to his face, he inhales deep, breathing in the sweet scent of your perfume, his nostril rubbing against your wrist. you could see the stain of blood that transfers from his palm to your skin, and you try to press your tongue against the roof of your mouth to keep from gagging. you never did like the sight of blood; even worse when it tainted your skin; yet being married to Raian meant that you were expected to deal with it often. “If you knew anyways, then why pretend anymore?”

Rain chuckles at that— a wicked bubbling up from within the depths of his massive chest, baring his teeth, he allows them to scrape against the delicate flesh of your wrist, squeezing tighter until his knuckles turned white from pressure. “You don’t shake as much at my touch, either.” he notes, his pupils striking white as he steps even closer.

“You don’t like that?” you ask, uncertain. it was hard to read him, sometimes, whether he wanted to be feared by you or not was a mystery. you simply had always been afraid of him because you knew what kind of a beast he was. “Should I still be scared…?”

his lips part enough in a wild grin that his sharp teeth can sink into the fleshy section of your forearm. your tiers part and a breathy gasp escapes them, but you don’t attempt to jerk away from him, instead, keep your eyes turned up at his countenance, as the question lingers in the air. Raian grunts, tasting your flesh between his teeth, but he doesn’t break the skin yet, simply leaves the indentations of his molars as a reminder, shiny with spit as he props one knee on the bed to crawl on to it, growling lowly. “You’re a Kure now, whether you wanted to be or not.” your palm caresses the side of his face in a tender gesture you weren’t sure he’s ever felt before, as it traverses the muscle-bound trail from his jaw to his neck, to his pectorals. “And I don’t want some timid, lil’ church mouse.” using his free hand to rip away the sheets, exposing your bare legs, he crawls even closer, and you scoot back a bit. his voice drops to a husky octave lower than before, lust settling in and thickening his tone. “I want my wife to wet herself when she sees me, tears and trembles be damned. I wanna see you spread your legs and beg for your husband’s cock because you missed it so much—“

“Wash the blood off of yourself, first….” it was the first time you’d made any sort of demand of him, and it came out low and hopeful, lacking confidence. your palm flattens against his chest, attempting to hold him steady and allow him no further purchase. if he’d wanted to, he could’ve easily overpowered you, but he pauses, his brow quirking. your eyes trail along his black tank top. beyond the fabric stretching tight over his developed muscles, it was soaked and reeked of old blood. he left blood smears on the white of the sheets and against your complexion.

“Eh?” Raian challenges, gripping your wrist tighter. any tighter and the bones that were bending against the pressure would snap, and he just wanted to remind you of that. “Thought you knew by now that I don’t give a shit about your weak constitution. Lay back and open up.”

but, you stood your ground. biting your lower lip, your palm presses harder against his chest, feeling his heart pumping below your fingertips. it was endearing to know that there was still a pulse under all that cruelty. your eyes harden as much as you can muster, and you slip your knee between his body and your own, pressing it against his abdomen. of course, if he so desired, he could pin you to the bed and take what he wanted anyways, but he’d said himself that he didn’t want a timid wife. his sceleras were abysmal, golden brows furrowing for a moment before a devilish smirk etches his mouth upwards. as if to force you to remember that he still called the shots, his hand slipped between your thighs and he cupped your sex roughly through your panties, fingers pressing hard on your button. letting out a little mew, you almost submit to him, before he whispers harshly, “Keep that pussy dripping until I get back.”

and with that, he gives you a little push, his hands tearing themselves away from you before he stalks, swearing, into the bathroom. you sit there for several seconds, regaining the breath that had eluded you in that stand off, your heart pounding, and your clit now swollen and aching to be touched like that again.

you couldn’t believe that he’d been receptive of your demand, and you close your eyes for a moment, letting a shaky breath deflate your lungs.

damn, it was a terrifying experience.

after a moment or two, you heard his clothes rustle as he peels them off, and you peek into the bathroom, the door wide open, to see his stature chiseled with bulging muscles, completely nude. his buttocks was round and tight, and as he stood with his stance wide, you feel a warm blush creep on to your cheeks. you could see his swinging balls, and the thick head of his dick, that was already semi-hard from his little exchange with you. he doesn’t seem to notice your ogling, or he doesn’t care, because he steps into the shower, leaving only an imposing shadow behind a foggy glass panel to stare at.

looking down at your own arm, you can see the shape of his hand still left on your wrist in blood, and some of the rust-color was already staining the sheets between your legs where his knee had been. you pull yourself out of the bed and quickly dispose of the sheets, wiping your own arm off on it as you toss them in the hamper. then, you tiptoe over to the doorway of the bathroom, bending over to grab his sullied clothes, too. as you do, you steal another glance, and this time you can tell that his obsidian eyes are trained on you, and he lets out a low, rumbling grunt as he palms his large cock, as if making sure he’s hard enough to fuck you as soon as he’s cleaned off. “Fuck,” he growls under his breath, and you snatch the garments off the ground and spirit them away to the hamper, as well.

lastly, your panties that bore bloodied fingerprints joined the other fabrics and, you breathe sweet relief once the stench of blood no longer clings to you. the scent of your arousal lingers in the air, and you reach down beneath your nightie to press against your netherlips. you did so much gentler than Raian does, caressing your clit with labored breaths as you do exactly as instructed and ensure that you’re still wet and ready for him.

a few, fleeting moments of pleasure pass, and webs of sticky essence stick to your fingers when you finally cease the teasing of your own cunt— taking a soft breath, you promptly replace the bedding. the bed is so gargantuan that you must crawl all the way across it on all fours to tuck the sheets in, but you finish up just in time to hear the water in the shower turn off.

steam creeps out of the doorway, thickening the atmosphere in your bedroom as Raian lumbers out, stark naked. you feel your eyes wander downwards on their own, tracing every throbbing vein on his lower abdomen, sparkling droplets of water running races to see which one will reach his balls first. his cock is hearty and stiff, with a dramatic curve upwards that is sure to bully the most sensitive depths of you. “How’s that cunt?”

god, he was crass.

it used to make you cringe, but you felt yourself get even wetter as you stand before him, sheepishly raising your delicate hand covered in shiny juices for evidence. you had your moment of dominance, and had even gotten your way— Raian was clean and wet, and now he wanted something from you.

the sight nearly makes Raian go feral. with a guttural hiss, he crosses the room in the blink of an eye— so fast that you haven’t the time to stumble back before he’s upon you, lifting you up off the ground with ease. you yip, and wrap your legs around his hips, and arch your back. “Raian—!” you almost added don’t drop me on to your cry, but you knew how monstrously powerful he was. there was no chance of you falling. you became, instead, more hyper focused on the swollen head of his dick, that poked at your sex when you writhed in his grip. your hips roll, just in time for him to thrust his own upwards, and his thickness spears you.

“Uhh!”

“Shit!”

your gurgled moan and his hissing swear were simultaneous at the insertion. your inner walls spasmed frantically, kissing the ribbed intruder that stretched you open. you were so fucking tight— grateful for the lubrication that made his cock fit a little easier, Raian bared his teeth, interlocking his fingers at the small of your back, to jerk you up and down on him at a brutal pace. but you didn’t fight it; you relished in the abusive rhythm, your nightie askew, breasts jiggling out of the sagging neckline as the sleeves draped across your shoulders. you spurred your knees into his ribs, scrambling for leverage in a position that left you almost entirely powerless. clawing at his chest, his shoulders, his neck, you struggled to relieve the pressure he was jabbing into your lower half with every violent buck of his hips.

it was astounding — almost impossible — to feel just how deep his reach was. his fat, flared tip punching against your limit, as if in protest to your body not being more malleable. each time he pounds against the edge of your cervix, pleasure and pain cocktails and attacks your senses. you scream out his name, kick, scratch, and beg him— what you were even begging for at this point was unknown to you. did you plea for mercy?

or were you begging him not to stop bullying your guts.

it was only when he pushed as hard as he could and stilled in this position that you attempted a frantic escape, the pressure in your belly felt as if his cock would burst right through it. you push up against his chest and try to climb him, panting and mewling. “T—too deep, Raian! You’re going to—“

“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” Raian hissed, his breath hot on your cheek and neck as his fingers clamped down on you to lock you tighter in place, working his hips. “Not until I’ve busted this tight, little pussy out. Ah, fuck, feel that?” Raian leans in close to you, nipping at your fleshy, hot cheek as he pushes you down, using an ounce more of his strength. “I’m gonna get my cock all the way into your womb before I flood it. Might as well hang on tight, woman.”

you whimper, and sink your nails into his chest until rubies bead up around them, digging your knees into his ribs. what he was threatening to do to you had your mind running wild, your body jerking. “It—it won’t fit, Raian…!”

“Sure it will. Watch this.”

and, with his raspy chuckle, he gripped you and pushed you down, all the way to his hilt. a croak leaves your open mouth, eyes wide as you feel his tip anchor just beyond the entrance to your cervix. it’s a pain unlike any other you’ve felt before, but the eroticism of it all makes it just bearable enough so you don’t black out. you pant, hips rocking back and forth, but his mouth is against your ear, soothing you in his own, twisted way. “Attagirl. Take me all the way in to those warm guts a’yours. I’m about to blow my load deep, deep in your cunt.”

the sensation and his whispering filthy promises were making you lightheaded, and your head rolls around on your shoulders, your body clenching involuntarily as he keeps you impaled on his cock as deep as it could possibly go. you could feel the skin of your belly bulging in the shape of his manhood, rubbing against his abs every time you move, and it only adds to the mind-numbing experience of having a man break into your womb in such a merciless way.

“Cum… in me…” is all you could bring to your quivering couplet. at first, you thought you were convulsing in protest. it took you several seconds to realize that you were actually riding the waves of an intense, borderline painful orgasm, and you needed his own to punctuate your climax.

Raian smirks, but it appears more like a snarl, his jaw tense and perspiration mixing with the water already clinging to his hair and skin. “You’re turning into a bossy, little cunt, aren’t you?” he teases, but he’s jerking his hips in deep, pumping strokes to chase his own high. “Gotta say, I like seeing that fuckin’ fire in you.”

Raian pumps a few more times before he erupts— the first couple of ropes of warmth seeping into your spongy, fertile cavity. you could practically feel the sperm eagerly attacking your eggs, having much less further to travel thanks to their father’s cruelty. the rest of his release leaves a small, swollen pocket in your lower belly. when he curses under his breath and walks a few feet to the bed, he loosens his grip and allows you, now spent and weak, to slide off of his cock. it slips out of your cervix and leaves your canal with sickening slowness, until you crumple on your back on the bed, his cum oozing out of your twitching hole.

“Hey, don’t make a big, fuckin’ mess. Wouldn’t want any swimmers escaping, now do we?” as he says this, he smirks wickedly and uses his first, two fingers to gather the spunk as it trickles out of you, before he pushes it back in, pumping his fingers to coat your insides. moaning, your legs lay open, and you shake your head at his question. “Yeah, just like that,” Raian mutters under his breath, leaning over to kiss your temple. it was the first, real act of tenderness from him, and it stuns you for a moment. “You’re gonna have my little devils from now until death do we part, wife.”

[bullet-prooflove]

Rounds: John Carter x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @anna-bailey @ofsoapsuds @queenslandlover-93 @gemofspace

Summary: John's his first thoughts are of you upon waking up from surgery.

Companion piece to:

Dreamer (NSFW) - John dreams of you when he's with someone else.

Little John - You try to keep John's mind off the task at hand.

The First One Is Always The Hardest - You comfort John after the death of a patient.

Forget-Me-Nots - John wakes up hung over in a strange bed and with an unexpected memento of the night before.

Speak Your Truth - John speaks his truth in the aftermath of a tragedy.

Trauma - John makes a realisation after his confession.

Fever - John gets more than he bargained for when he attends a friend's stag party in a Chicago Speakeasy.

Minx (NSFW) - John had no idea he had such a deviant little minx on his hands.

Always - You and John discuss the reasons behind your dancing.

Diamonds - John's friend and rival makes you an offer you can't refuse.

The Stethoscope - John's world is turned upside down when he finds your stethoscope in his locker.

