#a constant hovering box

[walkingstackofbooks]

I spent way too long on this for what it is XD

[prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue]

VALERIE

pt.2 of pull me in

summary : due to bruce distancing himself from reader and seeing other women - the rest of thr batfamily has to watch her willow away.

Damian carefully sets out delicate China plates onto the oak table - he always ensures that he places the golden forks and its corresponding smaller spoons next to them - just like how Name taught him . It all seems like a forgone , a distant memory , but when Damian had first moved into the manor - he met Name always cooking.

She was a woman who always preferred home cooked food over bought food - taught him that having the privilege to have food and to enjoy it was a luxury many cannot afford in this time - so the fact that this family can - they should cherish it.

He was, of course, weirded, out by it - of course, he grew up having maids cook for him - he never had to think of his next meal but because he respected Name wishes . His respect was even further upheld because Name was an amazing cook - everything she's ever made him practically melted in his tongue , the taste etched into the depths of his mind.

He remembers in his earlier days of living here - he always hovered over her in the kitchen , he found it peaceful and a way to escape to constant arguing and fighting he had with the rest of his other siblings. He always gravitated to her , he didn't understand why - he already had a mother, Talia , but for some reason, he still felt the need to be around her.

Maybe it was because Name was a quiet woman and a woman who never bothered to fix him or opted to berating him about something - instead, she opted to just live in his space , to just quietly carry about herself. That doesn't mean they haven't spoken , his very first day, he remembered her asking if he had any allergies or certain food preferences.

They had other conversations, too , like the time she caught him fiddling with the washing machine when he was trying to wash his Robin suit, and she explained the workings and mechanics of using both the washer and the dryer. Or the time she caught him sneaking out, and she literally told him to use the backdoor next time.

Safe to say , Name and him bonded quietly, but that's what he loved about her - she was patient and loving - a silent type of love not one that's too overbearing or one like Bruce's were it left you guessing.

Damian sets the jug of water at the center of the table - ensuring it was perfect and neat just like Name taught him . Jason and Tim soon enough comes barreling in with takeout bags and left them on the table half hazardly.

" Tch - Jason, just because your room is a pigsty doesn't mean our dining table has to be." Damian quarreled as he immediately straightened it . " Yeah, Jay mom has a system." Tim quirks up as he helps Damian straighten it.

Jason awkwardly rubs at his head , " Sorry - never got ma's tidy genes," he apologizes . Damian rolls his eyes, but let's out a smirk . The dining door opens again to reveal Dick and Name walking in , Dick immediately pulls out a chair for Name and helps her get situated in.

" We got Chinese takeout, ma," Dick explains as he gestures towards the bags on the table. A small smile graces name's face as she gives a small nod at the boys. They immediately lit up - glad that their mom was happy with today's dinner choice.

" Yeah, we got you your steamed broccoli and beef ma " Jason says as he carefully hands her a box . Name nods as she takes the box into her hands and rests it carefully on the plate . " Jay and I got fry rice and shrimp wontons - Dick got spicy noodles with chicken, and well, we all know Damian got his sucky tofu " Tim furthers as he distributed the boxes out.

Dick practically snatches his before sitting next to Name . He opens up his box, and the smell of the spice practically engulfs the entire room, causing everyone to cough. Jason, who has opted to sit across from Name, glares at him , " Dick how spicy did you order that damn thing -" he complains.

Tim, who was sitting next to Jason, stuffed his mouth with a wonton , " $50.00 he's gonna start crying again when he eats it -" he bets. Damian takes his seat in the opposite of Name and grumbles annoyed with his siblings antics , " Grayson I swear to God if you get an upset stomach because of this on patrol I am personally going to stab you " .

Name giggles quietly - no matter how shitty life went for her - nothing could beat watching her children be happy like this. " Ya'll are being dramatic. I just got normal level this time, alright - plus I have a better spice tolerance than you all," Dick defended as he slurped his noodles.

Everyone literally rolled their eyes at that. " Dick you got the spice tolerance of an old white man," Tim muses . " Tim - you are a white old man too you shouldn't be talking either " Jason interjects.

" This argument is pointless - you all are pathetic at cuisine - only mother and I have a superb palette," Damian adds in as he carefully eats his tofu. A collective groan echoes in the dining room. " Okay - Mom has a good palette, hands down, but definitely not you, Damian." Dick argues - pointing his fork at Damian dramatically.

" Okay, first off, I am the only one here who can somewhat replicate Mother's pelau -" Damian defends . Jason , pursuing his lips cuts him off , " You burnt the bloody rice last time. What do you mean replicate ?" Jason points out. " I said somewhat, Todd, maybe Harvard should take back your English degree," Damian snares.

" When you are making pelau , rice goes in last, and then you add in your water," Name interjects before the conversation goes south and explains - her voice soft . The batboys still - its rare their mother ever talks - ever since Bruce told her voice was annoying and grating - she very rarely spoke . Safe to say , they were overjoyed . " Thank you, ma - tell them how a real cook does it !!" Jason exclaims .

" Ma, I miss your cooking - we literally have to survive off of Alfred and Dad's poor attempts," Tim practically begs. " I'm sorry, babies, you know Mama can not cook anymore like she used to, but I'm sure Alfred and your father can cook." Name apologizes , grimacing at the ' your father ' part .

The batboys too grimance at the mention of Bruce - it's no secret that they dislike him - no matter how much Name pleads and tells them to respect him and remind them that he was their father - they couldn't bring it upon themselves to respect that man . In utter rebellion, they all start calling him Bruce - even on patrol since none of them could give a shit .

Heck, that's how Selina found out . It was like any other patrol except that night , Tim and Bruce were really deep into another argument. " Bruce - I am not going to another stupid gala - especially because Ma isn't going," he argued . " Your mother doesn't control you, Tim," Bruce argued back as he continued looking over the roof - already done with the conversation.

" Yeah, well, maybe the fact that you're married to the woman should control you from being tongue deep down in some other woman, huh ?" Tim yells back before he turns away from Bruce . Selina was standing right behind him , jaw-dropped and eyes blown open in shock . Tim shoves past her before disappearing off in the night - he couldn't stand being in either of their presence .

Before anyone could say anything , the dining room's door pushes open to reveal a scowling Bruce . His neck is covered in lipstick marks and hickies , and his shirt is wrinkled. Name practically froze in her spot , arms shaking as she took him in . She could feel all of her insecurities bubble with her - practically drowning her in scalding water .

Jason scoffs - already pissed at absolute audacity while Tim just stares - his face void of any emotion. Dick's eyes got dull, really quick when his eyes drifted between Name and Bruce and well Damian - his face was red - down to the tips of his ears was red , he was practically seething in his seat - ready to pounce .

" I thought I said to make dinner Name ?" Bruce questions as he takes a seat to the top of the table. The air is tense and cold, and no one at the table makes a move to acknowledge the sheer stupidity of his demand. " And we thought being married means being loyal to your partner," Jason sassed - his glare practically cuts into Bruce's own.

" Have some decorum at the table, Jason," Bruce corrected as he stares at Name pointedly , " Again Name , why is there no dinner prepared . Are you so lazy that you have to waste my money on cheap takeout ?" He asks again. Name stayed there frozen - her lungs began to collapse on her as panic ensnares her.

" If you want dinner prepared, then prepare it yourself." Dick seethes out . Silence consumes the table once again - the air practically thickens when the dining door opens again to reveal none other than Selina , black dress equally wrinkled and her lipstick smudged.

Name stared at her and then at Bruce before standing up , her chair scraped against the floorboards, leaving a mark in its wake. " Go rot in hell " Name says , voice dripped in calm rage , eyes boring into Bruce challenging him to say something .

Name then looked to Selina , face void of feeling as she did a once over , " Last season of Channel's couture? Pathetic , at least look good if you are going to be a homewrecker " She says casually before strutting past her as if Selina was a measly fly.

The room goes silent fast, and soon enough, everyone began dismissing themselves, leaving Bruce and Selina alone to tend to each other's bruised ego's.

thank you for reading !!

please like + share + comment

note : this is a work of fiction . This work does not represent Canon versions of Selina Kyle , Talia AL Ghul, and Bruce Wayne , please do not unnecessarily hate these characters .

[alinathinkstoomuch]

COMFORT IN YOU

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader (ex!reader, i suppose) summary: even though the two of you are no longer together, hotch can't help the fact that he still has the need to comfort you. warnings | an: lil hurt & comfort, two exes making soup together but they're still blatantly in love with one another, also pretty sure this is not the correct way to make soup i was really just saying shi to make them busy, yearning i suppose?? word count: 2k

✧ masterlist

You were having what you could only describe as a series of bad days. There were no particular causes or events for them, just the uncomfortable feeling of a heaviness in your chest. There wasn’t anything glaringly wrong, but there wasn’t much that felt right, either.

For the past week, you’d been snoozing your alarm until the last possible second. Mornings turned into rushed scrambles - brushing your teeth and hair the only boxes you’d managed to check before bolting out the door. You hadn’t bothered with makeup or a decent outfit in days, simply because nothing seemed worth the effort.

You knew the feeling would pass eventually, it wasn’t a constant thing. Every now and then, you just felt…off. Like you were watching yourself from the outside, going through the motions but not really present.

You were sure there was a word for it. Something detached and clinical - Spencer had once mentioned it on a flight home from a case. The memory hovered at the edges of your mind, but you couldn’t find the energy to chase it down just to label what you already knew.

You just didn’t feel like yourself.

“You’re not seriously staying here past five on a Friday night, are you?” Penelope asked, using your desk as a dumping ground to sort through her large purse.

You glanced up with a tried smile. “No, Pen. Just finishing up. I’ll be out of here soon.”

“Okay, sugar,” she said in what was supposed to be her warning voice – though, like everything Penelope said, it came wrapped in warmth and sweetness. “Promise me you’ll go home, take a nice hot bath, light some candles –” she fluttered her fingers animatedly, “–and show yourself some love.”

You arched a brow. “Is this your subtle way of telling me I look like shit?”

She gasped, swatting you lightly with her pink glasses case. “I would never use such language. But also…yes. A little bit.”

You shook your head and rolled your eyes, giving her a full performance of your pretend annoyance.

Penelope just grinned, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Text me when you get home. And take care of that beautiful face, okay?” She reached out, giving your chin a playful squeeze before blowing you an air-kiss. “Self-care, my love. Don’t make me come over there and enforce it.”

“Yes, boss,” you said, standing from your seat. “Have a good night, Penny.”

Once she was gone, you stacked the last forms for your report into a folder, quietly relieved that Hotch wasn't in his office to hand it in to. It had taken you far longer to complete than usual - in fact, you were pretty sure yours was the only report he was waiting on to close out the case.

He wouldn't have given you a hard time about it – he never had – but still, you didn't want him thinking you couldn't handle your workload. Not when you both agreed the job was too important to let anything, especially your relationship, interfere with it.

You made your way into his office, the lights still on despite the fact that he'd stepped out for a meeting hours ago. It should've felt strange being in his space. Working with him. Seeing him every day, even after the two of you had mutually agreed to call it quits. But it didn't feel strange at all.

If anything, your relationship with him had stayed almost exactly the same. The only real difference was that you couldn't crawl into his arms at the end of a long day - and that was okay, or at least you had spent a lot of time trying to convince yourself that it was. You were both adults. Mature. Maybe a little too career-hungry.

You'd given it your best shot for almost a year, and it just didn't work. That was it. There wasn't anything more either of you could've done – or, if you were honest, wanted to do. Maybe if you'd both been accountants, or if one of you had decided to transfer out of the BAU, it might've worked. But neither of you wanted that.

You both loved the job exactly as it was.

So you let go.

And maybe that was love too, in its own way.

You left the report neatly on his desk, then made your way back to your own. After packing up your things, you headed out, the building quiet behind you.

On the way home, you stopped by the grocery store near your place, telling yourself you'd pick up something for a proper dinner. But somewhere between the fluorescent lights and the half-empty shelves, you settled on a frozen meal instead. Very high-nutrient of you, truly.

By the time you got home, you didn't even bother unpacking your haul. You just dropped the bags on the countertop and left them there, your keys landing beside them with a dull clink. You headed straight for the bathroom, aiming for a quick shower and could practically hear Penelope rolling her eyes at your refusal to take a proper bath.

It couldn’t have been later than eight when a knock echoed through your home. Your slippers dragged softly across the wooden floor as you made your way to the door, unsure of who you were about to find on the other side. Perhaps it was Penelope, coming over to check whether the bath salts she had given you for your birthday had finally been put to use.

But when you opened the door, it wasn’t Penelope standing there.

It was Hotch. Still in his work clothes, with a brown bag tucked under his arm.

“Well, fancy seeing you here,” you greeted, opening the door wider to let him in.

He stepped inside without a word, moving through the space like he’d never left it. Like it still belonged to him, at least in some small way. And maybe it did. For a while, this had been his second home.

You watched him cross to the kitchen, settling the bag down beside your still-unpacked groceries.

“No Thai?”

“Not tonight,” he replied, slipping off his jacket. “I thought I’d make soup.” His sleeves were rolled up before you could even respond and he was at your sink, using your soap to wash his hands to make you dinner.  

You really couldn’t make this up.

You took a seat on the bench, folding your legs beneath you as you watched him unpack the contents of the bag. “Did you read my report?”

He didn’t look up as he pulled out a bundle of parsley, a container of chicken stock and various vegetables. “I did.”

“Am I going to have to redo it?”

He glanced at you then, the faintest trace of amusement crossing his face. “No,” he said. “It was good. A little rushed, maybe – but not wrong.”

You gave dry laugh. “You can tell me to redo it, I promise I won’t get mad.”

“I know you won’t, but I also know when you’re not at your best. And I’m not going to punish you for having an off week.”

You nodded slowly, watching as he moved to grab a cutting board.

After a moment, you spoke again – softer this time. “You won’t be able to do this forever, you know.”

His eyes met yours again, but he stayed silent.

“I’m serious,” you went on, offering a small smile. “What happens when you start dating again? You’re just going to keep showing up at your ex-girlfriend’s house with soup ingredients?”

“I don’t think dating is in the cards right now.”

You tilted your head, teasing gently. “Why not? Did I leave you that emotionally wrecked?”

He shook his head with a quiet laugh. “No, you didn’t. It’s just…not where my focus is.”

You clicked your tongue, reaching for an orange from the fruit bowl. “Well, that’s a shame. Because dating is in my cards,” you revealed, digging your thumb into the skin and starting to peel.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Thinking of going for a broker this time,” you mused, not looking at him as you pulled off a strip of peel. “You know, mix it up. Maybe someone who doesn’t alphabetize their spices.”

“And you’d be happy with a broker?”

You shrugged, glancing up at him as you popped a piece of mandarin into your mouth. “Who knows.” You chewed slowly, then added with a smirk, “I can easily picture you with a nurse. Or maybe a doctor. Wouldn’t that be fun? We could do double dates, your nurse-doctor, my broker. Very grown-up of us.”

“I don’t think I’m built for double dating.”

“No,” you agreed. “You’d probably scare my broker away.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?”

You paused, taking the time to eat your second piece of mandarin. “Depends.”

“On?”

“How much I like the broker."

He didn’t respond right away, turning back toward the stove. “Where’s your big pot?”