Elderberry Wine - You come home to find John waiting for you.

Sex, Lies and Cocaine Dreams - John takes his revenge on the man that shattered your dreams.

By The Grace of God - An unexpected ally goes to bat for you during your beard hearing.

Choices - You and John discuss your options moving forward.

The Sexual Revolution (NSFW) - You decide to give John a private show before the event.

A Love Story - Your performance sparks an unexpected conversation with Gamma.

The Problem With Winning The War - The problem with winning the war is that you don't expect the second attack.

Mack The Knife - You come face to face with a nightmare in John's apartment.

The Merry Go Round - Reality starts to crash down on you in the wake of your recent trauma.

You’re asleep when John wakes up. Your arms resting upon the mattress of his hospital bed, your face buried in them. His palm smooths over your hair, fingers caressing the silken strands, stroking through them.

“She hasn’t left your side since you came out of surgery.” Gamma’s voice filters through his consciousness and he tilts his head towards the opposite side of the bed, where she sits vigil. “I tried to persuade her to go home for a while but she’s a stubborn little thing.”

“She is. It’s my favourite thing about her. She knows her own mind and God help the person who tries to change it.” John says fondly with an ache in his chest. His eyes start to sting as he looks at you, sleeping so peacefully. In this moment it’s like nothing in this world can touch you, as if nothing bad ever happened and John… he needs to know if Burkey did what he threatened to do, if he did hurt you the way he promised he would.

“Gamma…” He whispers but the words they just won’t leave his mouth, they’re just too horrible, too volatile to speak into the air.

“He didn’t touch her.” Gamma says quietly, her gaze coming to rest on you. “Our Crys took care of him before he had a chance to. I think you made a good choice here John, she didn’t panic, she didn’t falter, she just did what needed to be done.”

“And she’s doing ok?” He persists, his palm resting gently on the nape of your neck, tracing soothing circles with his thumb.

“She’s just tired.” Gamma reassures him. “Going through something like that, it takes a lot out of you and she’s been so strong through it, she just needs a little rest, some time to recharge her batteries.”

“Yeah.” He mumbles as he settles back into the pillows. “Yeah, I know you must be right.”

Already he can feel himself starting to drift again. That intense exhaustion settles in his bones, washing over him in waves as his eyelids start to flutter closed.  

“Gamma.” He murmurs, his other hand groping lightly for hers. “I have something in my locker for Crys… could you have someone get it for me?”

“Of course darling boy.” Gamma says, squeezing his fingers. “I’ll see to it right away.”

***

You’re still passed out when John wakes up again. Gamma isn’t sitting in her usual spot. John assumes she’s gone to call his parents, they were on a plane to Tokyo when all of this happened. She probably hasn’t been able to get hold of them because of the time difference. His gaze strays to the clock that hangs on the opposite wall, to the left of the bathroom door.

Today is supposed to be your first day back at work after your suspension and it’s almost 6am which means rounds start in an hour.

“Crys.” He whispers but his throat is dry, so it comes out as barely more than a rasp. “Crys honey, you gotta wake up.”

You don’t even stir. You’re like this at home, dead to the world until the alarm goes off. He sighs before he resorts to another tactic, the one he used to use when you fell asleep at the kitchen table during those first couple of years studying in Med School. He angles his hand just right, placing his thumb and middle finger together before he flicks you on the forehead. You grumble in your sleep, so he does it again.

“Carter, stop being an asshole.” You mutter, jerking up, rubbing at your eyes with the back of your hand.

“That’s no way to talk to the love of your life.” He teases wearily when you finally lift your head to meet his gaze. “Rounds start in an hour, why don’t you grab a shower in the bathroom?”

“I’m not doing rounds, you just woke up from surgery-”

“Crys…” He says, holding up his hand to stop you in your tracks. “You and I both know that right now they will be looking for any reason to kick you off the program especially after all the publicity generated by this. If you don’t show up to your first day back after your suspension you are giving them that reason.”

“But-”

John shakes his head. You are not losing your dreams because of him. There is no way on this God’s green earth he would ever let that happen to you, even if he is recovering from a lifesaving operation.

“No buts.” He says gesturing to the bed. “I am not going anywhere and Gamma will be back after she gets in contact with my parents. Besides you’d be doing me a favour, at the end of the day you can tell me all your stories and I can live the glamourous life of an ER doctor vicariously through you.”

“John-” You protest once more but your resolve is weakening, he can hear it in the tone of your voice.

“Crys...” He says firmly. “Get your ass in the shower, you only have fifty five minutes left.”

Your lips brush over his temple, a featherlight kiss that he cherishes more than he can ever say.

“Welcome back.” You whisper before you draw away and head towards the bathroom. You leave the door open as you begin to undress, tossing your top onto the floor before your jeans follow.

“It’s great to be back.” He says, his head sinking into the pillows as he watches the rest of the show. “More than great actually.”

***

John’s dozing when you return to the room, tying up your damp hair into a ponytail. It’s going to be like this a lot for him over the next few days. Bouts of alertness before he crashes again. It’s tough on the body, losing a kidney. It takes time to adjust, to recover. He rouses when you enter, tilting his head in your direction as you pick up the scrubs he’s had sent up for you, pulling them on over your underwear.

“I have something for you.” He gestures to the nightstand where a flat white box is sitting with a baby blue silk ribbon tied on the top. “I did it when we found out you’d be coming back to work. Rachel, Dr Greene’s daughter actually helped me while I was keeping an eye on her in the Doctor’s Lounge.”

You smile at him quizzically before you tug the ribbon, opening the box. The inside is folded in matching tissue paper, you delicately unwrap it to reveal your stethoscope. On the bell instead of the peeling sticker that one of the kids gave you, there’s a bedazzled star in tiny press on gems that look suspiciously like the ones you use for burlesque.

“You said you thought it could be my lucky one, but I think maybe it could be yours instead.” He says taking it out of the box, beckoning you closer. You sit down on the edge of the bed and he winces at the pain that radiates through his back from his wound as he leans forward draping it around your neck. “This baby is gonna see you all the way through to graduation.”

“John, you are so wonderful, so perfect...” You say softly, your fingertips ghosting along the dark stubble that shades his jawline. There’s a haunted look in your eyes, one that makes his heart sink as he looks at you. “I was really scared of losing you, I just… I want you to know that before they tell you what I did.”

“Crys… I know what you did.” He whispers, his palm covering yours, clasping your hand to his cheek. His lips brush over the pulse point on your wrist, his eyes meeting yours. “If he had laid a hand on you, I would have clawed my way out of hell and killed him myself.”

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[mommykye]

Domestic Rebellion

young!Ambessa Medarda x pregnant!wife!reader

Summary: Ambessa takes it a little too far with your patience

request are open

masterlist

The estate of House Medarda hummed with a quiet, domestic energy, a stark contrast to the clang of steel and the strategic pronouncements that usually echoed within its fortified walls. Sunlight, thick and golden, filtered through the heavy, crimson drapes, painting broad stripes across the polished obsidian floor of the main sitting room. Ambessa, even in her early years already possessing the broad shoulders and commanding presence that would through each day define her as a formidable war general, sat across from her wife, Y/n. The rhythmic scrape of whetstone against steel, a familiar sound in Ambessa’s capable hands, punctuated the otherwise still air.

Y/n, her belly now a proud, rounded testament to the life blossoming within, reclined against a plush velvet cushion on the low divan. Her once regal bearing, a quiet confidence honed in the intricate and often treacherous courts of a now-distant kingdom, had taken on a sharper edge in these last few months. The gentle sway of her hand as she instinctively cradled her stomach held a new firmness, her eyes, the swarming of a stormy sea just before a squall, possessed a flicker of impatience that Ambessa found utterly captivating. Even the delicate curve of her neck seemed to hold a newfound tension, a subtle indication of the simmering frustration beneath her usually serene surface.

"The steward,” she states, quiet frustration brewing inside of her. “dares to suggest I limit my intake of those spiced plums?" Y/n's voice, usually melodic and laced with a hint of courtly refinement, now carried a distinct snap, like a silken thread suddenly breaking under pressure. Her brow furrowed, the delicate lines etched there deepening with indignation, casting small shadows above her sharp, intelligent eyes. "Does he not understand the… needs of our child?" The emphasis on the word 'needs' was unmistakable, a clear indication of the gravity of the steward's perceived transgression.

Ambessa, who had been meticulously sharpening a whetstone against the formidable blade of her ancestral sword, the steel gleaming dully in the filtered light, looked up, a slow smile spreading across her strong features. The steward, a man whose very existence seemed predicated on avoiding Ambessa’s displeasure, a man who visibly quivered at the mere sight of her stern gaze, had likely approached Y/n with the utmost trepidation, his words carefully chosen and his demeanor appropriately subservient. The fact that he had dared to voice any form of restriction, however mild, spoke volumes of Y/n’s current… temperament, a volatile landscape Ambessa was still charting with a mixture of amusement and cautious respect.

"Perhaps he is merely concerned for your well-being, my heart," Ambessa rumbled, her voice a deep baritone that usually sent lesser nobles scrambling for polite agreement, a sound that resonated with authority and unwavering resolve. But Y/n was not a lesser noble in this house. She was its anchor, its quiet strength, the unwavering center around which Ambessa’s often turbulent world revolved.

"Well-being?" Y/n scoffed, a delicate snort escaping her lips, a sound that held none of its usual amusement. "My well-being is directly tied to the uninterrupted supply of spiced plums! Does he think this babe will be satisfied with bland gruel?" She gestured dramatically to her swollen abdomen, the movement causing the rich fabric of her gown to ripple. "This is a Medarda child, Ambessa. It demands flavor!" The conviction in her voice was absolute, leaving no room for argument.

Ambessa chuckled, the sound a low vibration in her chest, a warm rumble that usually soothed Y/n’s anxieties but now seemed only to fuel her indignation. It was true. Even in utero, their child seemed to possess a certain intensity that mirrored its mother’s current disposition. The kicks and stretches Y/n often described were anything but delicate flutters. They were robust, almost forceful movements, leading Y/n to often joke, with a wry twist of her lips, that their little one was already practicing battle maneuvers within the confines of her womb.

"And you, my war general," Y/n continued, her gaze sharp as a honed dagger, unwavering in its intensity, "you allow this insolence to stand? A mere steward questioning the cravings of the mother of your heir?" The accusation hung in the air, thick with unspoken expectations.

Ambessa set aside her sword and whetstone, the clink of metal against stone echoing in the sudden stillness, her full attention now focused entirely on her wife. The playful glint in her eyes intensified, a spark of mischievous affection dancing within their depths. It was a familiar dance they engaged in, this subtle testing of boundaries, a playful power dynamic that had always been a source of both friction and profound connection between them. Before the pregnancy, Y/n had been a picture of poised diplomacy, her sharp wit often veiled in layers of courtly charm, her strength a quiet, steely resolve. Now, the veil was gone, replaced by a raw, unfiltered honesty, a primal protectiveness that Ambessa found both challenging and utterly irresistible.

"And what would you have me do, my love?" Ambessa asked, her voice laced with amusement, a hint of teasing underlying the deep timbre. "Shall I have him flogged for his audacity? Drawn and quartered for his ignorance of prenatal cravings?" The hyperbole was deliberate, a gentle attempt to lighten the tense atmosphere.

Y/n’s lips twitched, a hint of a smile playing at the corners, a fleeting glimpse of the woman Ambessa knew and loved beneath the surface of her current hormonal tempest. "Perhaps a stern reprimand would suffice. A reminder of who truly holds power in this household." The words were spoken with a playful edge, but the underlying seriousness was clear.

"And who might that be, my queen?" Ambessa purred, rising from her chair. Her large frame moved with a surprising grace, each step deliberate and silent as she closed the distance between them. She knelt before the divan, her gaze unwavering, her large hands resting on her own powerful thighs, her posture one of respectful supplication.

Y/n met her gaze, her stormy eyes alight with a mixture of defiance and something akin to anticipation, a familiar spark of playful challenge. "You know very well who it is, Ambessa."