“Exactly where you left it,” you replied, watching as he moved toward the lower cabinet, like he still remembered this kitchen better than his own.

And the truth was, this – whatever this was – probably wasn’t the healthiest of situations, and it wasn’t making moving on any easier for either of you.

But it was what you knew. What you remembered.

And if this was the version of him you were allowed to keep, you’d take it. You weren’t ready to go back to a life without him, not yet. Not when he still offered pieces of himself and not when you still kept saying yes.

“Do you need any help?” you asked, rising to your feet, your knees clicking in protest.  

“Always need your help,” he responded – just a little too casually. You knew he hadn’t meant for it to land as heavily as it did.

You gathered the orange peel and turned to toss it in the bin, just as Hotch stepped back from the stove. And suddenly, he was right there – in front of you. His eyes found yours and held them, like he was reading something you hadn’t yet decided to say. He’d always been good at that, seeing things before you did. Predicting thoughts you hadn’t even fully formed.

“Have you been sleeping?”

You nodded, brushing past him to rinse your hands. “Like a baby.”

He turned just slightly, enough to catch your expression. “That’s a no, then.”

“It’s hard to get comfortable on a bed that’s broken,” you said, equal parts explanation and blame. And while you wished it was a great sex story you were referring to…it wasn’t. You’d asked him to hang a frame above your bed. The next thing you heard from the living room was a loud thud – one of the bed legs snapping clean off.

“Hey, I fixed what I broke,” he offered.

Ha.

“Not very well,” you muttered, drying your hands. “Where do you want me?”

Hotch paused mid-motion as he added vegetables to the pot, eyes flicking up to meet yours.  

“In terms of helping,” you added, arching a brow like it was his mind that had wandered.

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Right.” He nodded toward the cutting board. “You can shred the chicken.”

You did as you were told, moving to stand next to him. Your elbow brushed his now and then, neither of you bothering to move away.

“You still do this thing,” you said after a moment, not looking up. “Organising everything before you start. Like you’re in a restaurant kitchen.”

“It saves time,” he reasoned, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

“It’s kind of endearing.”

“You used to call it controlling.”

You shrugged again. “I don’t recall.”

“Just like you don’t recall watering the basil?” His eyes moved to a pot on the windowsill, it’s leaves wilted, dropping sadly.

“You’re welcome to take it home with you.”

He raised a brow. “And let it die under my care instead?”

“Seems fair. Full-circle moment.”

Your elbow brushed his again and the two of you fell silent.

“...You okay?”

You didn’t look at him. “Yeah.”

“You sure?” he pressed, gentler now.  

You nodded, still not meeting his eyes. “Yeah. I mean… not great, but – functioning.”

“Is there anything that I can do?”

You glanced up, offering a tired but genuine smile. “Just make sure the soup’s good.”

“It will be,” he assured you. “I know how you like it.”

And he did – because he still remembered all of it. Everything you liked, everything you didn’t. What you tolerated with a tight-lipped smile and what you outright hated. He hadn’t forgotten a thing.

And as you stood there, watching him move through your kitchen like he still belonged in your home, in your heart, you couldn’t help but wonder how many more times the two of you would let yourselves end up in moments like this.

tags - @fandomscombine @dohmeti @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue

(please lmk if you want to be removed from the general tag list & just be kept on the fake finance tag list)

dividers by cafekitsune

[yandere-wishes]

hey whenever you can, can you make some yandere d-16

❥༄ؘ I'll do you one better Anon!! How about Yandere D-16 vs Megatron

𝄞 Somebody That I Used To Know (Slowed)

✿˗ˏˋ ✴︎D-16✴︎ ˎˊ˗✿

.☘︎ ݁˖D-16 can't remember when exactly he first noticed the erratic pulsing of his spark straining against his metallic frame when you walked into the room. Just that, after all these cycles, it had remained constant, enrapt. Pulling him to you.

.☘︎ ݁˖D-16 has a tendency to pick at things he likes, things he finds bizarrely blissfulas. He wishes he could leave them alone, leave the questions locked under his tongue and the paint free of servo marks. But he can't, indifference only gets you so far, and while he tries to follow protocol. He can't always let things go. He can't let you go.

.☘︎ ݁˖He watches as you chip away at sedimentary rock, coated in soot as you trek for the liquid lifeline. He can't help but think you look like a princess from those old spark-tales. Circuitella. Dainty and disheveled. He wonders if he should offer to carry your jackhammer on the way back to the barracks. He wonders if his voice box can even form words in your presence. He settles for trailing behind you. Optics darting between the stone walls and the back of your helm. Orian laughs and laughs and laughs. D-16 can't help but see the humor in it all. Irony too early to land.

.☘︎ ݁˖He didn't mean to drag you to the surface. It just so happens that on that exact day, there was a forgotten crate. And in that exact moment, you'd decided to personally deliver it to the surface train. It just so happens he grabs your servo, pulling into the shadow of the crates. Tucked away beneath him. Heading for doom or glory or a grotesque third.

.☘︎ ݁˖D-16 is obsessive, longing for his darling from afar. Desperate for a sliver of your attention, desperate for the shadow of your presence. He can't help but watch you, optics trailing over your gorgeous features. He can't help but dream of the taste of your lips and sturdy touch as he chips away at a vein.

.☘︎ ݁˖He secretly collects little pieces of your essence. Keeping them locked in his chest chamber right above his spark. Chipped paint, a piece of metal from your plating, tiny parts of an old drill you once used. He needs you in ways he can't understand, ways that claw at his processor and spark like the wild beasts Megatrouns used to fight. Needs to hear your voice as you complain about a stiff joint or your breathy giggle as you laugh at him and Orian arguing again.

.☘︎ ݁˖He wishes he could collect stickers of you. Stick them across his frame and watch the iridescent glow under Cybertron's sun. Wishes he could decorate his measly possessions with your radiant smile and sparkling optics.

.☘︎ ݁˖Is it weird that I LOVE the thought of D-16 collecting stickers? Mostly of Megatrous but also of the other primes, famous racers, sentinel prime, etc.

.☘︎ ݁˖The thought of Sentinel Prime having touched you, having stolen a part of you (let alone a part of him) leaves him teetering on lava rage, leaving his spark breaking in ways he didn't know it could.

.☘︎ ݁˖D-16 is still a child, young and new by Cybertronian standards. But age isn't gauged by online cycles now is it? It's measured in accomplishments and opalescent dreams. So maybe the little Sparkling voice screaming in the back of his helm isn't too far off. Crying that by stealing his T-cog, your T-cog. Sentinel screwed up something in your circuitry. Maybe you were always sparkbound. Maybe you were the incarnation of Solus Prime and he, Megatronus. Maybe you where always destined to be together.

.☘︎ ݁˖These thoughts burn his processor during the treacherous trek back home, back to Iacon. Can you even call he even call that cage a home? D-16 hovers closer to you. Growing bolder, even daring to leave his servo on your shoulder pad. Daring to hold your servo and drag you out of danger.

.☘︎ ݁˖"Thanks, D" you chirp cheerfully and he thinks his spark might just erupt. "Yeah it's nothing" he mutters jogging after Orian leaving you behind with a giggling and concerned Elita-one.

.☘︎ ݁˖After "retrieving" Megatronus's T-cog from Sentinel he swears on Primus himself that he shall fuse you with Solus Prime's T-cog solidifying your love. Bounding you to him through every incarnation.

.☘︎ ݁˖D-16 is tragic in every way. His fall makes Cybertron shake, his new scarlet optics send a shiver through the universe. Obsession and subjugation. Anger and Hate. D-16 burns away, you feel it when you kiss him over Sentinel's corpse. The monster in his place bites your lips trying to devour every inch of your. Conquer, Conquer, Conquer

.☘︎ ݁˖Even if Orion Pax/Optimus Prime tries to protect you. Keep you in Iacon safe from the bot he once called brother. There is no way he can stop the newly evolved warlord from hunting you down. D-16 had always been loyal to his obsessions, tearing through everything to feel them under his servos. Although back then -when they'd been happy under a blanket of lies- D-16's obsessions had simply been holographic stickers of tragic heroes. Now it's bloodstained domination. Conformation to a macraber freedom. He's no longer a little minor bot tolling away, he's Megatron now. Hungry monstrous thing raging wars until he has both his darling and Cybertron in his grasp once more. D-16 had always told Orion that he thought you nothing less than a princess. And maybe it has always been true, after all, princesses are a tragedy too.

.☘︎ ݁˖Optimus can't help but shed a tear at the thought as he watches D-16 Megatron roll away...

⋆༺𓆩𓆩Megatron𓆪𓆪༻⋆

✮ Upon your recapture, Megatron isn't too gentle. He's rough and angry. He's betrayed -again- it pricks at his spark like daggers. The first thing Megatron does is force Solus Prime's T-cog into your chassis. He promised you he'd bound you to him, didn't he? Promised you'd be together in every incarnation. And unlike every golden leader before him, Megatron intends to keep every one of his promises.

✮ He loves the sight of you writhing in pain beneath him. Runs his clawed servos over the the raw wires fusing and the circuits crunching into each other. The look of utter pain in your optics has his spark racing like the first time he saw you in the mines. He can't help but kiss you deeply, greedily swallowing your essence.

✮ You can taste his anger on your tongue. You roll the pulp of rage around your mouth swallowing the sadness, the desperation. Letting the taste burn the roof of your mouth. He calls you traitor and darling between each breath. And you can't tell if he wants to kiss your spark or decollate your helm and mount it on the wall of his new ship.

✮ Megatron suffers in shades and flavors that haven't been invented yet, you feel them swatch against your lips in every single one of his raging kisses. He isn't above leaving marks and dents across your armor. He likes you better this way broken and beautiful. Tragedy in every way

✮ He used to hate seeing you scared and defenseless. Now such a precious sight leaves him intoxicated, spark buzzing with overt excitment. He likes this power, feeling you tremble each time he raises his servo. Your life is laced between his digits, he loves tugging it harshly showing you how he controls you in every way imaginable. He likes being the monster that princesses fear. "Circuitella" he whispers under his breath, he knows you don't get the joke.

✮ Megatron likes to kill through you. Intwined digits holding a blaser, his claws on your digits pushing until the trigger releases and the bullets impale the target. He trails open-mouthed kisses across your back afterward. Sharp teeth sinking into the metal of your neck. He pulls you closer locked between his arms. When did he get so big? You remember when he'd been so utterly small. Little minor bot, where is he? Megatron never notices your melancholy optics or the whirl of your processor as it tries to distance itself from the physical world. All he cares about is your body wrapped within his. About the sweet taste of your metal and paint on his tongue.

✮ Megatron's love is lave upon open wounds, painful in every way. Where D-16's love had once been saccharine energon goodies and shy iridescent kisses. But D-16 is dead, he died with Orion all those centuries ago. Only Megatron remains. Lord Megatron, the one who keeps you caged, overpowers you with rough kisses and says "I love you" while pointing a blaser to your spark.

✮ I guess it's worth mentioning that D-16 would never harm his darling in any way but would absolutely avenge her if someone so much as left a scratch on her. Megtran punishes his darling for amusement and also because he loves her submission and fear. But I guess a little D-16 still lives inside him cause he will rip apart anyone who so much as touches his darling.

✮ Sometimes, when the lights are low and darkness begins to play it's ploys. You swear you see D-16 looking at you. Easy smile and bright sunny eyes. Body still tiny, with no pain engraved upon it. But illusions are always so quick to shatter, their precious shards melting under reality's brutal wight. D-16 withers away and in his place Lord Megatron stands. Piercing Claws and teeth gleaming under the dim light. He's gentle when he touches you laying something on your armour. Thin smile as he admires you, ethereal little you before leaving. You always check to see what he's left. It's always an iridescent sticker from his old collection...

[thef1diary]

i love love love ghost!max, and i know you’re pretty much only writing smut about him, but i’m in my feels rn, so what if the spirit box stays on all the time now, so that you can openly communicate with max whenever you want. but one day the two of you get in a big fight about something and you turn the spirit box off on him. maybe he realizes that he’s screwed up and tries to do little things for you, like making you breakfast or cleaning something in the house, just small things he’d never done before, hoping you’d turn the box back on and give him the chance to actually apologize

pls ignore this if you’re only sticking to smut for ghost!max, i just needed to get the thought out of my head 🤍

— hi nonnie! I’m so glad you love this lil au <3 going to write some fluffier drabbles cuz I’m also in my feels lately. lil drabble below

The silence was different this time. It wasn’t the quiet comfort you had grown used to since Max became a presence in your life—it was hollow, empty. Usually, even in the stillest moments, you could feel him lingering, his energy humming softly through the air, a constant awareness that he was there, always watching, always listening. But now?

Now, the air felt cold in an uncomfortable way.

You still felt something—his presence hadn’t disappeared, but it was distant, dulled by the heavy weight of your anger. Or maybe it was his anger, too.

The argument had started over something stupid. A careless comment, a teasing remark from Max that had hit a nerve when it wasn’t supposed to. Maybe it had been a bad day, maybe you had been stressed, but the irritation had flared too quickly, your words snapping sharper than intended. And then Max—prideful, stubborn Max—hadn’t let it go. He had pushed back, and before you knew it, you were fighting over things neither of you had meant to say.

“You don’t get it, Max,” you had spat, arms crossed, voice shaking.

“Oh, because I’m dead?” he had shot back through the spirit box, static crackling through his words, his tone biting. “That’s your excuse?”

You had wanted to scream. Instead, you had reached over and shut off the only form of verbal communication you had with him.

The silence that followed was deafening.

For the first day, neither of you tried to fix it. You ignored him because you were still angry, and Max—well, he had no way of talking to you, so why would he bother? If anything, it felt like a standstill, both of you too prideful to make the first move.

But then, the ache and longing began to settle in.

Max hadn’t realized how much he needed to talk to you until he couldn’t. At first, it didn’t seem like a big deal. He told himself it didn’t matter that you couldn’t hear him. He still spoke—jokes, dry remarks, muttered comments when you cracked open yet another energy drink—but it went unheard. No reaction or responses from you. It felt wrong.

The silence stretched longer, and something in him itched with the need to break it.

But he couldn’t do so verbally. Instead, he did things.

The next morning, you woke up groggy, exhausted from a restless sleep. You dragged yourself to the kitchen only to find a steaming cup of coffee waiting for you on the counter, the sugar and cream swirled in exactly the way you liked. Your hand hovered over it for a second, heart clenching at the sight, before you scoffed to yourself and turned away.

The day after, you noticed the house was tidier than usual. The couch blanket had been folded neatly, pillows fluffed in a way you never bothered to do. The floor—was it cleaner? You weren’t sure, but something felt different. Still, you ignored it, pushing the thought away before it could settle too deeply in your chest.

Then, the kitchen.

You had left dishes in the sink from the night before, too tired to deal with them. But when you stepped into the kitchen that morning, they were gone. Clean. Dry. Put away. You gripped the edge of the counter, staring at the empty sink like it had personally offended you.

“Max,” you muttered under your breath, your voice softer than before.

That evening, you found dinner waiting for you.

It wasn’t anything fancy—a simple dish, something you would have made for yourself on an easy night—but it was warm, plated carefully, waiting on the dining table. The chair was slightly pulled out, like an unspoken invitation.

You swallowed hard, staring at it for a long time, fingers twitching at your sides.