"Do I?" Ambessa’s smile widened, a flash of teeth that held a hint of predatory affection. "Perhaps you need to remind me, my darling." The air thickened, charged with a playful tension that had become a hallmark of their long and passionate marriage, a silent language of dominance and submission that both understood intimately. Ambessa had always admired Y/n’s strength, the quiet resilience that had allowed her to navigate the treacherous currents of her former royal court, to emerge unscathed and with her integrity intact. But this newfound assertiveness, this almost aggressive protectiveness fueled by the life growing within her, was a fascinating evolution, a blossoming of a fierce maternal instinct that Ambessa was still exploring, still learning to navigate, and utterly enthralled by.

"I am the mother of your child," Y/n stated, her voice firm, brooking no argument, a declaration of undeniable truth. "And in my current state, my whims are law."

"Is that so?" Ambessa’s hand reached out, her large fingers gently tracing the curve of Y/n’s swollen belly, her touch feather-light despite their size. She could feel the firm bulge of their child beneath her touch, a constant, tangible reminder of the miracle they were creating together, a silent promise of the future. "Such power you wield, my love."

Her hand then shifted, moving lower, settling on the curve of Y/n’s hip. The rich velvet of Y/n’s gown felt soft and luxurious beneath her palm. Ambessa’s eyes darkened, the playful glint now edged with a more primal desire, a familiar hunger that always stirred in her presence.

"And how should a ruler deal with such… insubordination?" Ambessa murmured, her voice a low rumble against Y/n’s ear, the warmth of her breath a subtle caress.

Y/n’s breath hitched, a faint blush rising on her cheeks despite her defiant posture, a delicate flush that betrayed the intensity of her emotions. She knew this game, knew the unspoken rules that governed their intimate interactions, the delicate balance of power that shifted and swayed between them. Ambessa, for all her formidable presence and military might, possessed a playful streak, a fondness for gentle dominance that Y/n, in her own way, often indulged, finding a strange comfort and thrill in surrendering a measure of control.

"Perhaps… a demonstration of authority is in order," Y/n suggested, her voice a little breathier now, the playful defiance tinged with a hint of anticipation. She stands, aiming to continue her explanation if needed or rather to just step away from Ambessa’s heated gaze.

Ambessa’s smile returned, wider and more knowing, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken desires that simmered between them. She rose to her full height, her shadow falling over Y/n, enveloping her in its comforting darkness. "Indeed."

With a swift, practiced movement, Ambessa’s hand dropped, landing with a firm thwack on Y/n’s rounded backside. The sound echoed in the sudden silence of the room, a sharp punctuation mark to their playful exchange.

Y/n gasped, a sharp intake of breath that was quickly followed by a stunned silence. Her eyes widened for a fleeting moment, surprise flickering within their depths, quickly replaced by a spark of something far more potent. Then, a surge of indignant anger ignited, burning brightly in their stormy depths.

Before Ambessa could fully register the swift and dramatic shift in Y/n’s expression, before she could savor the flush that was now rapidly creeping up her wife’s neck, Y/n’s hand shot out with surprising speed and force. Her fist, small but surprisingly solid, connected squarely with Ambessa’s nose.

The crack of bone was sharp and sickeningly loud, a sound that instantly shattered the playful atmosphere. Ambessa staggered back, a surprised grunt escaping her lips, her hand flying instinctively to her face. A warm, thick liquid immediately began to flow, staining her upper lip crimson, dripping onto her fingers. Her vision swam for a moment, a haze of pain and disbelief clouding her senses.

Y/n, her chest heaving with rapid breaths, glared at her wife, her eyes blazing with a fierce, almost primal, a raw display of untamed fury. She pushed her way past Ambessa to move around the divan, her movements surprisingly agile and swift despite her advanced pregnancy, her body radiating a potent mix of outrage and fierce determination.

"Do not mistake my current state for weakness, Ambessa," Y/n spat, her voice low and dangerous, each word laced with a sharp edge. "I may be carrying your child, but that does not make me a docile plaything. You will not treat me like some… recalcitrant recruit!"

With that, her hand protectively cradling her stomach a silent shield against any further perceived transgression, turned sharply and stomped away, her regal bearing somehow amplified by her pregnant silhouette and the sheer audacity of her wife’s actions. The heavy fabric of her gown swished angrily behind her as she disappeared through the arched doorway, leaving Ambessa standing in stunned silence.

Ambessa stood frozen, one hand instinctively clutching her now throbbing nose. Blood dripped onto the polished floor, forming a small, dark puddle that seemed to mirror the confusion swirling in her mind. Her mind struggled to process the rapid turn of events. A playful spank… a broken nose… her pregnant wife storming off in a fit of righteous fury. The sequence of events felt surreal, almost comical in its unexpectedness.

And then, a slow, utterly besotted smile spread across Ambessa’s bloodied face. It was a lopsided, slightly painful smile, but genuine nonetheless.

"By the Eternal Will," she murmured, her voice thick with a mixture of pain and adoration, a profound sense of wonder coloring her words. "She is magnificent."

The sheer lack of fear, not that she should be in any, in Y/n’s defiance, the raw, untamed spirit that had been unleashed by her pregnancy, the fierce protectiveness that extended even to defending herself against the War General of Noxus, filled Ambessa with a profound sense of love and admiration. This was her wife. A woman of unwavering strength, a force to be reckoned with in her own right, carrying their child with a fierce protectiveness that resonated deep within Ambessa’s own warrior heart.

Ambessa chuckled, a wet, gurgling sound that made her nose throb even more, but the pain was a distant second to the surge of affection she felt. Healers would need to be summoned. But in this moment, all Ambessa could feel was an overwhelming surge of love and respect for the woman who had just rearranged her nose with a single, well-aimed punch.

She watched the empty doorway where Y/n had disappeared, her heart swelling with a love. It was a love forged in mutual respect, in unwavering admiration for the other’s strength, and in the shared, often tumultuous, journey of building a life together in the heart of Noxus.

With a sigh, Ambessa wiped the blood from her upper lip with the back of her hand, smearing it further across her cheek, leaving a crimson streak against her dark skin. "I suppose," she mused aloud, her voice still thick and slightly nasal, "that spiced plums are now a matter of national security."

She would find Y/n. She would apologize, not for the playful punishment that had been her initial folly, but for underestimating the fiery spirit and the potent protectiveness of her pregnant queen. And she would ensure, with swift and decisive action, that the kitchens were overflowing with the requested spiced plums, lest she face another, potentially more damaging, demonstration of royal displeasure.

The thought made her smile again, a genuine, heartfelt smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes, even as her nose throbbed in protest. Life with Y/n was never dull. And with a child on the way, Ambessa suspected it was about to become a great deal more… interesting, a chaotic symphony of hormones, cravings, and unexpected acts of defiance. She only hoped the nursery was well-padded. Just in case.

The afternoon sun continued its slow descent, casting long shadows across the room, painting the scene in hues of deepening gold and rich crimson. The scent of blood mingled with the lingering aroma of the beach, a strange but somehow fitting olfactory portrait of the Medarda household in this moment, a testament to the unique and often volatile dynamic between its two formidable inhabitants. Ambessa, still slightly dazed but utterly enamored, finally moved, her large frame lumbering towards the door, ready to face the delightful chaos that was her pregnant wife.

The estate, usually a bastion of Noxian order and discipline, now held a subtle but unmistakable undercurrent of domestic rebellion, a testament to the powerful forces at play within its walls, the potent combination of pregnancy hormones and a fiercely independent spirit. And Ambessa Medarda, the fearsome War General, wouldn't have it any other way. Her queen had spoken, with a fist and a fiery glare, and Ambessa, ever in love and now nursing a throbbing nose, was more than ready to listen. The reign of spiced plums, it seemed, had well and truly begun.

[societyfolklore]

Favour - Part 3

Title: Favour (Part 3 of 3) Pairing: ClubOwner!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary:  When your boyfriend messes up with the wrong people he offers you up as free labour in Bucky Barnes Club.

Word Count: 4k

Warnings:  / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, Violence,  Blood,  Noncon/Dubcon Elements, Dark Themes, Manipulation, Psychological Domination, Public Humiliation, Power Play,  Possessiveness, Rough Sex, Chocking, Degradation Kink, Fear Kink, Bucky Being a F**king Monster (And we love it!), Unprotected sex, Fingering.  NO BETA

A/N: Final part to series that was part of my entry for  @avengers-assemble-bingo  for Bucky 108th Bday event  This is the conclusion!   Part One Here & Part Two I don’t know if I’m going to do anymore parts for this… but we’ll see what happens, never say never.. Square: a1 – Clubowner AU Card Number: 4B003

The month had unraveled like a slow-motion disaster, each passing day tightening the noose around Brock Rumlow’s neck. He had made promises, excuses, spun lies into makeshift bandages, but in the end, none of it mattered. His time was up.

And you felt it.

That morning, you had woken to the sound of Brock pacing. The sharp rhythm of his boots on the floor, his muttered curses, the occasional snap of his knuckles cracking- it painted a picture of a man cornered. His frustration was a living thing, a beast clawing at the walls of your apartment, suffocating the space between you.

You had learned long ago when to step lightly. When to make yourself small.

So, you had dressed in silence, slipping into your clothes quickly, avoiding his gaze. His energy was volatile, his movements erratic, his words clipped when he finally spoke.

“Where the fuck are you going?”

Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag. “Work.”

His nostrils flared, jaw ticking. He said nothing more.

You didn’t wait for an argument. You were out the door before he could sink his claws in deeper. 

You’d hoped that you’d be able to relax at your desk, but you didn’t. The idea of eating lunch just made your stomach twist with nausea. The tension from home, from Brock, seemed to follow you into your shift behind the bar. Everything felt just as wrong here as it did there. No one really looking at you. The girls you thought you’d made friends with exchanging glances, whispering when they thought you weren’t listening.

Something was very, very wrong.

It was 1 AM when a hand finally came down on your shoulder.

"You’re wanted upstairs."

Your mouth went dry. Your hands shook.

This was what they meant when they said ‘dead man walking.’

The hallway smelled of whiskey and old leather, but beneath it, the iron tang of blood coiled sharp in your nostrils. You could seen see the blood stains, dark on the burgundy carpets that weren't able to fully disguise it's presence.  The sounds filtering from Bucky’s office were unmistakable- flesh meeting flesh, the wet squelch of impact, the grunted responses of pain.

Then came the voice- low, controlled, laced with something far more dangerous than anger.

"One month. I gave you an entire extra month!"

Another wet impact. A groan. A sickening thud that made your stomach twist.

"Your girl’s bought in more than you have."

A muffled noise- Brock trying to speak, cut off by a sharp crack, followed by a wheeze of pain.

"Stop treating me like I’m stupid, Rumlow!"

Your breath stilled in your chest. Your fingers curled into your palms as you hesitated just outside the door, pulse hammering against your ribs. You knew what was waiting for you inside, knew that once you crossed that threshold, there was no looking away.

But Bucky Barnes had summoned you.

And you had never really had a choice.

You knew what you would see before you even stepped inside.

Still, the sight of Brock’s slumped, battered form made your stomach turn.

He was barely upright in the chair, wrists bound, head lolling forward. Blood painted his face in crimson streaks, dripping sluggishly from a gash at his temple. One eye was swollen shut, lips split, breath coming in wet, rattling drags.

Bucky stood near his desk, rolling his sleeves back down, movements methodical, almost bored. The contrast was staggering- where Brock looked like something discarded, Bucky was pristine, composed, a man who had never lost control a day in his life.

He wiped his knuckles clean on a handkerchief, exhaling a slow breath, before finally lifting his gaze.

Right to you.

“You’re out of options, Rumlow.”

The words slithered through the air, finality threaded in velvet.

Bucky took a step forward, and the weight of it settled over you, thick as smoke, as it pressed into your lungs. The air itself seemed to shrink, heavy with the scent of blood and the unshakable authority he carried in every movement. Your pulse stuttered, throat tightening as though his presence alone had wrapped invisible fingers around your neck, demanding your submission before he had even spoken. The way he moved- deliberate, assured- sent a slow crawl of heat down your spine.