Your resolve wavered. You had spent the days determined to ignore him, convincing yourself that turning off the spirit box was justified. When you had reached for the switch, silencing him completely, you thought you had won.

But now, standing before this quiet gesture, it didn’t feel like winning.

You sat down hesitantly, the air around you charged with the unmistakable weight of his presence. You could almost feel him watching, waiting. Each bite was a painful reminder of your argument. But you imagined the way he must have lingered in the kitchen, moving unseen, focused on preparing something just for you. It was familiar, comforting, and undeniably him.

After finishing, you pushed the plate aside and sighed, rubbing your temples. “Damn you, Max,” you muttered under your breath, knowing full well he could hear you.

But when you passed by the fridge, your resolve shattered, replacing the remnants of anger with longing.

You stopped in your tracks, stomach tightening as you took in the magnets—letters you didn’t even remember having, rearranged into something unmistakable.

Please talk to me

Your breath caught, a lump forming in your throat. You reached out, fingertips brushing over the letters like they might disappear. It was desperate. Messy. A plea.

You could almost hear him, the way he’d say it if he could, voice rough, maybe even a little strained.

Your chest ached.

With a deep breath, you turned, walked to the living room, and flicked the switch on the spirit box.

Static filled the room, a familiar hum cutting through the heavy silence. And then—his voice, distorted but clear, breaking through like a sigh of relief.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was rough, distorted through the static, but the emotion in it was unmistakable.

Your throat tightened.

“…You really swept the floor to get my attention?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

A pause.

“Yeah. It was awful. I’m never doing that again.”

The laugh that bubbled out of you was instant, breaking the tension in your chest. You hadn’t even realized how much you missed hearing him until now. Until this moment.

You exhaled shakily, resting your hand on the couch for support. “I’m sorry,” you admitted quietly.

The static shifted, almost like a sigh before he spoke again, “please don’t do that again.”

want more ghost!max? send me an ask with your thoughts—filthy or not—and I’d love to write you a little drabble <3

[myfictionaldreams]

Day 29: Coercion/Blackmail - Dark!Marauders

Summary: They were waiting for the ideal chance to find you alone and the perfect opportunity arose when they saw you on the Marauder's map as you were sneaking around the Restricted section of the library.

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, dubious content, mean!marauders, Slytertherin!Reader, manipulation, coercion, blackmail, threatening, scent smelling, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, restrained, panty sniffing, masturbation, nearly caught, dacryphilia

masterlist 📚 

kinktober masterlist😈 

AO3 Link 

“Well, well, well boys, look who we’ve got here”, James boasted, shuffling over to where Sirius and Remus sat on either end of the Gryffindor sofa, leaving enough space for him to squeeze in between. The Gryffindor Seeker sat with a smug grin on his handsome face as he displayed the Marauders map for both of his friends to see, pointing directly in the middle where your name hovered.

“Is she in the restricted section of the library?” Remus asked, leaning closer to James to make sure that what he was reading was true.

James looked between Remus and Sirius, still grinning so wide that his cheeks ached, “Yes, she is, Moony. Our slithery little friend seems to be sneaking around in naughty places that she shouldn’t be”.

Sirius sighed heavenly, his body melting back into the overused cushions of the maroon sofa. “Today really is my lucky day”, he admired, all the cruel intentions flashing through his mind with the opportunity presented to him. You were their favourite plaything and had been since the first year. Being in Slytherin, you were natural enemies with the Gryffindors, but as much grief as they gave you, you were always quick to give it back, so it was a constant repeat as to who could best the other.

Now, the opportunity was too perfect for them to pass up on. There you were, in the middle of the night, in the restriction section of the library with no one around, and oh, they were more than ready to confront you. James thought about bringing along his invisibility cloak, but as they were all grown, there wasn’t much space to squish them beneath, so it was easier to use the map to see if there was anyone on the route that they would bump into.

You cursed quietly under your breath; you hated the restricted section. It felt so eerie and dark. However, you were researching some unsanitary subjects that couldn’t be found in the books without chains wrapped around them. Lifting the lamp above your head, you continued to search for the relevant topic, keeping your breathing slow and shallow to listen for any signs that one of the Professors was on patrol nearby.

As you searched through the third row of books, you heard the shuffle of multiple footsteps. Your heart immediately jumped into your throat as you blew out the candle in your lamp and rushed deeper into the restricted section to hide in a dark corner.

“I’d stop running if I were you, little snake. We know you’re here”, Sirius taunted with a cheerful tone to show how delighted he was to be in this situation.

The tip of your wand, defiantly pointing towards them, was what they saw first of you as they held up their wands for light. “What the fuck are you three doing here?” you asked pointedly, rolling your eyes and relaxing the tension that had built since you’d heard the noise.

The three Marauders gathered around you, forming a semi-circle, boxing you into the bookshelf. Even though the four of you were always at loggerheads, you weren’t actually threatened by them. In fact, things between you were borderline between enemies with benefits. They were always upfront about their attraction to you and would frequently tease you because of it. So far, nothing had occurred other than fleeting kisses, but every time the four of you were alone together, the tension was palpable in the atmosphere. You enjoyed this cat-and-mouse game that had developed; even though they were beautiful men, you couldn’t think of anything worse than sleeping with Gryffindors, especially with the rising suspicion from the other Slytherins.

Lowering your wand and tucking it into the pocket of your robe, your eyes flicked between each of them and sharply asked, “How the fuck do you three always find me? Are you stalking me?”

The back of James’ fingers stroked across your cheekbone. A touch that you didn’t flinch away from but gently shoved his hand away as he reached your jaw. Shaking his messy black hair, James smirked, his hazel eyes devouring you in the darkness of his lamp resting on the bookshelf beside you.

Remus’ head condescendingly tilted to the left, “We were just worried for your wellbeing. The restricted section isn’t exactly a welcome place for students”.

It was your turn to develop a smirk as you looked over his body, remembering the event from last week. “You know better than most that I can look after myself, Lupin”. Last Tuesday, he’d accidentally stepped into the way of you practising a particularly brutal jinx during defence against the dark arts.

Remus’ eyelids lowered, so he looked at you through his eyelashes, “I didn’t properly thank you for that one, did I?” Even though he was being sarcastic, you didn’t miss the severe undertone to his baritone voice.

“Poor Moony here had to spend the night in the hospital wing. You’re lucky he’s still just as handsome as before”, Sirius mocks, reaching to grip his friend's face and shaking his head for emphasis until Remus shoves him away.

Once more, you’re rolling your eyes at their antics. “Well, maybe Lupin should watch where he’s walking next time I practise spells”.

James shifts closer as he stands to your left, his body casually leaning against the bookcase, “So hostile tonight, Princess. Do you need some way to get your anger out? I know the perfect way”.

Your eyes seemed to be in a constant state of rolling, finding James’ words more annoying than serious as he licked his bottom lip suggestively.

“Maybe I don’t like being interrupted when trying to do something important. So, why don’t you three run back to your little Gryffindor hiding hole?”.

James cocks his head to the side as he looks back at Sirius and Remus, who has stepped even closer, causing the apples of your cheeks to warm at the increasing temperature, even in the creepy section of the library.

“You know, Moony, I do recall you being head boy”, James casually remarks to Remus, who grins, the pink scars that were still healing down his cheeks stretching with the movement. Glancing down, he held up the shiny pin attached to his pristinely knotted tie, showing you the badge.

“You’d be correct about that, Prongs”.

Sirius now steps forward, mimicking James’ stands, but this time to your right, leaving Remus between them and directly in front of you. “I’d love to know Moony. What would the head boy say to a sneak snake wandering around the castle in the middle of the night and the restricted area no less?” Sirius asks with a fake, quizzical look on his handsome face as some of his long hair slips from behind his ear, causing a sinister shadow to hide part of his smirk.

“Well, Padfoot, I would say to that certain little snake that she was breaking a handful of school rules and deserves to have points taken away from her, a weekend of detentions and the head of Slytherin to be woken and informed”.

You scoff, looking between the three of them as your arms folded across your chest. “Ha ha. You’re hilarious, boys”, your voice is laced with sarcasm, “Your scare tactics won’t work with me”.

“Oh really?” Remus continued, stepping forward and raising his hands to rest on either side of your head, pressing into the chains surrounding the books as he dropped his head to be eye level with you. “The thing is, Love, I’m not joking. Why would I abuse my powers like that?” Glancing over his shoulder to Sirius, he asked, “How long do you think it would take you to get to Slughorn’s office? A couple of minutes?” he turned back towards you. “I’m sure he could get there before you do. Professor Slughorn will be very interested to hear why his favourite student is walking around the restricted section in the middle of the night, don’t you agree?”

Your stomach twisted with unease as your confident exterior began to crack. “Why the fuck would you three care where I am? It’s got nothing to do with any of you. I could just as well wake up Professor McGonagall and tell her you’re all out of bed”.

Remus purses his lips as he fakes contemplation, but it is Sirius who speaks next, joy evident in his voice, “Ah, you see, the thing is beautiful; there’s three of us and only one of you. All it would take is one of us to hold you here and another to go and wake our friend Sluggie. And oh, would you look at that? There’s still one of us spare to help hold you down”.

Your heartbeat begins to increase, causing palpitations beneath your ribs as your anxiety begins to take over. “You guys aren’t funny, you know. You’re wasting my time.” You attempted to keep the facade up that you weren’t bothered by their words, but you knew they weren’t messing around.

Remus suddenly grips your cheeks, causing you to startle and jolt at the rough hold he had, squishing your lips out and forcing your eyes to look only up at him. “We aren’t joking around. We think it’s about time the Slytherins stop getting away with everything, and what better example to use than their silver star? I’m sure you’d continue to be everyone’s favourite when I take away; hmm, would 50 house points be sufficient?”

Your heart felt like it would pound out of your chest as you stepped closer to him, now toe to toe, and the tips of your noses nearly brushed together as you tried to look as vicious as possible. “50?! What the fuck is your problem, Lupin?” As you spoke, your fingers reached into your robe to grab your wand, but James was quicker, muttering expelliamous and catching your wand with his nimble fingers.

James tutted, shoving your wand into his pocket within his robe, “You know, Moony, I think another 10 points for the bad language might be a good idea. Why don’t you do that, and Padfoot will go and wake up our favourite potions master?”

You were breathing at a dizzying pace as you looked away from Remus to watch with fear as Sirius began to strut away, his arms swinging leisurely. “Wait! Wait, please!” Sirius stopped walking, turning to look over his shoulder to show you the dazzling smile and quipped up his eyebrow as he waited for you to continue. “What- What do you guys want?” you couldn’t help the stutter, shoulders dropping in defeat as you slumped back against the uncomfortable bookcase.

The long-haired Marauder swaggered back over, delighting evidence on his face as he returned to leaning beside you. A single finger grazes beneath your chin, hooking onto the end and tilting your face towards James as he bragged, “You know what we want”.

Of course, you knew, it was all they ever asked with their perverted minds, always talking with their dicks and then their hearts. It had always been a joke because that was all you had taken it for, a hilarious, sleazy joke.

“That’s always been a joke, so quit playing around”, you say, but the fighting your voice has dimmed.

“Does it look like we’re joking?” James asks.

“So what is this? You’re all blackmailing me so that you can get your dicks wet? I’m sure there are plenty of other pathetic girls who would be more than happy to do what you’re asking”, you say with as much venom as you can muster, but there was no denying the core-clenching pulse that ran through your pussy.

“Oh honey, you know it’s not our dicks that we want to get wet, and there’s no other cunt we’d rather be licking than yours”, Sirius says, tilting his head up to talk in his sweet purr that had your thighs squeezing together in an attempt to relieve some tension that had increased tenfold in your clit. All three of the men in front of you noticed the movement and had to adjust their stances, seeming to be as tall and intimidating as possible, but that only made you more horny.

With all of the previous times that they had made sexual advances, they had not once mentioned their own pleasure. All they’d ever asked and begged to do was have a taste of your pussy.

‘Give us a taste’, ‘I bet you’re nice and sweet’, ‘I can get you gushing against my tongue, Princess’.

It was always comments like these that had you either jinxing them, rolling your eyes or simply walking away to the comfort of your bed, curtains closed so you could imagine the acts with your fingers between your legs. It was almost a daily occurrence that you masturbated to the thought of the three of them in your bed, and it would be easy just to give in and say yes to their requests. Still, you would never lower yourself to sleeping with a Gryffindor, let alone the three most arrogant and infamous students throughout Hogwarts.

However, now you were stuck between a rock and a hard place. You knew that if you said no, you could have the detention and deducted points, and they would happily walk you down to Slughorn's office. But, to be truthful, there was a small part of you that was becoming bored with the cat-and-mouse chase, that part being your cunt.

Sirius replaced the finger under your chin, turning you to look up at home, “So? What do you say? We don’t expect anything from you, but each of us gets a taste, and we’ll let you go on your merry way”.

You sigh through your nose, chewing on your bottom lip as you contemplate your answer, even though you know already what you are going to say. “I know I’m going to regret this”.

Sirius moves so close that you can see the different shades of grey in his eyes, “Trust me, Sweetheart, you aren’t going to regret this for a second. I can guarantee that”.

Your eyes flick between his and his dangerous lips, a movement that has him grinning and showing his perfectly pearly teeth, knowing your answer because you even say it.

“Fine. But I’m not touching any of you, and after, you have to promise that you’ll let me walk away without losing any points or waking up Slughorn”.

“Your wish is our command, ma’am” James dramatically bows to add to the performance.

Your sigh brushes over Sirius’ face as you move back to look at them individually. “So how do you want to do this? Shall we go to a classroom or something?”

Remus shakes his head, nodding towards your skirt, “Take off your underwear”.

Okay, so they were expecting to do it in the middle of the restricted section of the library. You were thankful for wearing a skirt to keep some of your modesty as you shimmied the material down your legs and stepped out of it. Before you could hide them in your pocket, Sirius was snatching them from your hands and stuffed them into his back pocket.

As your mouth snapped open to argue with him to give the underwear back, Remus was distracting you by dropping onto his knees. As he lifted the edge of your skirt, Sirius and James grabbed onto a leg each and lifted you to sit on the shelf of the bookcase, holding each limb up until your knees were as close to your chest as possible, spreading you open for Remus.

All you were able to do was hold onto the sturdy shelf above your head, fumbling with your words with how embarrassed you were to be completely exposed to them all as the positioning of your legs now pushed your skirt away.

Remus groaned hungrily, taking a deep sniff as he leaned in close. You gaped at him, internally cringing and embarrassed that he was actually smelling your arousal. Before you could tell him to stop, his hands were roughly parting your folds, presenting your dripping hole further for him as your hips bucked at the contact. It was filthy watching him stick his long tongue out and lick a long strip from your perineum up to your engorged clit.

His big green eyes never left yours, and you were captivated by looking away, crying out and needing more as it truly dawned on you that this was actually happening. Remus seemed to simultaneously be touching all parts of your cunt with his wet, wide tongue, digging into your clenching hole, slurping out the juices that were seeping out and then lewdly sucking on your bundle of nerves until you were whining from the overstimulation.

It was all Remus had ever wanted, and it seemed he was good at it, and for a second, you regretted all the time wasted having said no to them all. Your fingers dropped to hold onto his head, keeping him close and using it to try and buc your hips to ride his face, but with the men holding up your legs, it was difficult to move.