Rumlow stirred, his remaining eye cracking open, gaze flicking between you and Bucky. His bloodied lips curled, voice thick with spit and venom.

“She’s mine, Barnes.”

Bucky hummed, something dark and knowing flashing behind his eyes. He lifted a hand, dragging a slow, lazy fingertip from your jaw, down your throat, over your collarbone.

“Not anymore.”

The silence pressed heavy, thick with unspoken truths.

Bucky traced the pad of his thumb over your lower lip, the touch deceptively soft. A claiming.

“She’s not yours,” Rumlow spat, voice cracking. “She’s not- ”

“She is now. You practically gift wrapped her for me." 

Rumlow made a sound- half snarl, half choked breath- but he wasn’t fighting anymore. He was just watching. Watching as Bucky’s hand traveled lower, over the curve of your waist, thumb dipping just beneath the waistband of your skirt.

"You’re the only thing he’s got left to give me,” Bucky mused, voice low, edged with satisfaction.

Your breath hitched. You wanted to protest, to say something, but your body betrayed you, frozen beneath his touch.

Rumlow's breathing turned ragged, his body tensing against the bindings, his fingers twitching uselessly where they were tied. His chest heaved, each breath coming out in thick, rattling bursts, fury barely held beneath the surface. He shifted against the chair, as if testing the strength of the restraints, his shoulders bunching, his jaw clenching so tight it looked like his teeth might crack.

But he wasn’t struggling to fight anymore.

No, this was different. This was a man trying to cling to something already slipping through his fingers, too slow to stop it, too weak to change the outcome. His good eye darted to you, frantic, flickering with something ugly- accusation, betrayal, the last remnants of his pride bleeding out alongside his dignity.

And then, the realization hit him fully.

He had already lost. He saw it, too.

"Christ, you fucking whore!" His voice is a wet rasp, thick with blood and fury. He spits in your direction, and you feel it hit your hand, warm, sickening. Your stomach clenches, but you don’t move.

"Knew it! Knew you'd been putting out for him! Fucking slut!" The venom in his voice is weaker now, laced with something that sounds almost like fear. Like he’s realizing too late that he’s already lost.

Bucky doesn’t even flinch. His fingers only tighten against your waist, his amusement evident in the smirk that curls at his lips. "That’s it, Doll," he murmurs, his voice laced with mock sympathy. "Look at him. Not even worth the effort, is he?"

Bucky leaned down, breath fanning against your ear, his words for you alone. “Tell me, sweetheart… did he ever deserve you?”

Your pulse pounded. Your fingers curled into fists. And you hated that you didn’t have an answer. Brock had used you, stomped you down, sold you off. Hate sizzled under your skin. 

Bucky’s lips ghosted against your jaw. “Didn’t think so.”

He chuckled, low and dark, the sound curling around your spine like smoke. His fingers trailed along your cheek, smearing a streak of Rumlow’s blood across your skin. His touch was deceptively gentle, reverent almost, a stark contrast to the brutality he had just unleashed.

“Just a sad, sad loser,” he purred, thumb pressing against the curve of your jaw, tilting your head back to him. “Who threw away the only thing that should have mattered.”

Your breath hitched as his fingers toyed with the button on your blouse before he started to undo them. The cool air of the room kissed your exposed skin, but the heat of his palm followed, searing in its wake. His fingers lingered, tracing over your collarbone, dipping lower, teasing, claiming.

“Want someone better, don’t you?” he murmured against your ear, the heat of his breath making you shiver. “Someone who knows what you are.”

A soft whine escaped your throat as he guided you toward the desk, his grip firm but never forceful. His hands knew their way around your body, knew exactly how to make you tremble. Your shirt hanging open. 

“Loyal till the end, aren’t you, sweetheart?” he mused, lips dragging over your temple. “Would’ve let him drown you to save himself.”

Your stomach twisted because you knew it was true. Brock never would have taken the fall. Never would have bled for you.

Bucky’s fingers dipped beneath the waistband of your skirt, teasing at the sensitive flesh beneath. His smirk was lazy, knowing, pleased.

“I know a prize when I see it,” he whispered. “Know when something good comes into my life.” His fingers pressed, slow, firm. Your lips parted in a sharp inhale. “And you want to be good, don’t you?”

Your knees felt weak, your body betraying you, betraying everything you thought you knew about yourself.

“Want to show him what he’s going to miss?” His teeth scraped along the shell of your ear, voice thick with amusement. “What you’ve needed?”

You should have pulled away.

Your mind had screamed at you to move, to step back, to reclaim the last shred of control you still had. But your body betrayed you- breath shallow, fingers twitching at your sides, legs weak beneath the weight of his touch. The heat of him, the scent of leather and blood, the quiet, possessive hum vibrating against your ear- it held you there, trapped between defiance and surrender.

Bucky had given you a choice.. 

But it wasn’t really a choice, was it?

You could fight, but what would that change?

You could run, but where would you go?

And maybe, just maybe, there’s a part of you that wants this.

That wanted to hurt Rumlow back for everything he’d done to you. That wanted to let go, let someone else take control for once. That wanted to belong to someone who wouldn’t throw you away when it was convenient.

You didn't answer.

You didn't need to.

Bucky knew.

His hands moved slow at first, teasing, testing the waters, making you feel every second of his touch. The rasp of his calloused fingers against your skin. The heat of his palm as it pressed against your stomach, your hip, the inside of your thigh.

He slid your blouse off your shoulders, letting it drop to the floor in a whisper of fabric, his fingers grazing along your bare skin as he went. His touch was slow, deliberate, reinforcing the control he had over this moment since the second you stepped through the door. Your breathing was sharp, shallow, your pulse thundering against his lips when he dragged them down the side of your neck.

Rumlow shifted in his chair, hands curled into fists. You could feel his anger, his humiliation, but you didn't look at him jsut threw him. 

Because he had never really looked at you.

Never really saw you at all.

“Look at her,” Bucky murmured, fingers pressing under your chin, tilting your face toward Rumlow. His voice was dark, cruel, intoxicating. “She was never yours.”

His hand slided under your skirt, rough fingers pushing aside the thin barrier of your panties. Your body betrayed you, your hips shifted into his touch, breath catching when he draged his fingers along your slit.

“She’s dripping for me,” Bucky chuckled. “Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

Shame burned your cheeks, your body trembling against his as he stroked you, teasing, relentless.

Rumlow watched, silent rage carved into every muscle. His breath came fast, shallow, his chest heaving. He hated this. Hated you.

You hated him back. 

This was his mess, Brock had pulled you into this whole circus. 

Now you were stuck, trapped in world you never wanted to be part of. 

A tangled mess of emotions coils in your stomach- shame, defiance, something darker still. The heat of Bucky’s touch branded you, claiming, unraveling you inch by inch. You should resist. You should hate this. But the way Rumlow seethed - it stirs something primal, something that makes your thighs press together but Bucky parted them instead. 

And it only made you wetter.

Bucky’s grip tightened, his other hand curled into your hair, dragging your head back so he could nip at your throat. “Good girl,” he murmured against your skin. “That’s it. Let him see.”

His fingers kneaded the soft flesh of your chest, cupping, squeezing, rolling your nipples between rough fingertips as his lips ghosted over the shell of your ear. “Take it off,” he whispered, voice thick with command. “Show him.”

Your breath caught in your throat, your fingers trembled as they reached behind your back, unclasping your bra. The fabric slid down your arms, baring you to the cool air of the room, but the heat of Bucky’s touch was already there, claiming every inch of exposed skin.

“Look at her” Bucky purred, his hands finding their way back to your chest, massaging, teasing, reveling in the way your body responded to him. “You threw this away.”

Shame burned at the edges of your mind, tangled with something deeper, something darker. You hated Rumlow- hated him for dragging you into this, for making you a pawn in a game he was too stupid to win. But more than anything, you hated the way your body responded to Bucky’s touch, the way his control settled over you like something inevitable.

Bucky’s hand slid down your stomach, over the curve of your hip, gripping the waistband of your skirt before spinning you around and bending you forward over his desk. The sound of his chair scraping across the floor as he kicked it away sent a shiver down your spine.

One large hand pressed firm against the back of your neck, keeping you in place, while the other slid down, tracing the swell of your behind before slipping between your thighs. His fingers pushed inside you with ease, stretching, exploring, claiming.

“You’re mine now,” he murmured, voice deep and satisfied. “And he gets to watch every fucking second of it.”

Bucky worked you open with slow, torturous precision, curling his fingers just right, his touch unrelenting as your body betrayed you further. Your breath hitched, a soft whimper slipping past your lips as heat coiled low in your belly. His grip on your neck eased slightly, but only so he pressing possessively against you.

“Yeah, Doll,” he purred, the deep rumble of his voice sending a fresh wave of arousal through you. “Bet he never did this for you.”

A sharp pang of resentment twisted through you, shame tangling with reluctant pleasure as you realized- he was right. Brock had never touched you like this. Never made you feel like this.

Your hips had rolled back against his hand before you could stop yourself, seeking more of the friction he so cruelly teased. The motion made you aware of the thick, hard press of his cock against your backside, straining through his pants.

Bucky chuckled, a dark, knowing sound. “That’s it, baby. You want more, don’t you?”

Your answer came in the way your thighs shook, in the way your body arched instinctively into his touch. He let go of your neck then, his hand snaking around to your mouth, fingers pressing against your lips. “Open.”

You hesitated only a second before he slid two fingers past your lips, pressing down on your tongue, letting you taste the remnants of your own arousal.

“Oh yeah, let me feel that tongue,” he groaned, his fingers thrusting in slow, deliberate movements, his other hand still buried between your legs, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

That idea made your core clamp down around his fingers, the rush of heat twisting low in your stomach. Rumlow made a noise- something between a growl and a choked breath- but you couldn’t focus on that. Not when you were so close.

Bucky felt it, too. "That's it, Doll," he murmured, voice thick with approval, fingers pushing deeper, curling just right. "Go on. Come for me."

Your body betrayed you completely, the pleasure crested so fast and sharp that you barely recognized the sounds spilling from your lips. The air thickened around you, every nerve alight as your thighs trembled, your hands scrabbling weakly against the desk for something- anything- to anchor you. The sharp tang of sweat and musk filled your senses, your pulse hammering in your ears as your mouth fell open in a choked gasp, your body wracked with sensation so intense it was almost unbearable. Your nails dug into the desk as your legs trembled, a strangled cry escaping as the tension snapped and pleasure crashed through you in waves.

Bucky groaned low in his throat, feeling the way you clenched around his fingers, dragging it out, letting you ride every last ripple of sensation. And then, just as you sagged forward, boneless and panting, he pulled his hands away.

The loss made you whimper, but he only chuckled, lifting his fingers to his mouth. His tongue flicked out, tasting you, slow and deliberate. "Sweet," he mused, smirking as he turned his gaze back to Rumlow. "Bet you never even tried, huh?"

Brok snarled, but he was powerless, his bindings holding him tight. His face was twisted in barely contained rage, humiliated, but Bucky only laughed, rubbing his slick fingers together before finally reaching for his belt.

The sound of the buckle coming undone made your breath hitch, anticipation and something darker pooling between your legs. You barely had time to process it before his wet hand- still damp from your mouth- pressed down on your shoulders, guiding you forward until your chest met the cool surface of his desk. His other hand tangled into your hair, tugging your head up just enough to make you face Rumlow again.

"Look at her, Rumlow," Bucky murmured, his voice dark and mocking. "You're going to watch. Like a good boy."

Then he pushed into you, the stretch of him immediate and overwhelming. Your fingers clawed at the desk, your breath coming in quick, uneven pants as your eyes rolled back.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck- "

Bucky’s grip tightened in your hair, keeping you steady, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. "No, no," he corrected, his voice thick with satisfaction. "You're going to take it. You're going to love it." 

The stretch was too much. He was too much. Your walls clenched around him instinctively, body trying to fight the intrusion even as another part of you surrendered. The burn made your breath hitch, made your nails scrape against the wood of his desk as your legs trembled beneath you.

Bucky felt it. Felt the way your body fought him, trying to adjust, trying to take him. And he loved it.

“Easy pretty girl,” he murmured, his tone mockingly sweet as he dragged his cock out a fraction before pressing in again, forcing your body to yield. His grip in your hair tugged your head back, keeping you from burying your face in the desk. He wanted you watching. This time you whined loudly, your eyes getting wet as tears pricked in the corners.

“Shhh, Doll. I know it’s a lot,” he purred, his chest pressing against your back as he leaned down, lips just by your ear. “But you’re gonna take it for me, aren’t you? Be a good girl and let me ruin you?”

You let out a choked sound, half whimper, half moan, your body torn between resistance and something darker. The pressure, the overwhelming fullness- it was too much and not enough all at once.

Bucky groaned, his grip shifting from your hip to the nape of your neck, pressing you down harder. His is fingers flexed, tightening, possessive. “That’s it, baby. Stop fightin’ it. Just let me in.”

You whimpered, body finally starting to give in, your muscles loosening, letting him sink deeper.

“There you go, sweet girl,” he cooed, his thrusts turning slow, deep, merciless. “That’s what I thought. You just needed me to break you in a little, huh?”

"Buck-Auh." 

Your legs were shaking now, your breath coming in uneven gasps as your body stopped resisting. It was all too much, too overwhelming- the feeling of him stretching you, filling you, owning you, the weight of his body that pinned you down, the way his voice slithered into your ear, hot and filthy and so damn cruel.

And Rumlow. Watching. Seeing everything.

Bucky made sure of that.

He tugged your hair again, tilting your head enough that your blurred gaze met Brock’s, that he could see the way your lips parted, the way your eyes fluttered shut every time Bucky pushed deeper.

“See that?” Bucky grunted, his voice sharper now, his thrusts harsher, shaking the desk with each movement. “See how much she likes a real man fucking her, Rumlow.”

Your whimper had only made him smirk. His other hand had left your hip, dragging up your stomach, up your chest, gripping your throat, holding you still.

Bucky wasn’t  done teaching.

“You feel that, sweetheart?” he murmured again, his hand tightening around your throat, forcing your head up, keeping your back arched as he pounded into you. “This is what it means to be owned.”

A strangled moan tore from your throat, your vision blurring as the sensations overwhelmed you. You didn’t know when the fight left your body- when your resistance melted into submission, your hips pushing back. “That’s  it Doll,” he groaned, satisfied. “That’s what I wanted. Knew you’d learn.” His pace didn’t slow, hips slamming into yours, forcing you to feel every inch of him, every stroke dragging along your sensitive walls, making your nails dig deeper into the desk.

Your body was burning, your legs weak beneath you, pleasure a tightening coil in your stomach. The desk holding you up more then your legs did.

But he wasn’t going to let you go so easily.

“You got to learn, too, Rumlow.” Bucky’s voice was mocking, dripping with cruelty as he pulled you back by your hair, your neck arching, your chest lifting off the desk. “You watching? You paying attention?”

A low, muffled noise- Rumlow’s disgust, his helpless fury. But it didn’t matter.

Bucky owned this moment. Owned you.

His hand slid down your stomach, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing in tight, slow circles, teasing you, making your thighs tremble.

“You’re gonna come for me,” Bucky ordered, his breath hot against your ear, his thrusts unrelenting. “You’re gonna come while he watches. Gonna show him what it looks like to be fucked by someone who knows what he’s doing.”

Your body shook, heat cascading through you, your muscles locking as the pressure inside you snapped. Your orgasm slammed into you, your mouth falling open in a silent scream, your body tightening around him like a vice.

Bucky cursed, his fingers digging into your hip, riding it out with you, his thrusts never stopping, never giving you a moment to breathe.

“Oh god, oh god..”

Then his hand left your hip, sliding up, fingers to wrap back around your throat. Not just to hold you this time. The pressure was immediate, firm but controlled, cutting off just enough air to make your head go light, your pulse pounding against his palm. Your vision blurred at the edges, black creeping in like ink seeping through water.

"That’s it, Doll," he groaned, his grip tightening. "Give it to me. Let go. Give me the another one."

Your body spasmed around him, muscles clenching, the sharp pleasure twisting with the darkness creeping into your mind. You barely heard your own ragged moan, barely felt the last desperate pulse of your orgasm before the world faded, before you felt him spill inside you- hot, claiming, absolute.

Bucky held you there, his cock buried to the hilt, his hand still wrapped around your throat as he emptied himself into you. The last thing you felt before the blackness swallowed you whole was the deep, satisfied hum of his voice against your ear.

"That’s my girl."

TAG: @swiggityswoody52

[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…

[sharieb]

Fragments of Her Light 1: A Cup Beyond the Fog

Synopsis: In the aftermath of a soul-shattering loss, he can no longer dream of her, only remember. Haunted by grief and consumed by obsession, he throws himself into a desperate search across rifts, ruins, and cosmic impossibilities to find the one he lost to the Overseer. With each dead end, his sanity frays, yet he refuses to stop. But just as all hope begins to feel hollow, a strange café begins to surface in whispers, its name echoing something once sacred. Drawn in without understanding why, he unknowingly takes the first true step toward her, a step that will change everything.

Pairing: LADS x Non-MC! reader

Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort Content warning: Angst, mention of implied death, obsession, cosmic/divine interference

Music for the chapter: On the Nature of Daylight by Max Richter

Word count: + 1.1K Writer's notes: Hello, my lovelies. I'm so sorry for the delay. Many things have been going on all day today that I didn't get to post this as soon as I promised 🙇🏾‍♀️. For new readers who just stumbled upon this fic first, I would highly recommend that you read my Held in the Hollowed Fragments series first and then come back and read this sequel. But here it is. What you all been waiting for. I hope you all enjoy the first chapter of Fragments of Her Light.

Next

He hadn’t slept in days. Not properly, not since the last time he held her body in the fog, still and cold in his arms. The scent of her still lingered in his chest, the memory of her warmth burned into his hands, and the silence she left behind had carved itself into the marrow of his bones.

He, who had once held her gaze and carried a piece of her soul, were unraveling in their own ways. Grief seeped into his days, etched into every hour, until the ache of her absence became indistinguishable from breath.

He searched.

But no dream had come since. Only fragments. Static. A chasm where her soul once tethered his to the other side. He keeps searching.

He had redirected nearly half of Skyhaven’s surveillance satellites to monitor dimensional rift activity. He analyzed cross-dimensional energy pulses, tracing the faintest disruptions in gravity wells and cosmic distortions for any sign of where she might have been taken. The data was inconsistent, barely coherent, but he refused to stop. He combed through thousands of archived dream recordings, fed them into predictive AIs, and layered every possible reading onto the orbital patterns around known and unknown rifts. Nothing concrete emerged.

He burned through every coded evolutionary theorem on soul resonance, refusing sleep even as his body shut down around him. He had taken over the quietest wing of Akso Hospital’s upper labs, surrounding himself with data filters, spiritual scanning drones, and discarded prototypes of resonance amplifiers. He mapped forgotten metaphysical equations into evolving spirals, trying to replicate the way her presence had once affected his vitals. It was madness disguised as science.

He tirelessly roamed the ocean’s deepest trenches and silenced ruins, scouring coral-encrusted temples and forgotten sanctuaries for any ancient relics or soul-bound artefacts that might guide him to her. When the currents quieted and the ruins offered nothing, he would surface and paint. Again and again. Sketches lined his walls: portraits of her in different lights, moods, and fragments of memory. He refused to forget her face.

He salvaged rusted circuits and shattered stabilizers from the broken remains of his old spaceship tech. He began rebuilding by hand. He reignited dormant starfield scanners, rewired faulty dream-broadcast modules, and manually recalibrated prototype signal receivers to tune into frequencies that defied regulation. Night after night, he tested each array against the backdrop of space.

He stopped being strategic. He was desperate now. Silent, sharp, volatile. He hunted down every lead with reckless determination, pulling favours, calling in old debts, and bartering both legally and illegally for anything that might help him locate her across the universe. Every black market relic or discarded wormhole theory was another shot in the dark he refused to ignore. He didn’t care about danger or cost; only the results. And if tearing through the underworld of space-time gave him one inch closer to her, he’d keep going until the universe bled.

She was gone. But not erased.

Taken by no other than:

The Supreme Cosmic Overseer.

Unlike Astra, the Overseer did not play games. They were not a trickster or a gambler of souls. They were something far older. A sovereign of balance and cosmic order. They had governed the rise and fall of galaxies without cruelty, but with unwavering precision. They did not toy with fate. They enforced it.

And when they took her, it wasn’t with malice. It was with purpose.

That was what made it worse.

So he continued to search blindly. Untethered. Grasping only at echoes. And with each dead end, each echo that dissolved into silence, each path that led nowhere, he became more and more frustrated and desperate. The calm resolve that once guided him gave way to a gnawing obsession; his thoughts looped endlessly around her, every moment without a lead like static screaming through his skull. His temper shortened. His sleep vanished. He snapped at those who tried to help, rejected rest like it was betrayal, and chased after even the faintest whispers of her with feral desperation. He couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t. Not until something, anything, led him back to her.

Then the rumor came.

It started small.

A passing comment. “There’s this weird new café downtown. No one saw it being built, but it’s... there. Like it always existed.”

Destiny Café

It had become something of a phenomenon.

At first, it appeared quietly, just another quaint little shop tucked between two buildings in a side street no one remembered existing before. But now? Everyone was talking about it. Review boards were flooded with glowing praise. Influencers posted aesthetic shots of shimmering drinks that changed color in different light. Every drink tasted exactly the way you needed. Every dish warmed something beyond the stomach. There was something timeless in its charm.

It wasn’t just the ambience, the low lighting, the scent of cinnamon and something sweeter, but the sense of comfort that settled deep in your bones the moment you stepped inside. The café made you feel... remembered. Known.

Most thought it was just a cozy refuge.

But it got under their skin. Friends started suggesting it, innocently, offhandedly, as if the universe was nudging him toward something he couldn't see yet.

Thomas had begged him to go.

"Sir, you haven’t been out of the studio in days. You’re twitching over paint thinner fumes. Go. Drink a tea. Find your soul or whatever."

His colleagues at the hospital brought it up during a rare lunch break.

"They’ve got a lavender honey espresso that’s been driving the nurses wild. It even helped Dr. Greyson sleep through a full night for once. You should try it."

He received three independent recommendations in one day. From his lieutenant. From Gideon. And, surprisingly, from one of his AI units, which had spontaneously updated its destination preferences to mark the café as a: ‘Mental Recovery Priority Site.’

He heard it from the twins.

"Boss, I swear if you don’t get out of this bunker for an hour, we’re staging a rebellion. People keep saying that this place is magic. You like creepy things. Go blend into the velvet wallpaper or something."

His field agent group chat wouldn’t shut up about it. One of them sent a picture of a menu item that simply read: For the Forgotten One A dessert that shimmered between shapes, never looking the same twice.

He unknowingly had the same thought as he stared at the café’s name, echoing back from messages, overheard conversations, and the subtle pull that had drawn him here:

Why that name?

Why now?

And why did it sound so much like her?

When he finally stood outside the doorway, alone, unaware of the others, he barely thought about it. To him, it was just an ordinary café, tucked away like hundreds of others, a small curiosity on a grey day.

He didn’t question the name this time. Or the timing. Or the warmth that radiated from the door as his hand hovered over the handle. Not yet.

He didn’t know this would be the first real step.

The first solid, undeniable step back to her.

[yourlocalsurrealism]

DP X DC PROMT: JASON IS CHOSEN TO RAISE DANNY

Danny's core was broken, shattered and almost irreparable. The damage would take decades to heal in his teenage body, seeing as it didn't have much room to grow or mutate to adult size. The only option is to de-age him and let him rebuild his ghost core naturally.

The issue with this is that he can't be in the infinite realms while he does so if he wants to conserve his halfa status. Too much ectoplasm at once would overload the kids body and kill him, while to little would ensure that he developed just a little to liminal to be ordinary, but not liminal enough to be considered a halfa.