If he was spelling your name with his tongue against your clit, he was delving it as deep within your cunt as possible. The noises coming from both you and him were filthy, and it took an embarrassingly short amount of time before you were cuming, eyes closing and head tilting back as your walls clamped down around his tongue in quick bursts of euphoria. 

He didn’t stop stimulating you until you were slumping back against the books, and Sirius was quick to drop your leg and replace the positions with Remus, dropping to his knees in front of you as Remus stood, still licking his lips and holding onto your leg.

To their credit, they only used their mouths, and for a minute, you had contemplated begging for more, but your ego kept your lips sealed tightly. Sirius didn’t give you any time to try and catch your breath before he had his own taste, his mouth warmer than Remus’. With his tongue sticking out, he shook his head like he was trying to dig his way right into the centre of your core.

Your fingers were sliding through his silky hair, pulling on him to try and get him to slow down, but he liked the pain that came with the hair pulling, so it only pushed him on further. Sirius's hands rested on your hips, pulling your body onto the edge of the shelf so he could move his face harder against you. As he fucked your pussy with his tongue, he pushed the tip of his nose against your clit, sending scorching pleasure into your abdomen.

Just as you were on the very brink of an orgasm, Sirius’ mouth disappeared from you entirely so he could watch your body tremble and pulse with the need to cum but not be given the proper stimulation for it.

“Fucking hell Sirius, just let me cum already!” you hissed at him, losing some of the control over the situation.

Sirius doesn’t say a word, but he does laugh heartedly as his face attached to your mound once more, delving between your folds and licking until you were cumming with mind-spinning pleasure.

James didn’t even wait until your orgasm had subsided before he pulled back Sirius’ head and shoved him out of the way, dropping to his knees and beginning his feast. Sirius didn’t argue with him but stood to hold onto your leg, the lower half of his face gleaming with juices and pink from being rubbed against.

The glasses on James’ face were cold against your skin as the rim of them pressed into your mound. He gathered as much spit onto the tip of his tongue and let it drip over your pussy, spreading it around with his tongue until you were as sloppy as possible.  This only added more pleasure to do, feeling how wet everything was down there, the whisps of air cooling certain areas before he was back sucking and licking at it.

Just as you were getting into it and falling into the pleasure that was causing your body to jolt as you were becoming extremely overstimulated, a heavy thump sounded from the entrance to the library. A breath later, all of the lamps were extinguished by Remus’ wand, descending you all into darkness as you anticipated them all to stop. Except, they didn’t. James continued as if nothing had changed, but now his hand was covering your mouth to help keep your moans muffled.

You were beyond tense, hands shoving at any body part of the three men you could reach, trying to stop them from holding you in place. A faint light glowed from a few rows away, and to your horror, you realised just how close you were to being caught by one of the professors, being held down and eaten out by three men.

It was so overwhelming that a few tears escaped the corner of your eye as a quiet sob slipped from your chest. Remus pushed his body in closer, “Shhh Princess, it’s ok. Once you cum for prongs, this all stops”.

Thankfully, as he finished talking, the light began to disappear, and the Professor decided there was no use checking the restricted section as there was never anyone this far into the room. With the light gone, you could finally lose control, still crying as James sucked violently for as long as he could against your clit until you were bucking your hips and flooding his mouth with squirt as you came hard.

It took a long couple of seconds for your pussy to calm down from the orgasm, but even as your walls stopped contracting, they still continued to throb in time with your heartbeat. Your entire body was aching, especially your legs and chest from where you’d been crying. The lights of their lamps were illuminated once more to reveal James looking at a piece of parchment, announcing that the coast was clear. You didn’t have the energy to ask what he was holding as Remus and Sirius helped your feet back to the ground.

With your legs now together, you could feel just how swollen and puffy your clit and folds were from being poked and prodded by three mouths. Your knees also struggled to hold your weight as you clung to Remus, who helped you stay upright and find the energy to stand by yourself.

For once, there are no condescending or mean words coming from him as he gently cups the back of your head and strokes the space between your shoulders in calm circles as your sobs slow to a quiet hiccup.

Eventually, as the clock tower bell chimes to symbolise that it is 2 a.m., you are able to pull away from Remus, wiping the wetness from your face with the back of your robe and then straightening your skirt. Glancing over to Sirius, you held out a hand to him and a hand to James.

James gave you back your wand, but Sirius simply patted himself down and looked at you with a frown, “Hmm, seems I’ve lost your underwear. Sorry, Princess”.

You don’t have the energy to argue with him as you sigh, “You don’t tell a soul about what’s happened here.” You point your finger at each of them, but James responds.

“Wouldn’t dream of telling anyone. But I will be dreaming about you tonight when I’m touching my cock with your taste still in my mouth”.

Your face heats with embarrassment as your eyes trained on the floor, lifting your lamp and beginning to limp away, trying to hold as much dignity as possible. Still, it was difficult with how uncomfortable and sensitive you were feeling, depending on bookcases to lean on as you made your way out of the library and back towards the Slytherin common room.

As soon as you are out of sight, Sirius sighs, dropping hushed back against the bookcase you were just leaning on and unzips his pants, pulling your underwear that he hadn’t lost from out of his pocket and holding it up to his face. With his cock free, he has no shame as he touches himself vigorously and, in a matter of seconds, cums all over the floor.

Remus frowns, looking down at the thick globs decorating the floor, “Really, Padfoot? You couldn’t wait until we were back to the dormitory?”

“I’ve never had blue balls like that in my life. It was fucking hurting Moony, give me a break”.

Remus shifts his own cock in the restraint of his trousers as James says over his shoulder, “She's heading straight towards  Filch. Shouldn’t we go and stop her?”

Rems peers over his friend's shoulder, looking at the open Marauders map and watches as your name floats towards Filch. The tallest Marauder shrugs, “No, it’ll teach her a lesson about being out of bed after hours”. They all share a dark grin and begin to gather their stuff before walking out of the library.

[buckets-and-trees]

What would happen if It Fit Too Right!Steve showed up for a filthy booty call only to find you a pathetic sick mess burrowed in bed and near delirious with a fever? 🥺

Wifey, you dropped this in my box last June, and I have known EXACTLY what would happen since then, and I've been just waiting to share (since I decided to post the pieces somewhat corresponding to the time of year they would happen).

I Felt More When We Played Pretend

Characters/Pairings: soft!dark and rough Nomad!Steve Rogers x Female!Reader Word Count: 3k Summary: April 30, 2018. See above.

Content/Warnings: illness, breaking and entering

Author Note: It was a year ago this week that I wrote the very first drabble for this duo! And then they evolved into a full series. Can you believe it? I feel like they're such a deep part of my writer heart and a constant fixation of my muse.

Previous Part | Series

↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

You jerked awake with a start, feet tangled in the throw blanket you'd cocooned yourself in earlier. Your feet are burning up, sweaty and uncomfortable. With a groan, you kicked the blanket off, shivering slightly as the cool air hit your overheated skin. You groaned as the motion triggered a coughing fit that scraped at your already raw throat.

The television was still playing in the background, Paul Hollywood critiquing someone's focaccia with that stern look of his. Bread week. It had definitely been cake week cake week when you were last awake and somewhat coherent. But you could tell it was at least still afternoon light coming in through your windows. 

You reached for the half-empty mug of tea on the coffee table. It was stone cold, but you drank it anyway, grimacing slightly. This cold had knocked you flat for nearly a week, leaving you in a perpetual state of exhaustion and congestion, still nowhere near feeling human. 

You ran a hand through your greasy hair, wincing at how disgusting it felt. But not feeling human, a shower hadn’t been something you’d pursued in days, wandering from your bed to the couch and then the bed again as you simply rotated where you took your exhausted shifts of sleeping, only downing cold medicine and a myriad of typically-useful home remedies. 

You reached for the tissue box on the coffee table, pulling out the last one and blowing your nose with a sound that would make anyone cringe. The pile of used tissues beside you was embarrassingly large. You should really clean up, but the thought of moving hovered on the edge of possible but also too exhausting. You sighed and willed yourself to actually look at the pile to assess how much longer you could let it pile up. 

Only it was gone. 

One lone tissue only there - the one you’d just dropped. 

Your frowned. 

You tilted your head. 

Your brain was fuzzy and slow. 

Where did your disgusting pile go?

A clatter from somewhere else in your apartment made you tense. You were absolutely certain you'd been alone all day, all week even. Your muddled brain tried to make sense of this. Who else would be here? You have no roommates. Had you called someone? Had your mom learned you were sick, made a roadtrip to take care of you, and somehow gotten a key to your place? 

You heard more noises from the kitchen, and your heart started hammering in your chest because another foolish thought crossed your cold-addled thoughts…

And then that thought appeared before your eyes.

“Hey invalid,” he greeted, and Steve came into the living room, holding a tray. 

You burst into tears. 

The suddenness of your emotional reaction seemed to catch you both off guard. The sob that escapes you is so sudden it triggers another coughing fit. You cover your mouth with your elbow, shoulders shaking as you try to catch your breath through the tears and coughing.

"Whoa, hey," Steve soothed, quickly setting the tray down on the coffee table. The ceramic mugs clinking against the wood as he sunk onto the couch beside you, one large hand coming to rest on your back. "Easy, breathe."

You couldn’t answer, your tears mixing with your already congested sinuses until you were a snotty, hiccuping mess. 

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he apologized. 

You shook your head, wiping at your tears with the back of your hand. "It's not that," you managed.

It was mortifying. You were sick, disgusting, and now a blubbering mess in front of this man who kept appearing in your life like some beautiful ghost. You haven't seen him in weeks, and he shows up now? When you're at your absolute worst? It wasn't fair.

"I'm sorry," you said, sniffling. "I'm just—I'm disgusting right now." 

Steve's hand continued to rub soothing circles on your back. His touch was gentle, so at odds with how he usually handled you. 

"You're sick," he corrected, his voice soft. "Not disgusting." 

You looked up at him through watery eyes. He was as perfect as ever—that irresistible beard, hair neatly combed, wearing a simple gray henley that stretched across his broad chest. Meanwhile, you were in the same ratty t-shirt and sweatpants you'd been wearing for at least three days, hair unwashed, face puffy from crying and congestion.

"I made you some soup," Steve said, nodding toward the tray. Soup and tea. 

You hiccuped, trying to gather yourself. "I just... I didn't expect to see you. And I'm a mess and I feel horrible and..." You trailed off, gesturing vaguely at yourself. 

Steve's expression softened. "You think I care about that?"

You couldn't meet his eyes. "This isn’t what you came here for.” You reached for another tissue, because even though you had stopped sobbing you were still crying, so exhausted from being ill, so overwhelmed by him being here. “I can’t bear you seeing me like this. I haven’t showered in days. I can hardly… I’m so tired, and I just–”

“Hey, hey, listen to me,” he firmly interrupted you, voice soft but firm. He cupped your cheek in his hand, turning your face up to look at him. “I came here to spend time with you, and that’s what I’m doing."

Your breath hitched at his words. This wasn't the Steve who fucked you against walls and made you scream his name. This was something else entirely. You searched his face for any sign he was just being polite, but found none. Only genuine concern reflected in those impossibly blue eyes.

"You're really not here for..." you gestured vaguely, unable to even say the word 'sex' in your current state.

Steve shook his head, a small smile playing at his lips. "Not everything has to be about that."

He reached for the mug of tea on the tray, passing it to you. The warmth seeped into your palms, the steam carrying the scent of honey and lemon to your clogged nostrils. You took a tentative sip, the hot liquid soothing your raw throat.

"This is good," you murmured, taking another sip. The honey coated your throat, bringing blessed relief. 

Steve watched you with an expression you couldn't quite read. "I wasn't sure if you had food in the house. I brought groceries." 

You blinked, processing his words slowly through your congested haze. "You... brought groceries?" 

He nodded, reaching for the bowl of soup. "Chicken noodle. Nothing fancy, but it should help." 

Your fingers trembled slightly as you accepted the bowl, warmth seeping through the ceramic and into your palms. The steam rising from the broth carried the comforting aroma of chicken, herbs, and vegetables. Your stomach rumbled in response—when was the last time you'd eaten a proper meal? 

"Thank you," you whispered. The domesticity of it all was so jarring compared to your usual encounters, you truly didn’t know what to think.

Steve settled beside you on the couch, close enough that you could feel his warmth but not touching. The British baking show continued playing in the background as you cautiously spooned the soup into your mouth. The flavors burst on your tongue, a well-seasoned chicken broth, tender vegetables, soft noodles. It was exactly what your body needed.

"This is really good," you said between spoonfuls. "Did you make this?" 

Steve nodded. "It's my mom's recipe. Well, as close as I can remember it." 

The mention of his mother surprised you. Steve rarely spoke about his past, especially not the distant past before the war and the ice. You glanced at him, curious. 

"She used to make it whenever I got sick," he continued, his eyes distant with memory. "Which was pretty often, before the serum." 

You were struck by the moment, but continued eating the soup. 

"How long have you been sick?" he asked, genuine concern in his voice.

You took another spoonful of soup, not realizing how much you needed it after days of barely eating. "Almost a week," you admitted. "It hit me hard Wednesday night."

Steve frowned, his eyes scanning your face. "Have you seen a doctor?"

You shook your head. "It's just a cold. A really bad one."

"Hmm," he hummed, not sounding convinced. His hand came up to rest against your forehead, checking your temperature. The gesture was so tender, so caring, it made your chest ache with something that had nothing to do with your congestion.

"You're still warm," he noted. "After you’ve eaten, you should take a shower.”

“Cause I smell?”

He chuckled. “You do,” he admitted, “but I think it will help you feel a little better, too.”

The thought of a shower was both appealing and exhausting. You wanted nothing more than to feel clean again, but the mere idea of standing upright for that long seemed impossible. 

"I don't know if I can stand that long," you admitted, setting the now-empty soup bowl back on the tray. "I get dizzy." 

Steve's eyes softened. "I'll help you."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, so matter-of-fact. In all your encounters with Steve, this level of care, of tenderness, was uncharted territory. You'd seen glimpses of it, fleeting moments after sex when he would clean you up or hold you close, but nothing like this.

You set your now-"Steve, you don't have to—"

"I want to," he interrupted gently. His eyes held yours, and there was something in them you hadn't seen before—a vulnerability, a tenderness that made your breath catch. "Let me take care of you." 

Those five words hung in the air between you. This was so far outside the parameters of whatever it was you had with Steve that you didn't know how to respond. Sex was one thing—intense, but the thought of him seeing you so vulnerable, so weak, had you feeling hesitant.

But this was Steve. The man who had seen every inch of your body, who had made you come undone in ways you never thought possible. Why was this so different? 

"Okay," you finally agreed, your voice small. 

Steve helped you up from the couch, his strong arm wrapping around your waist to steady you. The room spun slightly as you stood, and you leaned into him gratefully. 

"I've got you," he murmured, his voice close to your ear.

The walk to the bathroom was slow, your legs shaky beneath you. Steve matched his pace to yours, patient and solid beside you. When you reached the bathroom, he turned on the shower, adjusting the temperature with one hand while keeping the other on your waist.

Steam began to fill the small space as hot water cascaded from the showerhead. Then Steve turned to you, his hands coming to rest at the hem of your t-shirt.