The obvious solution? Send the kid to a location on earth so steeped in ectoplasm that he will have no problem filtering it form his surroundings, even with a broken core. The issue with this? The only place to match this criteria is either the compound of a psycho assassin demon king, or Gotham city. Obviously, they're not sending Danny to this League of Assassins, leaving Gotham. The issue lies in the fact that Gotham has a huge amount of ectoplasm, but it's been so corrupted over the years that unless a liminal is born there, the sudden overload of rotten ectoplasm is enough to put most limimals down for the count for at least a couple years.

The solution? A halfa guardian. The only issue is finding one. Clockwork refuses to let Vlad take custody of Danny, Dani is too young, and Dan too volatile. Luckily for them, there is a halfa currently residing in Gotham City, specifically, the Red Hood, the Avenger of Spirits, a moniker granted to him by the many people who died in Gotham that he, well, avenged.

He fits all the criteria for a guardian. He can keep the de-aged Danny safe because he's Red Hood, no one in the infinite realms can argue with the placement because he is also a halfa, he is Jason Todd, the son of a billionaire, and can teach Danny how to win people over, not to mention the fact that he is a crime lord, and can teach Danny how to run a, well, not quite a kingdom, but close enough.

Danny is de-aged, losing his memories of anything after about the age of two years. Jason wakes up one morning to a toddler on his doorstep with black hair with a white streak and Lazarus green eyes, tucked into a fluffy red blanket with a stuffed ghost plushie and a letter.

The letter essentially says:

Jason, you are the best option to raise him. His name is Danny.

Jason, quite understandably, freaks out.

[azrielandhisshadows]

winter's kiss (2)

pairing: azriel x reader

word count: 1.8k

summary: after finding your mate at the High Lords meeting, you go through all the emotions that come with it, only, your older brother, Kallias, isn't happy about who your mate is. emotional chaos and distress ensues.

warnings: overprotective Kallias, beginnings of a panic attack, brief mentions of torture/death

a/n: I had fun writing this second part. please let me know what you think and if you have any requests, feel free to leave them! if you want to be added to a taglist for this series, let me know!

part 1 part 3 part 4 part 5

--------------------

All attention remained on you and Azriel as your stares bore into each other. His eyes expressed an untold depth of emotion. You reached out for him, desperate to bridge the space between you and your mate. Kallais’s supportive touch changed to a tight grip around your arm.

“Kallias,” you whimpered, the pain evident in your voice. “You’re hurting me.” 

Kallias’s grip softened slightly, but he didn’t relent as he led you away from the group. His jaw was set with a tension unlike anything you had seen from your usually calm brother. A deep, primal growl rumbled from Azriel’s chest as he raced forward, his instincts in overdrive.

Cassian and Rhysand acted swiftly and placed themselves into Azriel’s path. Forming a strong barrier, they stopped him before he could slam his body into Kallias. “Az, please stop. Don’t do anything you’ll regret,” Rhysand said, his voice an urgent command.

Azriel stepped away, his posture tense as he struggled to contain his rage. His simmering fury melted away as he looked at you, his eyes filled with worry as he watched Kallias drag you farther away. 

“Kallias, please let me go,” you choked out as the golden thread of your mating bond urged you toward Azriel. “Y/N, I don’t want you around him. We’ll discuss this after the meeting,” Kallias spat out. Viviane shot him a look of disapproval, “Kallias, you can’t possibly expect to keep her away from her mate. What would you do if someone kept us away from each-“

“Viviane, enough. I am your High Lord. Do not question me,” Kallias bit out. Viviane let out an exasperated sigh and sat next to you. She placed an arm around your shoulder and let you lean into her. As the other High Lords filtered into the room, you couldn’t help but lean into Viviane as your eyes welled with tears.

The meeting, once longed for, became distant as your thoughts were focused on the presence of your mate. Your thoughts were interrupted as you heard, “Be careful how you speak about my High Lady,” come from across the room. The once golden thread connecting you to Azriel was filled with an unmistakable edge as he glared toward the High Lord of Spring. The command that flowed from your mate overwhelmed you as you leaned more into Viviane for comfort. 

As the meeting proceeded, Azriel’s attention returned to you. The rage and intimidation that once flowed from his posture ceased as he looked at you. You felt a pull from the bond that linked you to him, as if he could feel your discomfort from the scene that had played in front of you. He looked at you, his eyes filled with concern.

You looked away, unable to meet his gaze. The instincts from the mating bond made your heart long for Azriel, but you couldn’t help wondering if your mate’s temper was always so volatile. You wondered how much Kallias knew of your new-found mate and if his knowledge contributed to his protective nature as the reveal of your mating bond. Looking toward your mate once more, you noticed Azriel’s saddened gaze focused on the ground. 

When the meeting drew to a close, you stood from your seat and began to walk towards Azriel. Before you could make it far, Kallias’s grip on your arm returned and led you away from the meeting room. He led you toward your room with Viviane at your side. As the door to your room slammed shut, the tension between the three of you was thick enough that it felt hard to breathe. Silence reigned between you and Kallias as you both looked at each other, waiting for someone to break the quiet. Viviane sighed, “Kallias, explain yourself.”

Kallias, his face wrought with tension and frustration, paced in front of the bed where Viviane sat comforting you. “Y/N, I am doing this for your safety. I have heard… terrible things about Azriel. He is a monster.” Confusion etched your features as you looked at your brother, your voice trembling, “I… I don’t understand.” 

“His role in the Night Court is based on pure violence. He is the Spymaster, Y/N. If anyone has information that benefits the Court and will not share it, he tortures them… and once he is done, he disposes of them.” Kallias trailed off, struggling to make eye contact with you. You choked out a breath as you sat and tried to process this information. The mating bond was supposed to be between two fae of equal power. If your mate was capable of such darkness, what did that mean about your power? You had always been in great control of your power, but in this moment, you couldn’t help but feel your hands begin to grow cold as the ice started to creep out. 

Kallias’s words hung in the room as an overwhelming presence. The statements he made about Azriel weighed heavily on you. The comfort and light that you had felt from your mating bond turned distant and cold against the reality of what Kallias described. Viviane’s comforting presence didn’t budge as the ice crept up your arms. She placed a soft hand on your shoulder, providing you safety from your inner turmoil.

“Kallias,” Viviane said, disapproval lining her tone. “We can’t judge Azriel based on rumors we’ve heard or on his role in the Night Court. We have all done unspeakable things. Y/N can’t be kept away from her mate because you are afraid.” 

Kallias’s face was grim, “I do not judge him lightly. His role is notorious for its brutality. Viviane, you and I have both seen the effects of it – death to those who do not cooperate. I can’t let Y/N be exposed to that.” 

The ice continued to spread up your arms and across your chest, panic setting in. “If Azriel is truly capable of such darkness, what does that say about my power?” The question was barely a whisper as you voiced your newfound fear. 

Viviane and Kallias’s intensity softened with concern as they looked at you. Tears began falling from your eyes, freezing once they hit your hands. “Y/N, you are not a monster.” Kallias said, his voice softening as he pulled you into a comforting embrace. “You and Azriel are equally powerful, but you would never use the powers the Cauldron blessed you with for evil.” 

Viviane leaned closer, her voice steady and supportive. “Kallias, please leave us. I need to talk to Y/N alone.” Kallias hesitated, but Viviane’s stern look made him step back, leaving you and Viviane alone.

“Y/N, look at me,” Viviane urged, gently tilting your head up. “Your brother is right—you are not a monster. You can’t let fear dictate your view of your bond. I don’t know Azriel well, but I do know Mor. From what I’ve heard, Azriel is a good male. His role may involve dark and unspeakable deeds, but he doesn’t take pleasure in them. He doesn’t harm innocents.”

The room was filled with uneasy silence as Viviane’s words settled between you. You struggled to process everything, the ice on your skin a chilling reminder of the fear that clung to you. Viviane’s calm presence was a lifeline, but your mind was still reeling.

“Viviane,” you said, your voice trembling. “I want to believe you, but the things Kallias said—they were so stark. How can I trust that Azriel is different from what I’ve heard?”

Viviane’s eyes softened with sympathy. She reached out and gently took your hands, still cold and icy from your turmoil. “I know it’s overwhelming, Y/N. It’s a lot to handle, but trust me when I say that there’s more to people than the roles they play.”

She paused, giving you a moment to absorb her words. “Mor has shared many stories about Azriel, and while his role as Spymaster is daunting, it doesn’t define the entirety of who he is. He does what is necessary to protect those he loves.”

You tried to focus on Viviane’s words, but the image of Azriel as a torturer loomed large in your mind. “What if I’m wrong about him? What if the bond isn’t enough to make me see who he truly is?”

Viviane shook her head gently, her gaze steady and full of sisterly reassurance. “The bond is more than just a connection of equal power. It’s about understanding, trust, and giving each other the chance to show who you really are. The fact that you’re struggling with this shows how much you care about understanding him, and that’s important.”

She squeezed your hands gently, the warmth from her touch slowly melting the ice that had crept over your skin. “It’s okay to be scared and confused. But remember, you don’t have to go through this alone. You have the right to explore and understand this bond on your own terms.”

The fear didn’t dissipate entirely, but Viviane’s comforting presence helped to shift it. “What if Kallias can’t see past his fears to understand Azriel?”

Viviane glanced at the door, where Kallias had been standing moments before. “Kallias loves you fiercely, Y/N. His fear comes from a place of wanting to protect you. He’s struggling to see beyond his own fears, but ultimately, he wants you to be happy. If pursuing your mating bond will make you happy, Kallias will come to understand your choices, even if your choices differ from what he wants.”

Her words offered a sliver of comfort as your unease dominated your thoughts. “Viviane,” you said, taking a deep breath, “I need some time to process all of this. Thank you for your help.”

Viviane’s expression softened with understanding and she pulled you into a comforting embrace. “Of course. Take all the time you need and, regardless of what you choose, your brother and I are always here for you.”

As Viviane left the room, you couldn’t help but sink into your bed as your fear and confusion overwhelmed you. The crystals of ice on your arms and chest served as a reflection of the chill on your emotions. Your room was unbearably quiet, amplifying the shouting of your racing thoughts. 

Tears streamed down your face as you tried to make sense of everything. The connection with Azriel, once a beacon of comfort, now felt tainted by fear. Exhausted from the emotional turmoil, you lay in your bed, the icy crystals on your skin serving as a reflection of your inner chaos. Just as you were about to slip into a fitful sleep, a soft knock at the door jolted you awake.

With a mix of hope and dread, you opened the door to find Azriel standing there, his hazel eyes filled with concern.

“Y/N,” he said softly, his voice a soothing balm amidst your distress.

“Azriel…”

[shimmerandink]

3 AM Shenanigans

Jinx x Gn! Reader

Fluff

Tags: Jinx x gn reader, one-shot, mention of exposives, sfw

Summary: Jinx wakes you up at 3 AM with a wild idea, zero regard for sleep, and a handful of homemade explosives. Saying no was never an option.

Masterlist

The soft hum of Zaun’s neon lights filters through your window, casting streaks of electric blue and violet across the ceiling. The city never truly sleeps, but you do, or at least, you try to. Wrapped in a warm blanket, the weight of exhaustion drapes over you like a second skin, lulling you into the kind of half-sleep where the world feels distant, blurry, unreal.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The entire door shudders under the force of frantic knocking.

"Hey, hey, wake up! Wakey, wakey, eggs ‘n’ BAKIE!"

Your body jolts at the sudden noise, heart skipping a beat before frustration catches up. You don’t even have to open your eyes to know who it is.

"C’mon, open up! I got somethin’ reeeeally important to tell ya!"

You groan, burying your face deeper into the pillow. "Jinx… it's—" You peel one eye open, squinting at the dim red numbers on the clock. 3:17 AM.

Before you can process another thought, the door swings open, of course, she picked the lock, and in bursts Jinx, barefoot and buzzing with energy. Her wild blue braids are slightly disheveled, sticking out in odd places, and she’s still wearing her usual mismatched layers, a telltale sign that she hasn't even considered sleeping.

"Okay, okay, I know what you're thinking-‘"Jinx, why are you breaking into my room in the middle of the night? I need sleep like a normal human being!’—but hear me out!" She claps her hands together, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

You roll over with a groggy sigh. “Jinx… what could possibly be so important right now?”