"May I?" he asked quietly. 

You nodded, unable to speak past the lump in your throat. Steve gently lifted the shirt over your head, his movements clinical and careful. There was nothing sexual in his touch, only care. You felt oddly shy as he helped you undress completely, his eyes never lingering inappropriately. It was so different from every other time he'd removed your clothes.

"Almost ready," Steve said softly. He helped you remove your underwear with the same gentle efficiency, then guided you toward the shower. "Can you stand?"

You nodded, though you weren't entirely sure. "I think so."

"I'll be right here," he promised, helping you step under the warm spray.

The water felt heavenly against your skin, washing away days of fever sweat and lethargy. You closed your eyes, letting it cascade over your face and hair, breathing in the steam that helped clear your congested sinuses. 

For a moment, you felt almost human again. You reached for your shampoo bottle, but your arms felt like lead weights, and you swayed slightly.

"Easy there," Steve said, quickly stepping into the shower behind you, having discarded his own clothes. His strong hands steadied you, holding you upright as the water cascaded over both of you. The sudden feeling of his bare skin against yours was startlingly intimate in a way that had nothing to do with sex.

"I've got you," he murmured, reaching for your shampoo bottle. He poured a generous amount into his palm and began to work it through your hair, his fingers massaging your scalp with gentle pressure. You closed your eyes, leaning back against his solid chest as he washed your hair with careful, methodical movements. 

The feeling of his hands in your hair was hypnotic, soothing in a way you hadn't expected. This wasn't the Steve who pulled your hair during passionate encounters—this was someone else entirely, someone tender and nurturing. 

"Turn around," he said, gently turning you in his arms so you faced him. 

The warm water flowed down your back as Steve carefully tipped your head back, rinsing the shampoo from your hair. His hands were gentle as they worked through the strands, making sure every bit of soap was washed away. You kept your eyes closed, dizzy from the heat and the proximity of him, though not in the way you usually were around Steve. 

Once your hair was rinsed, he reached for your body wash, squeezing some onto a washcloth. With methodical care, he began washing your body, starting with your shoulders and working his way down your arms. His touch was clinical, respectful in a way that made your heart ache. 

"This okay?" he asked softly. 

You nodded, unable to find your voice. There was something so personal about this moment, something that transformed all the physical encounters you'd had into something more meaningful, more real. Steve continued washing you, his movements gentle but thorough. When he finished, he helped you rinse off, supporting your weight as the warm water cascaded over both of you.

"Better?" he asked, his voice low. 

"Much," you whispered. The combination of the hot water, the steam, and Steve's gentle care had eased some of your misery. Your head still felt stuffed with cotton, but the heavy weight of illness seemed slightly lighter. 

"I think I need to get out now," you murmured, your legs starting to feel like jelly beneath you.

"Okay," Steve agreed, turning off the water. He stepped out first, quickly wrapping a towel around his waist before reaching for your fluffy bath towel. He enveloped you in it as you stepped out, using another smaller towel to gently blot the water from your hair.

The bathroom was warm and steamy, but you still shivered slightly. Steve noticed immediately.

"Let's get you dressed," he said, his voice gentle but firm. He kept one arm around you for support as he guided you into your bedroom. The familiar space was welcoming, though you noticed immediately that the tangled sheets and scattered tissues that had been in here too were gone. The bed was neatly made with fresh sheets, a glass of water and your medication waiting on the nightstand.

"You cleaned my room," you murmured, touched by the gesture. 

Steve shrugged, the movement casual but his eyes watchful as he steadied you. "Thought it might help you feel better." 

He helped you to the edge of the bed, then moved to your dresser. "What do you want to wear?" 

"T-shirt, second drawer. Underwear in the top left," you instructed.

Steve returned with a soft t-shirt and a pair of comfortable cotton underwear.

"Arms up," he instructed softly, helping you into a clean t-shirt. His hands were gentle as he guided the soft fabric over your damp hair and down your body. Next came the underwear, Steve kneeling before you to help you step into them. The role reversal was striking—you were usually the one on your knees before him.

Once you were dressed, Steve guided under the covers. The fresh sheets felt heavenly against your skin as you sank into the mattress. Steve tucked the blankets around you with careful hands, then sat on the edge of the bed.

"Better?" he asked, his voice soft. 

You nodded, your eyelids already growing heavy. The shower had helped clear your head somewhat, but it had also drained what little energy you had. 

Steve reached for the glass of water on the nightstand. "You should take your medicine."

You obediently took the pills he offered, washing them down with water. As you handed the glass back, your fingers brushed his. "Thank you," you whispered, your voice thick.

Steve brushed a strand of damp hair from your forehead, his touch lingering against your skin. "You should rest."

"Will you..." you hesitated, suddenly unsure. This was uncharted territory for both of you. "Will you stay?"

Something flickered in Steve's eyes—surprise, maybe, or something deeper. "Of course, I'll stay," he promised softly, “for as long as you need me to.” 

You felt a wave of relief wash over you.

"Thank you," you murmured, your eyelids growing heavier by the second. The combination of warm soup, a hot shower, and clean sheets was quickly pulling you toward sleep. 

You expected Steve to leave the room, perhaps go watch television or sit in the chair in the corner. Instead, he stood and shed the towel from his waist, quickly pulling on his boxer briefs that you now noticed were sitting on the dresser. The bed dipped as he slid in beside you, his body radiating warmth as he settled against the pillows. 

Without thinking, you shifted closer to him, seeking his warmth. Steve's arm came around you, drawing you against his chest. You rested your head in the crook of his shoulder, your body fitting against his as naturally as breathing. 

"Sleep," he murmured, his lips brushing your temple so naturally. 

As you surrendered to unconsciousness, your last thought was that while you would recover from this awful spring cold, you didn’t think you would ever recover from this. 

next part: FOR KEEPS THIS TIME read more Exiled Nomad Series

For those keeping track of the chronological timeline, this is the end of April 2018. I'm going off this theoretical idea that Avengers Infinity War happened "sometime between April 19th and June 3rd, 2018."

...

just

you know

for reference...

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[v6quewrlds]

❝ say my name, j. burrow. ❞  ‎ ‎ ┉  

‎ ‎ ⁎⠀┉⠀summary: success is great until you realize that you haven't touched your fiance in nearly a month. feeling guilty about your absence, his new assistant's constant presence hits a nerve.

‎ ‎ ⁎⠀┉⠀author's note: game dey fic for good luck! i'm just gonna come clean and say that this picture inspired this entire thing. possessive joe we all say in unison. this was so fun to work on, thank you anon for the request <33 requests are still open!!

‎ ‎ ⁎⠀┉⠀warnings: angst & smut, please do not interact with my work if you are under 18. language, sexual content, established relationship, jealousy, dom!joe, exhibitionism?, public sex, mirror sex?, size kink? size kink, cunnilingus bc joe burrow is an eater™, the tiniest baby hint of a breeding kink.

‎ ‎ ⁎⠀┉⠀pairing: joe burrow x fiancee!reader.

‎ ‎ ⁎⠀┉⠀word count: 6.8k.

The kitchen was bathed in the soft glow of the hanging lights hanging above the island, casting shadows that danced across the marble countertops as yourself, Joe, and your best friend, Tamara, sat around the kitchen table. The aroma of a quick meal filled the air, mingling with the faint scent of Joe's cologne and the sweetness of the boxed cake mix they had shared. Your dark hair was pulled back in a loose bun, your blowout beginning to curl up again. You and Tamara listening intently as Joe spoke of his assistant's impending departure. Your eyes, a deep shade of brown, drifted in and out of the conversation as you thought about the pile of work waiting for you at your office in downtown Cincinnati.

You just barely heard Tamara suggesting her cousin as a replacement. Tiffany, who was studying Marketing at the University of Cincinnati, had grown closer to her older cousin in her time in school despite the age difference between them. "She's been looking for an internship or something part-time," she said, hope sparkling in her voice. "It's tough out here, and she's really good with people."

Joe looked at you, who nodded in approval, half listening and trusting your best friend’s endorsement. "Send her my way, T," he said, smiling. "I'll set up an interview."

The following week was a blur of phone calls and emails as Joe prepared for the interview. Your schedule was packed with work, and Joe was buried in his season commitments. Your paths rarely crossed outside of brief moments at home, leaving your newly purchased house feeling more like a rest stop than a shared home.

When the day of Tiffany’s interview finally arrived, Joe was surprised by her poise and professionalism. She walked in dressed sharply, her confidence radiating in the room. Despite her youth, she spoke with the eloquence of someone who had been in the industry for years. Her references were impeccable, and her career goals were admirable. He had no doubts that she would be a valuable asset to his team.

You met Tiffany for the first time in the kitchen the morning after she started. The young woman's enthusiasm was palpable, but you couldn't shake off the nagging feeling that there was something not quite right with her demeanor. Tiffany's eyes lingered on Joe a little too long for your liking, and her smile was a bit too wide when he spoke to her. You shook yourself out of her skepticism and chalked it up to nerves and excitement about the job. You had to admit, after all, that Tiffany was a breath of fresh air. She was excellent in keeping up with Joe’s schedules and appointments, helping to shoulder some of the burdens he dreaded about his career.

The next few weeks passed in a whirlwind of game days and late-night reheated dinners. Your business was thriving, and Joe's season was on an upward trajectory. Yet, amidst all the success, there was a worrying feeling that something was off-balance. Tiffany was always there, a constant presence that seemed to hover closer to Joe than necessary. You tried not to let it get to you, but you couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy every time Joe laughed at one of Tiffany's jokes or thanked her for handling something simple so efficiently.

You stood over your side of your twin sinks, your coils pushed back from your forehead as you completed your skincare routine. You felt a gentle nudge as Joe leaned against you, his reflection in the mirror showing the exhaustion etched into his features. It was 10 PM, way past Joe's bedtime, but you appreciated the effort he was showing to take advantage of what little time you could spend together.

"So, I've got a dinner tomorrow," he began, his voice a soft rumble in the quiet bathroom. His strong arms wrapped warmly around your waist. "It's a sponsor thing. Nothing crazy, no cameras. Just dinner and a few schmoozes."

Your eyes met his in the mirror. "You want me to come?" You tried to keep the hope out of your voice, but it crept in regardless.

"Yeah. I know you've been slammed with work, but I'd love it if you could come. It's at the Kinley downtown. They have that amazing tiramisu you love." Joe's smile was boyish, and your heart melted at the thought of a rare date night.

The last time you two had been to the Kinley was the night of your engagement three months ago. That famous tiramisu had been delivered to your suite to accompany a bottle of champagne after the hotel manager heard the city's star quarterback was celebrating an accepted proposal. It had been a night filled with laughter and love, and you couldn't help but hope for a similar experience tomorrow.

"Okay, I'll come," you said, turning to kiss him. "But only for the tiramisu."

Joe chuckled and squeezed you tightly. "Whatever it takes to drag you outside with me." He kissed the top of your head before reaching for his toothbrush. "But promise me you'll wear that dress I like, the white one."

You rolled your eyes playfully. "The one that never makes it through the door before you're trying to get it off me? That one?"

Joe grinned, his teeth flashing in the bathroom light. "You know the one."

The morning light streamed through the blinds, creating a checkered pattern across your bed. Your eyes fluttered open, the promise of the dinner date lingering in your mind. You felt Joe's warmth beside you, his even breaths a comforting soundtrack to the start of your day. As you slipped out of bed and into the shower, you couldn't help but feel a spark of excitement for the evening ahead. Joe was gone from his side of the bed when you returned from her shower, his deep voice carrying from the kitchen as he laughed over the phone with Ja'Marr.

As you got dressed to leave for work, you heard the doorbell ring. You didn't expect anyone, but Joe's voice grew louder as he spoke to someone at the door. You made your way downstairs to find Tiffany, dressed in a sleek casual outfit, her hair slicked down perfectly.

"Morning, you two," she chirped, her eyes lighting up at the sight of Joe. You felt a flicker of irritation but pushed it aside.

"Hi, Tiffany," you said with a forced smile. "I can't believe your boss got you over here so early."

Tiffany's eyes darted to Joe before returning to you. "Oh, it's no trouble. I just wanted to make sure everything is set for tonight. Joe said I could tag along to the dinner. You know, for networking and all."

Your smile didn't falter, but your stomach did a flip. "Networking? At the Kinley? Downtown? Tonight?" You couldn't help the searing glare you shot towards Joe who remained wrapped up in his own little world. Completely oblivious to the dissatisfaction on your face. 

You had to admit that you had hoped for a more intimate evening with Joe, but you had no desire to be rude. "That's a great opportunity, Tiffany. It'll be good to make some business connections in the city."

Joe looked between you, blissfully unaware of the tension between the two women. "You're right, babe. Tiffany's going to be graduating soon, and she needs all the help she can get." He gave you a kiss on the cheek, a hand reaching to cradle your waist. "Don't worry, I'll try to keep the business talk to a minimum."

You nodded, trying to keep your emotions in check. You didn't want to ruin your night with a petty argument about his assistant. After all, Joe had done so much to support you, especially with putting up with your late work hours recently.

Tiffany grimaced as Joe's hand lingered on your waist, nuzzling his face into your neck. "Right," she murmured. "I'll just grab my laptop and get to work." She reached into her laptop bag, and you couldn't help but feel a pang of annoyance at her reaction. You had agreed to come to the dinner to support Joe, not to play chaperone.

The day passed slowly, a mix of business meetings and working through the massive to-do list from your secretary leaving you with little time to dwell on the evening's potential awkwardness. When you finally returned home to get ready, you found Joe in your closet, half dressed in a sharp suit that hugged his muscular frame. His eyes lit up at the sight of you, and you had to admit that you felt a spark of excitement at the prospect of a night out with him.

"Joe, did you think Tiffany's energy was off this morning?" You asked as you stepped into the walk-in closet to choose your outfit.

Joe looked up from his phone, presumably texting his stylist, his brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

You emerged from the closet wearing the white dress he had requested, your eyes meeting his in the floor-length mirror. "She just seemed... eager."

Joe shrugged, his tie now hanging loosely around his neck. "Eager to network, you mean? That's what she's here for, babe." You nodded, trying to convince yourself that your jealousy was unfounded. You reached up to do up Joe's tie for him, your hands trembling slightly. As you stepped back to admire your work, he pulled you into a tight embrace.

"You look amazing," Joe whispered into your ear, sending shivers down your spine. His hand cupped your cheek, his blue eyes sweeping over your face. "You always do, beautiful."

You felt a warm blush creep up your neck. "Thank you, baby." You kissed him lightly, trying to ignore the voice in the back of your head that whispered about Tiffany.

The drive to the Kinley was filled with Joe's stories from practice and Tiffany's chirpy interjections about the inside jokes they built up over the weeks she had been working for him. You listened politely, but your mind was elsewhere, planning how you could make the most of this evening. You didn't want to spend the entire night watching Joe work the room with his assistant by his side.

Once you arrived at the luxurious hotel, the valet took Joe's car, and the three of you stepped into the bustling lobby. The air was filled with the sound of clinking glasses and laughter, a stark contrast to the quiet tension between yourself and Tiffany. You took a deep breath and slipped your hand into Joe's, reminding yourself that this was your night, despite the third wheel.