Her grin widens. That manic, mischievous sparkle in her eyes tells you you’re about to regret asking.

"BoomBugs!" she exclaims, yanking a handful of tiny, blinking devices from her pockets. They look like little mechanical fireflies, small, round, and covered in intricate gears and glowing filaments.

You blink. “BoomBugs?”

"Homemade firecrackers, but like, way cooler. Way more explode-y! They go zap, pow, boom, like, real chaotic stuff." She wiggles her fingers excitedly. "Buuuut I need someone to help me test ‘em. Y'know, in case I, uh, accidentally make them too powerful. Or not powerful enough. Or set something on fire. You in?"

You stare at her for a long moment, letting the weight of the situation sink in. Here you are, barely functioning, while Jinx is in full-blown manic scientist mode, asking you to play assistant in one of her late-night chaos experiments.

“…Jinx,” you say slowly. “Are you seriously asking me to get up, in the middle of the night, to go blow stuff up?”

She tilts her head, considering for a second. Then she beams. “Yup!”

You groan, flopping back onto the mattress. “No. Absolutely not. I like having all my limbs.”

Jinx gasps, dramatically clutching her chest like you just stabbed her. "Wow, okay, betrayal much? You’d really leave me out here, all alone, to test potentially volatile explosives by myself? What if something bad happens, huh? What if I blow off a finger? Or two?"

You squint at her. “…You’d love that, and you know it.”

"Yeah, but that’s beside the point!" She throws herself onto your bed, practically on top of you, her cold fingers poking your cheek. "C’moooon, pleeeaaase? It'll be funnnn. Just one little test! Or five. Or like, a dozen. I promise you’ll be back before sunrise!"

You groan again, but you know it’s useless. The second she decided you were part of this scheme, your fate was sealed. If you don’t go willingly, she’ll just annoy you until you cave anyway.

With a long, suffering sigh, you shove the blanket off and sit up. "Fine. But if I die, I’m haunting you.”

"Deal!" Jinx chirps, immediately grabbing your hand and yanking you toward the door.

And just like that, sleep is no longer an option.

[aceofwhump]

You got any favourite Buck & Tommy whump fics?

(I am now on a BuckTommy kick bc of you. I hope you are happy with yourself 😂)

Asdfghjkl OH OH! My friend. You have no idea the can of worms you've just opened 👀👏 I take full responsibility for your BuckTommy obsession because I am obsessed with them and I need more friends to be obsessed with the BuckTommy whump with me. But oh my god YES I HAVE RECS FOR YOU!! Did you know that I clicked on the BuckTommy tag on AO3 and, after filtering out the things that squick me out, I went page by page looking and reading any scrap of whump and angst (specifically Tommy focused cause I want him HURT) that I could find? Did you know that that was over 600 AO3 pages of fanfics I went through? And that I bookmarked like 150 individual fics? When I tell I went crazy over these two...I WENT CRAZY. So yes I have fics to rec!

Brace yourself! This gonna be HUGE. And there's more to read on my AO3 bookmarks if you want to look (under aceofwhump)

(I also may have started writing a few of my own inspired by the prompts for BuckTommy whump week that I missed so we'll see if I can finish those because apparently I can't finish a fanfic to save my life lately)

Tommy whump centric

Hold on a little longer and believe I'm here to stay by salty_autistic_writer Summary: "You don't want to know this about me, Evan," Tommy says after a moment of hesitation, his walls cracking for a volatile moment, pain flickering in his eyes before he tries his best to look indifferent again.

Buck feels hurt. "What are you talking about? I'm in love with you, Tommy, I want to know everything about you."

Oh. This was not how and when he wanted to say it.

Buck knows he's in love with Tommy but has a feeling that Tommy is keeping something from him. The inevitable confrontation reveals scars and shows they will have to fight for their happiness together.

TW: suicidal thoughts, suicide attempt,

nothing to worry about by elizabethgee  Summary: It's early in their relationship. Tommy gets hurt, and Buck tries to figure out how to take care of his new boyfriend.

The Path to Burnout, Anxiety, High Emotions, and Really Missing Your Boyfriend By Tommy Kinard by bccw13  Summary: Three weeks of misaligned schedules, picking up shifts, helping or hanging out with friends and family, Tommy was exhausted. A particular bad day at the end of a long three weeks has Evan helping his man let it all out.

When evening falls so hard by xanthippe74 Summary: Tommy remained silent for the entire ride home, and when they were stopped at a red light, Buck glanced over and saw that he had propped his elbow on the door in order to cover his eyes with one hand. Light sensitivity, Buck told himself. A common concussion symptom. Tommy definitely wouldn’t be crying in Buck’s truck right now. Not unflappable, confident Tommy.

There was something going on with him—something more than being shaken up by an accident.

Three weeks after their disastrous post-breakup hookup, Buck gets an unexpected call from Tommy.

The Devil Doesn't Bargain by torturedslothdepartment Summary: Tommy Kinard lived a whole life before he walked into Evan Buckley's life, and it's not one that he's offered up much of so far. Until Evan starts asking questions.

TW: graphic depictions of rape/sexual assault, abuse, military abuse, self harm, suicide attempt.

grayscale mountains of monotone thoughts by xTarmanderx Summary: Tommy’s depression gets the better of him after a rough shift.

Focus by firewasabeast Summary: “Focus. Focus, focus, focus, focus.” The words stumbled out of his mouth unconsciously. His fingers tapped against his thigh rapidly. His eyes were wide but hazy; blearily searching for something to center on but coming up empty.

“Focus, focus, focus.”

He was sweating. It dripped down his forehead, off his eyebrow, to his cheek. It tickled as it ran over his nose. It gave him chills on the back of his neck.

“Focus, focus.”

His leg shook, bouncing up and down anxiously. It was hard to breathe. Hard to breathe the way he needed to breathe anyway. He could only inhale part of the way, short and stunted exhales making him dizzy.

He could hear people yelling at him. Could hear them calling his name.

They might as well have been speaking a foreign language.

A tunnel to crawl through by prufrocks Summary: Evan sits back on his haunches, unweighting Tommy's legs, and he feels like maybe he could float away from here, unmoored as he is from the bed, from the situation. He's in trouble now, or he will be in a few seconds, but for just this moment he's removed from the forces of gravity, and it feels nice.

"Tommy," Evan says, a tremor in his voice, and that's enough to bring Tommy rocketing back down to Earth. "That wasn't a sext, was it."

Tommy makes a decision. Buck meets him halfway.

TW: suicide attempt

White Noise by seisirasei Summary: Tommy never meant to chase after the call—he certainly never meant to get buried under a crumbling house with too many regrets and a body giving out beneath him. But one bad feeling led to a collapse, a broken leg, and a 9-1-1 call he almost didn’t make.

With Maddie on the line and the 118 closing in, Tommy confronts more than just the pain.

Threshold by seisirasei Summary: Excerpt: Tommy stumbled to the door, every step a battle against the waves of heat and exhaustion that threatened to pull him under. When he opened the door, he thought he must be hallucinating.

“Ev—” he tried to say, but his throat was too dry, his voice too weak. He swayed on his feet, his vision blurring.

“Tommy!”

What You Wanted, What I Needed by seisirasei Summary: One desperate night forces Tommy to confront his broken pieces—and the one person who’s always willing to be there to hold him together.

Excerpt: "Why not me?" Tommy whispered, his voice breaking, tears streaming down his face. "Why can’t I be enough for you?"

Buck cupped Tommy’s face, his thumbs brushing away the tears. "Tommy," he said softly, his own voice trembling, "you’ve always been enough. You just have to believe it."

the air it hurts by Anonymous Summary: After Tommy gets hurt in a near-fatal accident, he learns that there are some things he doesn't have to be afraid of. And that he no longer has to feel jealous of the family he left before it became one.

Hang on 'til the hurt is gone by tabbytabbytabby Summary: After a long shift, all Tommy wants is to spend the next two days off with his boyfriend. Unfortunately, a bout of food poisoning threatens to derail that, but Evan is there to help him through it.

Throw Me In The Deep End by MustLoveTommy Summary: It's a great day for Buck since he will get to spend the next two days with Tommy. Unfortunately, Tommy sends him a message that changes all their plans.

TW: depression

The Fire in the Fall by writerdot Summary: The air feels suffocating and even through his turnouts, the heat is reaching unbearable levels and they haven’t even entered the complex yet. He looks at the burning building in front of him and sighs, thinking that he would pick today, one of the worst days he’s had in a long time, to volunteer to help with ground ops.

Or: Tommy Kinard has a very bad day.

Sick of It by firewasabeast Summary: In which Tommy gets sick, and he and Buck head towards making up.

The Things I Cannot Change by firewasabeast Summary: Buck thought he and Tommy knew everything about each other. Thought their relationship was as solid as ever. Until Gerrard mentions a military operation from Tommy past, and a confirmation from Eddie makes Buck realize he might not know Tommy at all.

TW: depression

No Man Left Behind by firewasabeast Summary: Eddie linked his hands together. “This is gonna hurt like hell,” he warned before using all of his strength to pull Tommy out of the helicopter.

The scream that escaped Tommy as Eddie pulled on him could have taken him right back to Afghanistan, if he'd let it. A guttural scream that verged on sounding more like an animal than a human.

“I know, I know,” Eddie soothed even as he continued to drag Tommy across the wet, muddy ground. “Gotta keep going. I think it's gonna blow.”

Tommy tried to look up toward the sky, focus on the clouds, the trees overhead, the sun trying to poke through. But the pain was too much, so he squeezed his eyes shut and opened his mouth wide and let himself yell in a way he'd never yelled before. His arms dropped to the side, fingernails scrapping through the mud and leaves as Eddie pulled and tugged and said things that Tommy couldn't bother to hear over his own cries.

Hold me on my bad day by bidisasterevankinard Summary: Tommy had a bad day, has an awful morning he starts as blanket burrito, but his boyfriend's cuddles make it better

The Weight of the Past by adoctoraday Summary: Sometimes the weight of the past is just too much to carry alone--and now, Tommy has Evan to help him shoulder this burden.

a fevered blur by aceanx Summary: Buck is a damn good firefighter. He knows every piece of equipment and what it does back to front, he’s able to get dressed in under thirty seconds, and his overall response time is pretty damn quick, in his eyes. He’s aced every test he’s done for the academy, even when he had to get cleared for duty multiple times, and he’s read the manuals backward and forward more times than he cares to admit.

He’s put blood, sweat and tears into this job. He loves nothing more than being a firefighter. His concern is never about himself on the job. He knows he’s capable and he knows even if something were to happen, he would be alright. He can handle the strain of the job. He’s nearly died several times and has actually died once, after all. If getting struck by lightning hasn’t scared him away from the job, nothing will.

Buck’s a damn good firefighter, except when it comes to his loved ones getting hurt.

That’s the one thing he can’t handle.

-----

another "buck finds out tommy's chopper has crashed" and cue panic.

You Ask How I'm Doing Like You Knew What Was Wrong by Snaptic Summary: Eddie saw Tommy freeze as the first string of fireworks went off in the distance. He had flinched, and his quick scan of the yard had brought his attention to his friend, who had gone so still he could be a statue.

OR

Tommy finds a sense of belonging with the 118. In Buck's absence, Eddie steps up.

I Am The Broken, I Am The Wound by NeverlandPoet (do_androids_dream) Summary: Buck found Tommy in the bathroom, a dark shade crouching next to the shower, clasping his knees. He dropped down, put the phone aside and let its light illuminate parts of the ceiling. It was enough to see Tommy’s face, absolutely frightened, eyes wide open, staring into the void. He was panting way too fast, close to hyperventilating. Buck knew these signs.

“Tommy. Hey. Look at me, okay? I’m here,” he whispered, his voice hoarse for some reason. “What... what's going on?”

“I don't know,” Tommy said, almost sobbing, “I don't know, I just don't know.”