The dinner was a mix of business moguls and sports celebrities. Your eyes scanned the room, searching for a friendly face. You spotted a few local influencers from your business’ social media following, but you were already engaged in your own conversations. The grand ballroom of the Kinley Hotel was a sea of unfamiliar faces, all dressed to the nines and seemingly at ease. The three of you made your way to the table reserved for Joe and his two guests.

Tiffany was already scanning the room, her eyes lighting up as she recognized a potential networking opportunity. "Oh, there's Dr. Simpson from the university," she exclaimed. "I've been dying to talk to him about an internship."

Joe nodded, his gaze following her as she gracefully excused herself. "Go for it," he encouraged, offering her a kind smile. "I'll grab us some drinks."

You watched Tiffany weave through the crowd, an eager bounce in her step. As Joe returned with an espresso martini for you and an iced tea for himself, you couldn't help the sinking feeling in your stomach. You took a sip of your drink, trying to push the negative thoughts aside.

The evening progressed with Joe being pulled into conversation after conversation, leaving you to sit alone at the table. You checked your phone for the millionth time, scrolling through social media to keep yourself entertained. You were in no mood to schmooze with influencers and their sugar daddies, your work had already left you with minimal energy. The chandeliers above cast a warm glow over the room, and the clinking of silverware against china filled the air. You felt out of place, a fish out of water.

Your eyes followed Joe as he charmed a table of investors with a story about a recent game-winning play. Tiffany hovered at his side, a knowing smile playing on her lips as she subtly touched his arm, prompting him with information or a well-placed joke. You felt a knot tighten in your stomach as you watched Joe's assistant monopolize his time.

A server approached with a tray of hors d'oeuvres, and you finally gathered the will to stand and mingle. You recognized a few faces from your own business circles, but the conversations felt forced, the words sticking in your throat as you tried to maintain a cheery facade. With each passing minute, your frustration grew. This wasn't the romantic evening you had hoped for; it was just another work function for Joe with an unwelcome plus-one.

Tiffany reappeared at Joe's side, her laugh a tinkling sound that seemed to carry across the room. You felt a twinge of annoyance at her ease, the way she moved with confidence and charm among these powerful individuals despite her lack of experience. You couldn't help but wonder if Joe had noticed the flirtatious glances she kept casting his way.

"Babe, you okay?" Joe asked, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder as he took a seat beside you. His brow was furrowed with concern, and for a moment, you felt guilty for your jealous thoughts. You forced a smile and nodded. "Just a little tired," you said, playing off your discomfort.

But Joe wasn't buying it. He leaned in close, whispering, "What's going on, sweetheart?" You took a deep breath, the scent of his cologne calming your nerves slightly. 

"It's Tiffany," you confessed.

He frowned, glancing over at his assistant. "What about her?"

You took a moment to gather your thoughts, wanting to choose your words wisely. "It's just... she's all over you, Joe. And it's so fucking weird. She's supposed to be here for business, not to flirt."

Joe's eyes widened in surprise. "Flirt? She's not flirting with me." He leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to where Tiffany was now engaged with a group of businessmen. "Babe, she's just doing her job. Networking."

You felt a spark of frustration at his dismissal. "It's more than that, Joe. I can feel it." You took a deep breath, trying to keep your voice low and steady. "I don't want to ruin your night, but I can't ignore how uncomfortable this is making me."

Joe studied you for a moment, his expression a mix of confusion and concern. But before either of you could say anything else, Tiffany came gliding back over, a triumphant smile on her face. "Joe, I've got a meeting with Dr. Simpson next week. He's interested in discussing some marketing strategies for the university's athletic program. You're a genius for bringing me here!"

Her eyes flicked to you, who offered a tight smile in return. "Congratulations, Tiffany," you said through gritted teeth. "You're doing a fantastic job." The words were perfectly sweet, topped off with a gentle lilt as you stood up from your seat. Your hands smoothed over your dress before pushing the chair back in. "But if you'll excuse me..." you trailed off, making your way through the crowd of people without a backward glance.

Joe's hand reached out to grab yours as she passed, but you slipped away. He watched your retreating figure, the frown on his face deepening as he realized he had a situation to handle. "I'll be right back," he told Tiffany, who nodded, her eyes tracking your exit with an odd expression that was not lost on Joe.

He found you in the quiet hallway outside the ballroom, leaning against the wall, your eyes closed. "Hey," he said softly, approaching you. You didn't open your eyes, but you didn't flinch either, which was a bad sign.

"Hey," you murmured, your voice low and tired.

Joe stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on your arm. "Babe, what's wrong? I don't like seeing you like this."

You took a deep breath, opening your eyes to meet Joe's concerned gaze. "It bothers me Joey, the way she acts around you is so fucking weird. And you're not even picking up on it." Your voice was laced with a hint of anger, but the exhaustion from your long day was clear.

Joe sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Look, I don't know what you're talking about. If you're uncomfortable, I'll talk to her," he offered, his voice sincere. "But she's been nothing but professional with me, sweetheart."

You looked at him, your eyes squinting in disbelief. "Joe, she's been all over you since she started working for you. That’s not professional."

He frowned, clearly confused. "Babe, she's just trying to do her job. She's young, eager to impress. It's not what it seems."

You pulled your arm away, your voice rising slightly. "Why would she need to impress you by flirting with you? She's your assistant, not a contestant on a reality show."

Joe's expression darkened as he took in her tone. "Babe," he warned slowly. "You're being dramatic."

But you were beyond caring. You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms with a huff, "Joe," you said, your voice a mix of exasperation and sadness. "You're so blind. She's obviously into you."

Joe's jaw tightened. "Look, if you need attention, I can give you attention." He offered his hand for you to take, his patience wearing thin.

You stepped back, the coldness in his voice cutting through the warmth of the room. "Is that what you think this is about? Attention?" You threw your hands up in frustration. "This isn't a game, Joe. This is our relationship!"

The music and laughter from the ballroom seemed to fade away as you faced each other, your words echoing in the quiet hallway. The silence between you seemed to stretch on for hours. Neither of you were willing to back down. 

Finally Joe took a step closer, his eyes searching yours. "I miss you." He hummed as a hand reached for your hip, pulling you closer to him. "It's been a month since we’ve done anything just the two of us."

Your eyes searched his, the frustration slowly melting away as you gave in. "I miss you too."

Joe's gaze softened, and he leaned in to kiss you. It was gentle at first, a sweet promise of comfort and reassurance, but it quickly grew into something more urgent. A month's worth of longing and tension poured into that kiss, and suddenly, the hallway didn't feel so cold anymore. Your knees practically buckled under his touch, his hands grasping at your curves with a hunger you missed so desperately.

"I need to feel you," he murmured against your lips, his hand sliding around your waist.

You felt a thrill run through you. You knew Joe wasn't the type to act on impulse like this, but you couldn't deny that a part of you craved this passion from him. You had been so busy, and this raw passion was a stark reminder of why you were together. You leaned into him, the heat from your bodies melding together.

"Baby, not here," you whispered, though your voice was laced with want. You didn't miss the twinkle in his eye as he glanced down the hallway.

"Come on, let's go somewhere private." He took your hand, leading you away from the ballroom's prying eyes. You stumbled into an empty bathroom, the door clicking shut behind them. The tension between the two of you crackled in the air as Joe's hands slid up your thighs, pushing your dress up. You gasped as his mouth found your neck, his kisses leaving a trail of heat.

In the dimly lit bathroom, your eyes locked in the mirror. The reflection showed a side of them that hadn't been seen in weeks—desperate and passionate. You gasped as Joe bent you over the counter, his hands roaming under your dress. The cool marble sent a shiver down your spine, but it was nothing compared to the heat between your legs. You didn't protest when he pulled your panties to the side, instead leaning into the sensation of his hand on your skin.

Joe's voice was a gruff whisper in your ear. "Do you want me to stop?" His thumb traced a tantalizing circle around your clit, and you bit back a moan.

"No," you breathed, your eyes fluttering shut. "Fuck me."

With a grunt, Joe complied, his hand moving away to unbuckle his pants. He was already hard, his cock pressing against your ass as he lined himself up. He slammed into you without much prep, and your moan echoed in the tiled room. You gripped the edge of the counter, your breath getting caught in your throat as he began to thrust into you. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the air, mingling with the distant laughter and clinking glasses from the dinner.

Your movements grew more erratic as you both gave into your desires. Your heels clicked against the marble floor with every thrust, the sound bouncing off the walls. Joe's grip tightened on your hips, his breath hot on your neck as he whispered dirty nothings that made your toes curl. It was a stark contrast to the elegant evening gown you wore, now hiked up around your waist, and the fancy hotel bathroom you found yourself in.

"Harder," you moaned, your voice thick with desire.

"Yeah?" Joe questioned, his grip tightened on your hips, his rhythm quickening as he drove into you. The bathroom's sterile scent was overpowered by your mingled perfume and the scent of your arousal. The world outside the bathroom door faded away, replaced by the symphony of your panting breaths and the wet slap of your bodies coming together.

"Fuck, yes," you gasped, your eyes fluttering open to meet Joe's in the mirror. The sight of him, all muscular and intense, brought a new wave of arousal crashing over you. You felt the tension in your core tighten with every stroke, your body begging for release.

"I'm right here," Joe murmured, his voice a stark contrast to the urgent sounds of your lovemaking. His eyes held yours in the mirror, a silent promise that he heard you and that he cared. "You're all mine, baby. You're all I want. The only one."

You felt your body respond to his words, the tension coiling tighter, your orgasm approaching like a freight train. "Baby," you moaned, your nails digging into the counter. "I'm gonna come."

Joe's eyes darkened, and he thrust deeper, hitting that perfect spot inside you. "Come for me, sweetheart," he urged, his own breathing ragged. "You wanted my attention? You got it. Right here, right now."

Your body obeyed, shuddering with pleasure as she climaxed, your inner walls clenching around him. He groaned, his movements becoming more erratic as he chased his own release. The sound of your passion bounced off the marble walls, echoing through the empty hallway outside. It was a reminder of the passion that still burned between the two of you, despite the distance your busy lives had created.

You both came down from your highs, your breathing slowly returning to normal as Joe held you against him, your hands resting against the cool bathroom sink. "I'm sorry," you murmured, your voice still shaky from the intensity of your encounter.

Joe leaned in to kiss your neck, his breath warm against your skin. "Don't be. We both needed this." He pulled out of you gently, setting you upright to clean you up gently. You straightened out your clothes, trying to compose yourselves before returning to the dinner.

When you exited the bathroom, the tension between you had shifted. The awkwardness was gone, replaced with a newfound intimacy and understanding. You held hands as you walked back to the ballroom, your eyes meeting in a silent promise that you wouldn't let your busy lives come between you two again.

As you re-entered the buzzing room, the first person you saw was Tiffany, who was chatting with a group of people. Her eyes immediately darted to your joined hands and hazy eyes. You felt a smug satisfaction at the slight flicker of jealousy in the assistant's gaze. But you pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on Joe and the rest of the night ahead of you.

Joe steered you to your table, and you noticed that the dinner had progressed to dessert without you. The other guests were engaged in lively conversations, oblivious to the passionate interlude the two of you had just shared. You couldn't help but feel a bit rebellious, a bit wild, knowing that while everyone else was munching on chocolate tiramisu, you had just been properly fucked by your fiancé in the bathroom.

You sat down and picked at your desserts, Joe occasionally squeezing your hand under the table. The rest of the evening passed in a blur of small talk and forced smiles, but you couldn't shake the feeling that Tiffany's eyes kept finding you, lingering a second too long on the lean into each other or the occasional kiss you shared.

As the dinner wound down and guests began to disperse, Joe leaned in, whispering, "Let's get out of here." The excitement in his voice was palpable, and you found yourself smiling genuinely for the first time that evening.

"What about Tiffany? She's not ready to leave," you whispered, glancing at Joe's assistant who was still deep in conversation.

"She's a big girl," Joe said with a firmness in his voice that made your stomach flutter. "We need some time alone."

"Joe," you warned, your voice a mix of amusement and concern. "You can't just leave her here."

He leaned closer, his breath tickling your ear. "Why not? She's a smart girl, she can handle herself."

You rolled your eyes but couldn't help the smirk that played on your lips. "Fine. But you're telling her we're leaving."

Joe leaned back in his chair, his own smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "My pleasure." He stood, his movements graceful despite his towering height. He approached Tiffany, and you watched as he tapped her on the shoulder. The young assistant's smile faltered when she saw who it was, the new glow in his features unmistakeable.

"Tiffany, we're heading out," Joe said, his voice firm but not unkind. "I know you're not ready to leave yet. But when you are, just order an Uber. It's on me, you can Venmo me in the morning."

Tiffany's expression tightened, and she nodded, trying to play it cool, but the sting of being ditched was clear in her eyes. You felt a twinge of guilt, but you couldn't bring herself to care much. Like Joe said, she was a smart girl, and it didn't take much to see the sexual tension floating between an engaged couple.

The two of you made your way through the lobby, giggling to each other as you tried to slip out under the radar. An older man passed by, giving you a knowing smile. "Looks like the night's just getting started for you two," he said with a wink.

Joe's arm tightened around your waist as he replied, "You could say that," with a mischievous grin. "I'm taking my wife home." The man chuckled before continuing on his way, leaving you to your own devices.

"Wife? Already?" You teased, your eyes sparkling with mischief. “I was promised another ring, Mr. Burrow.”

"Might as well get used to calling you that," Joe said, a hint of possessiveness in his tone that sent a thrill through you. “The ring will come in due time, Mrs. Burrow.”

You stepped outside into the cool Cincinnati evening, the sounds of the city muffled by the plush hotel lobby behind you. The valet pulled up with Joe's sleek black sports car, and you couldn't help but feel like a teenager again, sneaking out for a date with your forbidden boyfriend. You drove through the city streets, the tension in the car thick with unspoken words and lingering passion.

Back home, you didn't bother with small talk. The moment you were through the door, Joe scooped you into his arms and carried you upstairs in a bridal carry to your bedroom. Your kisses were deep, your touches exploratory, as if you were discovering each other all over again.

"Joseph," you scolded as he tossed you onto the plush king-sized bed, your bodies tangling together as he followed you down. His broader, more muscular body covered yours completely. Your heart swirled with arousal at the thought of him towering over you, claiming you as his wife as he did earlier. 

He kissed you deeply, his hands exploring the curves of your body as if he hadn't touched you in years instead of just an hour. Your fingers danced over his chest, feeling the familiar strength beneath the fabric of his shirt, your desire for him growing with every beat of your heart.

"I think we have some unfinished business," Joe murmured against your neck, his voice deep and filled with desire as his hands continued to roam over your body. His mouth trailed hot kisses along your collarbone, making you arch into him with a gasp.

Your own hands found their way to his shirt buttons, eager to feel the warmth of his skin against yours. As the fabric parted, you could see the outline of his muscles, the result of countless hours of training and hard work. You ran your fingertips over his chest, feeling his heart race beneath your touch. It was a powerful reminder that, despite his rigorous schedule, he was all yours.

"Open those pretty legs for me," Joe groaned, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs, pushing your body up even further on the bed and tearing your panties away.

You eagerly complied, your heart pounding in anticipation as Joe's eyes darkened with lust. He kissed down your body, peppering your skin with kisses that left a trail of fire in their wake. When his mouth reached your pussy, you bucked your hips upward, desperate for his touch. His tongue slid along your slit, teasing your clit before delving deeper. Your moans grew louder, filling the quiet room, as he feasted on you, bringing you to the brink of another orgasm.