Microsleep by salty_autistic_writer Summary: After showing up at the hospital after his long and hard shift, Tommy is so tired he's experiencing microsleeps. Buck drives him home. (Written for Whumptober Day 8: Sleep Deprivation)

The Bracelet She Wore by space_cadet09 Summary: Buck and Tommy enjoy a relaxed day exploring LA. Their peaceful outing takes a dramatic turn when they witness a violent crime on the street. As Buck springs into action to help the victim, Tommy is overwhelmed by a traumatic memory from his childhood. This event forces Tommy to confront the deep pain of his past. As Buck supports Tommy through this emotional journey, their bond deepens, showcasing their love and mutual support.

*BuckTommy Whump Week 2024, Day 2 Prompt: "I'm fine. Just, I wanna be finer." | Prompts: Emotional hurt // PTSD*

The Fire is Inside the House by Writer_Lethogica Summary: Evan "Buck" Buckley is fighting a wildfire with the 118, when he sees a helicopter crash - the helicopter of his boyfriend, Tommy Kinard. It's a race against time to find Tommy before the wildfire hits the crash site. Part 6 of Denial-verse

thursday's child has far to go by vincerets Summary: Tommy laughs, as much as it can be called a laugh when he can barely get the air to do it, but his breath still grazes against Buck’s lips, the ghost of what he really wants. It’s warm, and Tommy’s still looking at him, and it’s been eighteen days, and he’s baked on nearly every one of them. They’re in a crashed helicopter and Tommy’s pinned down and it’s a terrible idea and it’s been eighteen days, he’s counted every one, and-Buck kisses him. Tommy's helicopter goes down. Buck copes. Kind of. Hey - he never said he was coping well.

Please, I've Been On My Knees (Change The Prophecy) by unhingedangstaddict Summary: Tommy leaned against a tree and tried to catch his breath. It wasn’t exactly easy between the intense heat, thick smoke, and the painful ache in his ribcage. He guessed it had to be at least seven or eight broken ribs, but he wasn’t a doctor nor was he going to poke around at his chest and try to figure it out- it didn’t matter anyway. His head was throbbing in pain and his limbs felt incredibly heavy. The ringing in Tommy’s ears hadn’t stopped, and the pain in his shoulder and arm was getting worse and worse.

But Evan was waiting for him.

This was not how Evan Buckley would turn out to be his last.

Tommy pushed himself up off the tree he’d been leaning against and continued walking.

---

S8E6 Fix it fic featuring a helicopter crash, anyone?

I sabotage and break my own heart, just in case by harmonic-intervention (BackseatSerenade) Summary: Yeah, no. This wasn’t happening. Not again. Not after all of that.

- Bucktommy fix-it. Two words: helicopter crash

Hold on hope by icestar663 Summary: Things Buck didn't want to have to do today: 1 - Find out his boyfriend was missing 2 - Stay put 3 - Convince said boyfriend that he had to save himself

I See the Memories (and the Tragedies) by DarkAliceLilith Summary: “C-can’t b-breathe.”

“What happened? Do you need help?”

“N-Nightmare. A-a-army.” He could barely get words out, his brain not even really caring that he had called the wrong person.

Unbroke hearts like yours (what'd you wanna waste that on me for) by allthefandoms84 Summary: Tommy has regretted leaving Buck almost the instant he left that fateful night but he doesn't believe he is worthy of being in Buck's life. Tommy is hurting after the break up but refuses to allow his friends to see how much he misses his Evan. After an accident leaves Tommy hurt he still refuses any help during his recovery until Buck bullies his way back into Tommy's life. Refusing to believe they are truly over Buck has his work cut out for him convincing Tommy he deserves good things.

all this love i've thrown away by jamesandanthony Summary: The first thing Tommy notices upon coming back to his senses is the cold.

Despite the rain, he doesn't remember the day being particularly cool when he'd left for work that morning so he cracks open his eyes to take stock of what is almost certainly some kind of situation with a capital S.

Ah yes.

The ground had swallowed him up as he'd landed.

Silly of him to forget.

Dear Agony by NeverlandPoet (do_androids_dream) Summary: BuckTommyWhumpWeek, Day 5: Hypothermia

walls come crumbling down by writerdot Summary: Buck and Tommy are trapped in a building collapse. Because of course they are.

Buck whump centric

Because Evan Buckley was loved. by Emaisnialleraf Summary: Based off my twitter prompt : Another flash of lightning shoots across the room as arms around his waist draw him closer. He feels Tommy press a sleepy kiss against his curls. "S'okay, sweetheart." A heavy palm trails softly across his back to calm the trembling. "I'm right here."

Give Me Tonight by Lostintheuniverseslies Summary: Buck didn’t want to jump. Not at first. Sitting on the edge of a condemned high-rise, tequila warming his veins and quieting his thoughts, he wonders if making the silence permanent wouldn’t be so bad. Then Tommy shows up—blue flight suit, steady hands, and a voice that refuses to let him disappear.

TW: depression, suicidal thoughts, suicide attempt

a vessel, tempest driven by saintsurvivor Summary: Sent to a medical call at an elderly couple's bungalow with reports of a suspected heart attack and the victim having been trapped against the front door, the 118 hits tragedy midway through a twenty four hour shift.

A roaring sound, rhythmic and constant, a heavy breeze that just touches him. Buck turns towards it, magnetized. “You’re alright, son,” Bobby tells him, orders him, as if Bobby could simply stop time and death and Buck’s own body in its tracks. “You’re gonna be just fine.” The blue and red lights of the Ladder Truck, illuminating the street, but still Buck’s eyes threaten failure, blurring until it melts into one.

Both Buck and Tommy get whumped

Hold My Hand, I'll Walk With You My Dear by salty_autistic_writer Summary: Everything’s been nice so far. Nice and cosy. Buck has been feeling content and he does like the movie. He’s snuggled up to Tommy, who radiates body heat. He even was considering putting his head on Tommy’s shoulder. But now, Buck suddenly can’t focus on the movie anymore. Another full-body shiver catches him. His mind feels foggy and floaty. And somehow, he feels a restlessness settling in that absolutely makes no sense in this situation.

Stunned, Buck realizes that he’s scared.

Or: 5 times Buck and Tommy talk about their fears and 1 time they defeat fear together.

All the Pain by NeverlandPoet (do_androids_dream) Summary: When an auspicious evening ends in disaster, Buck and Tommy are left to suffer the unexpected consequences. (BuckTommyWhumpWeek)

Branching Out by writerdot Summary: “It’s kind of cold in here,” Evan says calmly. Tommy gets off the dining room chair to go to the thermostat when the world spins around him.

Evan’s in front of him in an instant.

“Tommy,” Evan says, voice insistent and when he looks up, Evan is shaking, hard, and...is that water?

Evan’s covered in it, from head-to-toe, curls plastered to his forehead. Tommy can feel himself shaking now, freezing, his body aches and he’s wet too, what the hell?

“Tommy,” Evan is insistent. “Tommy, baby, I need you to wake up!”

Or: Buck and Tommy are in a little predicament.

Lost and Found by nine_one_wanton Summary: Tommy retreats mentally and geographically after Bobby’s death. While still processing his own series of losses, Buck goes out to try to bring Tommy back.

 Please don't leave me by Honestlynervousnut Summary: Buck has a horrible nightmare

Catastrophe by NeverlandPoet (do_androids_dream) Summary: BuckTommyWhumpWeek Day7, Canon Typical Injury (on both)

Let the walls break down by harmonic-intervention (BackseatSerenade) Summary: A whole month. That was how long Tommy could push his luck.- bucktommy fix it, near-death experiences will force them to talk if nothing else will

[angelseraphines]

ೃ⁀➷ velvet crowbar ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🦢 ꒱

╰┈➤ berlin x lover!reader headcanons

¡!being berlin’s significant other would include¡!

a/n: i would like to give a special thank you to @lumillsie for the layout of this post and for the filter used on the header!

╰┈➤ berlin is immediately captivated by your appearance. there’s a rare elegance about you, an understated beauty that commands attention without trying. it’s unlike anything he’s encountered, and it draws him in effortlessly, leaving him interested to know more.

╰┈➤ while your beauty enthralls him, it’s your wit and charm that truly ensnare him. you have a way with words, a sharpness to your intellect that leaves him yearning for deeper conversations and a desire to unravel every aspect of who you are. you become an enigma he’s determined to solve.

╰┈➤ berlin’s nature is cold and unyielding, a result of two decades spent in the unforgiving confines of a north korean prison camp. his past is a tightly locked door, one he refuses to open at first. it isn’t a matter of trust, it’s his way of protecting himself from a pain he refuses to relive.

╰┈➤ dating berlin is nothing short of extravagant. he has a taste for the finer things in life, and he spares no expense in showing you that. lavish dinners, exclusive outings, and opulent gifts are all part of the experience. his funds, after all, seem endless, given the spoils of his opulent career.

╰┈➤ at the beginning, berlin is purposefully vague about his work. he deceives his around the truth with charisma and calculated deflections. when he finally reveals his identity, a high-profile criminal and a key member of his brother’s gang, you’re understandably shocked. but your love for him is more potent than your fear. he makes it clear that betrayal is not an option, his warning softened by the lingering heat of a kiss that leaves no room for doubt.

╰┈➤ his jealousy is a force of nature, impossible to contain. when he introduces you to his crew, it’s denver’s passing glances and rio’s inappropriate comments that instantly set him off. but what truly unsettles him is your bond with the professor, his brother. there’s something about how easily you and the professor connect, sharing moments outside of berlin’s presence, that claws away at him. he despises the idea of not being the sole center of your world, his need for control over both you and his relationships simmering beneath his polished exterior.

╰┈➤ berlin insists on having you by his side at all times, your presence a source of grounding and pride for him. though he would never risk your safety by involving you in the criminal work of his team, you are always there, his hand firmly holding yours, or you standing beside him, your hand resting on his shoulder, a quiet gesture of his authority and your loyalty. you speak in his defense or offer support when needed, an unspoken understanding between you both. despite your non-involvement in their activities, berlin bestows upon you your own city codename, kabul. it is a choice made with care, reflecting his regard for you and cementing your place within his world.

╰┈➤ there are instances when berlin’s volatile nature becomes a challenge. his mind, scarred by years of torment and isolation, is not entirely stable. his temper flares, and though his anger can be terrifying, he never directs it to harm you intentionally. when the storm within him finally subsides, he is left stricken with guilt, his apologies sincere as he cups your face, searching for forgiveness in your tear-filled eyes. seeing the hurt he has caused tears at whatever remains of his hardened heart, and he vows to try and control himself for your sake.

╰┈➤ the gang is stunned by your existence. berlin has always been a man of logic and control, a figure immune to sentiment or attachment. yet here you are, the one person who has unraveled him, proving that even he possesses a sliver of humanity buried beneath his cold, calculated exterior. you are his achilles’ heel, the one weakness that could undo him, and yet he clings to you as fiercely as he clings to life itself.

╰┈➤ berlin is unapologetically affectionate toward you, even in front of the other gang members. whether it’s pulling you into his lap during a quiet moment, brushing his fingers over your cheek, or pressing an unabashed kiss to your lips as if no one else exists, his displays of affection are bold and deliberate. he wants everyone to know you belong to him and, more importantly, that he belongs to you.

╰┈➤ as planning for the heist begins, you are present for every discussion and strategy session, a silent observer in the shadows of their grand designs. while you outwardly support berlin, deep down, you are uneasy about the plan’s immense scale and the inevitable danger it poses to him. yet you know berlin too well to argue, once his mind is set, there is no persuading him. all you can do is pray that his brilliance and luck will see him through safely.

╰┈➤ for the professor, your presence is an anomaly he hadn’t accounted for. in his meticulous calculations, you are the crack that threatens to destabilize his perfect plan. before the heist begins, he warns you in no uncertain terms, you are not to contact berlin under any circumstances. when the time comes, you will receive specific instructions, and you are expected to follow them to the letter. but that isn’t enough for you. the thought of being kept apart from berlin, especially in the face of such danger, fills you with dread, and you can’t shake the desperate need to protect him, no matter the cost.

a/n: let me know your thoughts or if you have anymore requests!! also part two to scarface is coming soon!! 🤍