"Fuck, baby," you whispered as Joe's tongue swirled around your clit, bringing you closer and closer to the edge. You couldn't believe how much you needed this, how much you craved his touch after being entrenched in your busy life. Your body felt alive again, every nerve ending tingling with pleasure as Joe worked his magic on you.

"Yes, Joe," you moaned, your hips rocking against his face as Joe's skilled mouth brought you closer to climax. You felt him smile against you, the movement sending a fresh wave of pleasure through you. You were lost in the sensation, your body trembling as you reached for his hair, gripping the short strands in your fists.

"Yes, yes," you panted, your body writhing under Joe's relentless attention. His tongue was a masterful tool, bringing you closer and closer to the peak of pleasure. You could feel the tension building within you, your toes curling and your grip on his hair tightening as you approached your peak.

"I'm gonna come," you warned, your voice breathless. "Baby, please don't stop. I need you so bad."

Joe's only response was a low growl of approval, his mouth working faster as he felt your body tense beneath him. He knew you were close, he could taste it in the sweetness of your arousal. With one final, lingering lick, you shattered, your body convulsing with the force of your orgasm. Joe looked up at you, his eyes gleaming with pride and lust as he watched you come apart in his arms.

You collapsed back onto the bed, panting and trembling, your eyes fluttering shut. Joe didn't waste any time, quickly shedding his own clothes before sliding between your legs. He positioned himself at your entrance, his cock thick and hard with desire.

"Look at you," Joe murmured, his voice thick with lust. His eyes traced the lines of your body, taking in every inch of you like it was the first time all over again. "So beautiful, all mine. Never seen anyone so fucking perfect."

You felt your body warm at his words, your eyes snapping open to meet his. "Joe," you whispered, your voice a plea for more as you felt him nudge against your entrance. He slid in slowly, filling you completely, making you gasp with the sudden fullness.

Your rhythm was slow at first, a gentle rocking that grew in intensity with every beat of your hearts. You wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him deeper, your nails digging into his back. Joe's eyes never left yours, the love and desire in his gaze setting you alight. You moved together in perfect harmony, your bodies speaking a language that only the two of you understood.

"Joey," you whispered, your voice strained with need as his hips rocked into you steadily. His thrusts grew stronger, more demanding. The bed beneath you creaked with the force of your passion, the only sound in the room your ragged breaths and the slick sounds of skin on skin.

Your voice cut off with a strangled moan as he hiked your thighs up higher. Your calves now rested on his broad shoulders, as your pelvises cushioned against each other. 

“What is it baby?” Joe questioned softly against your parted lips, your breaths mingling together in whispers of moans. “You know I’d give you whatever you need. Just ask.”

"Tell me you love me," you breathed, your eyes locked on Joe's. 

His pupils dilated, and he leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours.

"I love you, beautiful. So fucking much," he growled, his voice a mix of passion and frustration at the same time. "You're mine, and I'm yours. No one else." His words were punctuated by his hips, driving into you with a ferocity that mirrored the emotions churning within you.

"Only yours," you repeated, your voice a breathy whisper as Joe's cock slammed into you, each stroke hitting a spot deep inside that sent you spiraling towards another climax. The words resonated within you, a departure from the insecurity that had plagued you earlier in the evening.

"Fuck, Joey," you moaned, feeling the pressure build inside you once again. Your nails dug into his back, urging him to go harder, faster. "Don't stop, baby, don't ever stop."

Your movements grew more frantic, the passion between you a live wire, sparking and crackling in the air. Joe's muscles bulged with effort as he drove into you, each stroke hitting deeper than the last. The room grew hazy with lust, the only reality the feel of your bodies joined together.

"I don't want you to ever doubt how much I love you," Joe said through gritted teeth, his eyes stuck on your pleasure-ridden face. He pushed into you, each thrust a declaration of his love and ownership. Your eyes rolled back in your head as you felt the familiar tightness begin to coil within you for the third time that night. "Not when I'm with you, not when I'm at work, not when I'm around anyone else."

Your lovemaking grew more intense with every word, each one a promise that resonated through your soul. The feeling of him inside you was more than just physical; it was a reaffirmation of your commitment, a reminder of your bond. Your nails raked down Joe's back, leaving a trail of red in their wake. Your legs tightened around him, pulling him closer, as if you could somehow fuse your bodies into one.

"I fuck you too hard?" Joe smirked, his voice strained as he felt your tight grip on him. He knew you were close, your breath hitching in your throat, your eyes screwed shut with pleasure.

"Too good?" He continued his relentless pace, his hips slapping against yours. You could only nod, your mouth forming a silent "yes" as you rode the wave of ecstasy. Your legs trembled around him, your body begging for more.

“Want me to fill you up, baby?” His mouth kept running as his voice became more strained with effort.

"Fuck, yes," you gasped out, your eyes flying open to meet Joe's intense gaze. You could feel your orgasm building, your muscles clenching around his cock. The way he filled you, the way he claimed you with every stroke, it was more than you could handle.

"How could you ever doubt me baby?" Joe whispered in your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine as he drove into you even deeper. 

His lips found your neck, biting at the soft flesh and soothing the pain with the flick of his tongue until you were squirming beneath him. "How could you doubt me when this good cock is just for you, huh?"

Your eyes rolled back in your head as another orgasm ripped through you without warning, your body tightening around Joe's cock. He groaned, feeling your pussy pulse with pleasure as he picked up the pace, driving into you faster and harder. The sound of your bodies colliding filled the room, the bed shaking beneath you as you both gave yourselves over to the moment.

Joe felt his own release building, the pressure at the base of his spine growing with every stroke. He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss, your teeth clashing together as you lost yourselves together. He could feel your pussy clench around him, milking his cock, and with a struggle of a moan, he came, filling you with his warmth.

For a moment, you two lay there, panting and trembling, your hearts racing. Then Joe pulled out of you, collapsing beside you on the bed. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close as you both fought to catch your breaths. You felt his heart thud against your chest, the steady beat a reassurance of his love and commitment.

"You're so fucking beautiful when you come," Joe murmured, his voice still thick with desire as he kissed the side of your neck. You couldn't help but smile, feeling a warmth spread through you that had nothing to do with the aftermath of your lovemaking. 

Moments later, you leaned back into his broad chest as you soaked in the warm water of your bathtub. Your bodies tangled together, the only sound your ragged breaths and the occasional whisper of love and reassurance. The tension from earlier had melted away, replaced by a comfort and closeness that you hadn't felt in weeks. You knew your schedules were hectic, but moments like these reminded you why you had agreed to marry Joe in the first place.

"You know I don't doubt you, Joe," you murmured against his shoulder, your voice sleepy with satisfaction. "Tiffany's behavior today was weird. And I felt guilty about my feelings and I took it out on you."

Joe sighed, his arms tightening around you. "I’m sorry we’ve been so distant, baby. I'll talk to her. I hated seeing you so upset." He kissed the top of your head.

"Thank you," you mumbled, snuggling closer to him. Despite your exhaustion, you knew that talking about Tiffany had brought the issue back to the surface. But Joe's embrace made you feel safe, and you allowed yourself to relax into the comfort of his arms.

"It's not just her," Joe began, his voice serious. "I know I've been distant, with the season and everything. But you're my priority, always." His fingers traced lingering patterns into your ribcage under the water. "I don't want anything to come between us."

Your heart swelled at his words, his voice devoid of any sign of doubt. "I know you don't," you said softly. "We'll do better, baby. I know we can."

Joe nodded, a serious look crossing his features. "We will. I promise." He leaned in, placing a gentle kiss on your temple. The silence was a welcome comfort, the weight of your promises lingering in the air.

[narcissistshandler]

I saw your masterlist and it has death note, can you make one with Light Yagami? (Bonus points if reader is sub top)

(If you don't, just ignore this)

　⸸ .ᐟ G O D ' S   W R A T H

「 pairing 」 gn!reader x light yagami (death note) 「 content 」 serving god is not only about blessings, it is also about trials and punishments. Especially when it comes to a god like Kira and a servant as sinful as you 「 tags 」 established relationship, secret relationship, sub!reader, amab!reader, dom!light, mutually abusive relationship, religious allusions, assault (reader receiving), slight stalking, Misa and L mentioned, cock stepping, blowjob/deep throat (light receiving)

a/n ; tried and failed to write something healthy with light, hope the dark dynamic works for you too! intended to be a gn reader, if there is any error please let me know

LIGHT didn't see you as different from everyone else in his life, classified in a box of temporary usefulness, interest or discard. At least at first. When you were more of a nameless face than a fierce devotee──to Kira, to Light, to whoever wore the mask at the time. Now you had your own little box. For better or worse.

"You forget your place so easily, don't you? I tolerate your games. Your constant presence. Even your little displays of pathetic jealousy. But today..." His voice was strained, hovering in the rehearsed fake tone he used for most people. But not with you. The good-guy facade always fell quickly around you.

He loosens his tie, his merciless eyes looking down. The sweet scent clings to him, that of someone who doesn’t belong to you, something feminine and soft that makes your throat itch.

Your tongue runs over your split bottom lip, the taste of blood filling your mouth. You don’t even try to look apologetic despite your face still throbbing and your scalp tingling from the tugging. Guilty.

You already knew he was going to hurt you when you did what you did. He lied to you, but that was okay, you had memorized his password pattern, unlocked his phone, read his messages, and followed him to his meeting with Misa. It ruined his plans. And pain was Light's way of showing that he cared, that he felt, anything.

He hit you. With his hands, with his words, his belt. He threw you to the ground like a disobedient animal and everything inside you burns with pain, but also with pride. Because for a moment, he broke character and Light Yagami saw you as a risk. A problem. And that's the closest thing to love someone like him could offer.

You could apologize, beg for forgiveness, but knew that apologies wouldn't stop Kira's fury.

He undoes the buttons on his shirt, irritation blazing in his every movement. He hated things getting out of his control. "Today you compromised a part of my plan out of pure selfishness and you have no right to do so, [name]. That's not why I keep you around."

Light was so angry that his upper lip was trembling. You provoked him. Not because you wanted to ruin his plans, but because you wanted… something. You wanted attention.

The toe of his shoe pokes your thigh. He twists his neck in what looks like a failed attempt to deal with the tension. There's an audible crack. "Nothing to say now? What's that? What's with that pose?" He does that thing with the words again ── chooses them sweetly to belittle you, but you know better than anyone the pleasure in his eyes at having you like this: kneeling before his feet, knees against the cold floor and bare torso where he stands over you. Looking up at him, declaring your adoration.

"You like it when I bow down to you."

Light couldn't deny it. The blood staining your face, the passivity still in your body, knowing that you would never react to the attacks, had his cock was pushing against his pants. Throbbing and dripping. Begging to be shoved down your throat and forced to choke on it.

And that's exactly what he would do. Because you deserved to be punished after drawing L's attention to yourself and leaving the invisible spot where you were supposed to be. Because Light knew he needed to put you in your place again so that you wouldn't forget that he was your god and and god was not questioned without punishment. But not now.

"So stay right there, on your knees, until I decide what to do with you." When Light leaves the room, darkness absorbs you, a cold that made you chew on your already bleeding lips. His absence was worse than the bare-handed blows.

And when he returns, hours later, you've already had time to start regretting it, on the verge of tears and lonely. You crawls over to where he sits on the edge of the bed and nestles your face against his warm thigh. You begs. You asks for forgiveness, even though you doesn't feel much yet.

You are obedient, hungry in fact when he undoes his belt ── leather that tasted your skin earlier. At another point, Light would have you begging for the chance to feel the salt on his skin. Today he doesn't push you back when you approach like a needy believer, mouth already opening, already salivating just at the sight of his erection springing free. So, so in need of him.

"Open," he commands, even if it's not necessary, just because he can. Light loved doing things just because he could.

Then Light is shoving his cock into your mouth, without pause, straight down your throat, pressing his foot cruelly where your own cock stirs in the pants. He steps on you. He doesn't fake it or go soft on you. Purposefully causing you pain; fingers pulling your hair; long, curved cock as beautiful as the rest of him invading your throat as if you were just another one of his possessions. An inanimate object, a cocksleeve whose sole purpose in life was to be used.

You run for your chance at divine forgiveness, babbling around it, hips tensing under the pain, but never pulling away from it. You accept every inch, every rough push and pull of your hair. Pain is love.

The way he touches you is not about affection, it's about power. He dismantles you as if he knows where every thread of your desire begins and ends and uses it to his advantage.

Light didn't have to be so blunt about it, but he makes a point of reminding you of your place. He fucks your face, cheeks flushed as he pants and talks over you. Demanding, humiliating. "Always so obedient…" he murmurs, voice muffled and breathless, almost delirious. An excitement similar to the euphoria of writing in the Death Note. "But what is this due to...? Fear?... Love?" He chuckles, then groans as your teeth scrape against his girth. Light curses at you, but there’s no denying the tremor in his hips when you do it again and he drips precum onto your tongue, feeding you.

Masochist, even if he considers such things beneath him.

The bed creaks beneath his weight and Light shifts closer to the edge of the mattress, his foot pressing harder against your erection, rubbing just where the sensitive head wets the fabric. His cock pushes past the tight muscles of your throat, feeling the contractions, the convulsion and the beginning of a cough, and holds it there, keeping your nose against his groin as he cums in your mouth.

You've already lost your breath, you've forgotten what it's like to breathe without the pressure of his cock in the middle of your throat.

Ropes after ropes of cum spurt all the way down your throat and straight into your stomach. Your throat convulses, feeling like your airway will close at any second, but you just grip his thighs and let him use you. Compliant. The taste of his seed mingling with the metallic of your own blood in a holy, sacred supper.

You're going to pass out any moment now if he doesn't back off.

And it pushes you towards your own orgasm, hips chasing the friction against the soles of Light's shoes. Pathetically rubbing against him, needing release so badly it hurts. The sight of Light's face experiencing climax is enough to make you cum, quickly and without warning, without permission given.

Light is coming down from ecstasy to notice you crumbling on the floor at his feet from simply having your throat fucked by your god and savior. Breathing quickened, fingers relaxing where they surely pulled out some strands of your hair and member throbbing on your tongue as his balls emptied.

The irritation leaves him, giving way to pleasure. The cruelty remains, of course. Of course.

He then notices the trembling in your thighs and can almost feel the moisture gathering beneath the soles of his shoes, your member twitching weakly as you searches for more. He looks at you from beneath his lashes like a small, pathetic thing, his slowly softening cock still trapped between your glossy lips. “Who gave you permission to cum?”

He nudges your cock with the toe of his shoe, hard, and you grab his heel, just to anchor yourself, never pulling away. "You're so easy. I just forced my cock down your throat and that was all it took for you to cum in your pants. Do you understand now why you are on your knees? I determine your purpose and it will do you good to remember that."

You blink up at him, moisture glistening in your eyes as he continues to step on your sensitive cock. Your mouth feels sticky and disgusting, the saliva thick and salty, your throat scratchy. Your eyes are half-rolling. Completely fucked out of this plane of existence.

Light hisses like a snake as you suck around him, trying to extract more of him. But Light has always been on the sensitive side and overstimulation was a personal weakness of his. "Let go, you slut," he says and you comply.

His hands are on your face then, stroking under your eyes, tracing your split bottom lip. It's a caress at odds with the slap that follows. Sharp and heavy. A reminder of your disobedience. "You know damn well you're not allowed to cum whenever you want, don't you?" His smile is dark and full of promise, deceiving. The way it made you excited and eager. "But I'll let it slide. You've had enough."

His next words, accompanied by his hard eyes, almost make you whimper. "Just listen carefully: if Misa suspects anything, I swear I'll make you swallow every tooth you have left."

He was the god here. The person who took you apart, the one who decided your life or death. You were just one of his servants, a faithful but unstable follower.

Oh, but how wrong Light was. You did love him, but you would rather take him with you to hell than let him go free for someone else. He could break you into a million pieces, as long as he only touched you and no one else.

[ssweeterthanfiction]

Orbit

college!finnick odair x fem!reader content warnings: little bit of angst summary: you meet your estranged best friend. wc: 2k

masterlist. | part two

In our lives, we pass a thousand faces, hear a thousand voices. Some stay for a moment, some for years. And then there are the rare ones —the ones that leave a mark so deep, that even after time stretches thin and memories start to fade, their face, their voice, still makes the world slow down for just a second.

Finnick Odair was that for you.

He had been your sun.

From pre-K to eighth grade, the two of you were inseparable — two kids tangled together in every yearbook photo, every group project, every inside joke scribbled into the margins of a worn-out notebook. Your school had been tiny, the kind where the same twenty-five kids followed each other from year to year like ducks in a row, stuck in the same beige classrooms under the glow of flickering fluorescent lights.

You watched Finnick grow up, phase by phase. The Minecraft era, when he wouldn't shut up about building underwater houses. The time he got braces and wouldn’t smile for pictures. The summer he insisted he was going to be a marine biologist and memorized every fact about hammerhead sharks known to man.

And he had watched you, too. Through your Percy Jackson obsession—your Camp Half-Blood shirt on constant rotation, your hand always clutching the newest book like it was scripture. Through your quiet spells, your louder ones, your slow-blooming love of words and late-night journaling.

You knew each other like second skin.

And then, you didn’t.

High school was supposed to be a fresh start. You were tired of the sameness, the way the girls in your grade had started icing you out for reasons you never fully understood. You needed change. So, you were headed to the public high school. And Finnick? He was moving across the state to some swanky private boarding school.

Still, you had both sworn things would never change. You pinky promised before the eighth grade graduation, sitting cross-legged on your trampoline under the June stars. You would stay best friends. You would visit on weekends. You would FaceTime and text and never lose touch.

But time had other plans.

The goodbye hurt more than you thought it would. At your shared backyard graduation party, he’d handed you a small box. Inside was a necklace, a dainty silver moon on a thin chain. He wore the sun version around his neck.

“Best friends. Always,” he said, voice thick but steady.

You hugged him like it was the last time. And in a way, it was.

Then came the after. The quiet house. The empty driveway. The summer that didn’t feel like summer anymore.

You tried. You really tried. The texts. The late-night FaceTimes. The blurry selfies captioned with "miss you :(" and "we need to talk soon." But the truth was, you were both changing—growing up in opposite directions. He went to some private high school across the state. And you dove headfirst into your new school, trying to forget how badly middle school girls could break a person.

But eventually, the calls stopped. Then the texts.

By late winter of freshman year, you were watching him from afar—his face glowing on Instagram stories, surrounded by people you didn’t recognize, smiling a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. But maybe that was just your wishful thinking.

He had new friends. New school. A whole new life you didn’t belong in anymore.

You didn’t text. You wanted to. A thousand times. But your thumb always hovered over the keyboard, then moved away. He seemed happy. You weren’t sure he’d even remember the girl who used to wear Camp Half-Blood shirts and knew all his shark facts by heart.

You let him go.

Years passed like seasons—fast, blurry, warm in some places, freezing in others. And then, you were a senior in high school, opening your acceptance letter to the University of Panem.

You didn’t think about Finnick that much anymore. Not really.

But one night, while tapping through Instagram stories in bed, your thumb froze. You blinked. Then blinked again.

It was a repost of a college commitment post.

Congratulations to Finnick on his commitment to the University of Panem!! 🎓🎉 We are so proud of your accomplishments and are excited to see what you accomplish!

You dropped your phone on your face out of shock.

Because for the first time in four years, after all the silence, after all the growing up you did apart—Finnick Odair would be at your college.

And suddenly, the past didn't feel so far away.

Your alarm blared through your room.

Sleepily, you turned it off and unlocked your phone, eyes adjusting to the light. Move-In Day. Today was the start of your new life.

College.

You stared at the word written in your notes app, a list titled Dorm Must-Haves that you definitely didn’t finish packing. The adrenaline of this day was supposed to kick in. You were supposed to feel excited. But instead, you just felt...suspended. Not exactly nervous, not exactly calm. Somewhere in between.

Downstairs, you could already hear your older brother clattering around in the kitchen, loudly pretending not to be annoyed that he had to help you move into his school.

You sat up, brushing the sleep from your eyes. In the corner of your room, your duffle bags sat zipped, a heap of clothes and books and memories you were dragging with you. It was weird, packing your life into three bags. Even weirder, knowing everything was about to change.

You got ready quickly, shorts, an old Fleetwood Mac tee, and a hoodie tied around your waist.

Then you looked over at your desk.

The moon necklace sat where it always did, on the corner of your desk, still resting in the little box Finnick had given you. You hadn’t worn it in years, not really on purpose. It just felt like it belonged to a different lifetime.

Your fingers hovered over it.

You weren’t expecting to see him. The university was big, he could be anywhere, different dorms, different major, different people. It had been four years, and who knew if he even remembered you.

Still…

You slipped the necklace into your pocket. Just in case.

The drive to school was long and loud a mixture of your brother’s playlist, gas station snacks, and bursts of silence as you stared out the window, lost in thought.

You remembered road trips with Finnick. His sun-streaked hair catching the breeze through the open window, the way he used to dramatically sing along to pop songs he pretended to hate. The games you made up to kill time. The way the car always felt warmer when he was in it.

You shook your head.

It was just move-in day. No big deal.

You rested your head against the window and let the scenery blur. The sky outside was pale and still waking up, streaked with pink and gold.

Your brother talked, about school, about his freshman year disaster of a roommate, about everything you should pack for the communal bathrooms, but your mind kept drifting.

To him.

You hadn’t let yourself think about Finnick too much since seeing that commitment post. It was easier that way. Cleaner. But now, with your stomach fluttering and your whole life packed in a trunk, he was creeping back in.

Would you see him today?

Would he recognize you?

Would he even care?

You had no clue what dorm he was in, no clue what major he picked, no clue if he was even moving in today. The odds of running into him on a campus this size were probably slim.

Right?

The campus was already buzzing when you arrived. Cars lined the curbs, trunks were popped open, RAs shouted directions through megaphones. Bright-eyed freshmen dragged carts full of dorm essentials up concrete stairs, their parents trailing behind like pack mules.

Your brother parked near your building, Rose Hall, and the two of you got to work unloading. You made trip after trip: from the trunk to the lobby, from the lobby to the elevator, from the elevator to the third floor, where your new room was tucked away at the end of the hall.

It was hot. It was crowded. Your arms ached.

You were halfway to the elevator with a box of books when he nudged you hard with his elbow.

"Hey, isn't that Finnick Odair?"

You blinked. “What?”

He nodded subtly toward the grass, where a tall guy was laughing, tossing a football back and forth with some guy. Golden brown hair, messy in the way that was probably intentional. Broad shoulders. Confident posture. Even from a distance, he stood out.

It was him.

You recognized him instantly.

And just like that, your heart dropped into your stomach.

You expected to feel something dramatic, shock, butterflies, maybe even anger. But instead, it was this quiet stillness. Like your brain couldn’t quite catch up with what your eyes were seeing.

Finnick Odair was here.

And he wasn’t wearing the sun necklace.

You quickly looked away, pretending to read the label on the box you were holding. “I don’t know. Might be.”

You didn’t see him again the rest of move-in day.

Or maybe you just avoided looking.

The moon necklace stayed in your pocket—warm from your fingers, but still untouched. You weren’t sure why you brought it. Maybe part of you thought wearing it would’ve felt like a statement, like you were walking around campus with a banner that read I Still Care. Maybe keeping it hidden just felt safer.

By the time orientation rolled around two days later, you had almost convinced yourself it didn’t matter.

Almost.

It was hot. Way too hot for whatever cutesy “Welcome to U of P!” schedule the orientation team had cooked up. You sat under a tent surrounded by other freshmen, a drawstring bag full of free university merch at your feet, and a fake smile plastered on your face as your peer mentor tried to get everyone to do icebreakers.

Your attention drifted. You scanned the crowd.

You weren’t looking for him, not really. But your eyes caught on familiar hair, familiar height—too many guys here could’ve been him if you only glanced for half a second.

You had no idea how it would even go. Would he say hi? Pretend nothing happened? Would he even recognize you?

And then..

“Hey,” someone said beside you.

You turned.

He was just…there.

Finnick.

Older, taller, broader. His voice deeper. His eyes somehow the exact same. It hit you all at once, like a song you hadn’t heard in years playing from another room. You could barely breathe.

He looked like he hadn’t expected you to actually turn around.

There was a pause. Just a little too long to be normal.

You opened your mouth. “Hey.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “I, uh- I saw you the other day. On move-in. I wasn’t sure it was you.”

You gave a tight smile. “Yeah. Same.”

A silence stretched between you. The kind that used to never exist.

“So…” he said, eyes flicking around like he was buying time. “You’re in Rose Hall?”

“Yeah,”

“I’m in Pallis Hall.”

You nodded. “Not too far from here.”

Another pause.

You didn’t know what to say. What could you say? Hey, remember when we promised we’d never lose touch? That worked out great. Why didn’t you text back? Do you still have your necklace?

Instead, all that came out was, “It’s…good to see you.”

He looked at you, really looked at you. His voice was soft when he said, “Yeah. You too.”

The peer mentor clapped their hands, snapping both of you back to the present. “Alright, time to break into your assigned groups!”

You stood. So did Finnick. For a second, you just hovered there, unsure if you were supposed to say goodbye or just awkwardly shuffle away.

“Well,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I guess I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah,” you replied, heart thudding. “See you.”

And then you walked away.

Like you barely knew each other.

A/N: WOW I AN ON A ROLL

[yourbasicqueerie]

office hours (lilia calderu x reader)

• Summary: You've been distracted lately, and Professor Calderu noticed it. what will happen when she calls you into her office for a little "chat" about your....diversions?

• Notes: Wrote this based on the beautiful @jubshead 's experiences with having a crush on her teacher, go give her some love because she is one of my favorite people ever and a constant joy in my life, the cunnilingus bit is for my honorary grandma pia ( @chiefofmilfs). I don't have a playlist for 5is even tho I have had it sitting on my docs for a good 2 weeks now, but I did listen to a lot of "glory box" by Portishead while cranking at this. thank you to my angel in earth @angeliccss for helping me with the pictures!!!! hope you like it. ALSO PREACH ANKLE BRACELETS BECAUSE LILIA IS A FUKCIGN HIPPEY AND I CANJOT WITH ANYONE MAKING HER A FANCY COOL BROADWAY DIVA LET MY WEEDY CUNTY DUMPSTER DIVING GRANDMA RUN FREE INTO THE SUNSET WITH TWO DIFFERENT PAIRS OF STOLEN SUNGLASSES UNDER HER UNPADDED CROCHET BRALLETE • warnings: smut in this bitch and it’s fucking everywhere, like nasty nasty shit. probably the horse it’s most jerkable thing i’ve ever made so uhhh beware if you don’t want to read straight up filth coming from yours truly

——————————— ^ ————————————

The campus hums with late afternoon energy.

Someone’s blasting jazz from a dorm window three floors up, and the quad smells like cheap weed and cut grass. You dodge a flying frisbee, give a half-hearted wave to your anthropology partner, and keep walking—fast—toward the old humanities building. The one that looks like it’s about to either collapse or be declared a historic landmark.

Professor Calderu’s office is on the third floor. No elevator.

The stairs creak like they’re judging you.

You knock, knuckles tapping lightly on the frosted glass door that reads: Dr. Lilia Calderu, Department of History — Office Hours by Appointment Only

...which, for you, apparently means “4:30 on a Thursday because she said so and you didn’t dare argue.”

“Come in,” calls that unmistakable voice—smoky, precise, somehow both amused and exhausted.

You step in. And, as usual, her office looks like a wizard exploded in it. There are stacks of old books—some with titles in Latin, others just blank leather spines—everywhere. There’s incense curling from a holder shaped like a tiny gargoyle, a velvet throw draped dramatically over a chair she definitely doesn’t let students sit in, and a mug that says Hex the Patriarchy beside a bowl of hard candy you’ve never seen anyone take from.

Professor Lilia Calderu herself sits behind the desk, legs crossed, reading glasses perched low on her nose. She’s wearing a long, flowing blouse with swirling prints in crimson and indigo, sleeves that flutter when she turns a page. Her jewelry clinks softly as she moves—silver rings, chunky bangles, earrings that sparkle even in low light. Her lipstick’s a sharp berry-red, her gray hair is being worn so dramatically that you can't quite place whether it is a crown or a rebellion.

She doesn’t look up. Yet.

You hover awkwardly by the door, resisting the urge to shift your weight like a guilty middle schooler.

“You’re late,” she says.

“It’s 4:31.”

“Which is not 4:30.”

You could argue. You don’t. Finally, she looks up.

And her gaze pins you where you stand. There’s something vaguely feline about the way she watches you. Leisurely. Dissecting. As if she already knows every reason you’re here, but she wants to hear you say it. Badly.

“Well?” she says, folding her hands over your essay—the one she digitally returned last week with comments like “uninspired” and “beneath your abilities.” (Which hurt more than you’d like to admit, especially since she’s usually never so surgical with her praise.)

“I’m here to talk about my grade,” you say, forcing confidence into your voice.

She leans back. “Are you?”

“I—yes?”

Lilia lifts a brow.

“Interesting. Because your paper suggests you either didn’t read the material, or you were too distracted to care.”

That stings. “I read it,” you say defensively. “Twice.”

“Mmm. And yet, here you are.” She gestures lazily to the seat across from her. “Sit. Let’s get to the root of the problem.”

You sit. (Because of course you do.)

She watches you, silent for a beat too long. Then: “You’ve been distracted. In class. In your writing. Even now, you can barely keep still.”

You blink. “I’m just—tired. It’s midterms. Everyone’s tired.”

Lilia tuts. “Somehow, not everyone is turning in work that reads like a half-hearted blog post.”

You bristle. “It wasn’t that bad.” She smirks.

“Darling, if I wanted to be lied to, I’d go to a faculty meeting.”

(And there it is—that sharp, dry wit that makes your stomach flip in the worst/best way.)

Her eyes narrow slightly behind the glasses. “Tell me,” she says slowly, “what is it that’s keeping your mind so… preoccupied?”

She already knows. Of course she does. But she wants to hear you say it. Wants to drag it out of you like a confession.

You shift in your seat. The cushion creaks under you. “I don’t know.” Lilia hums, clearly not buying it. She rises from her chair in one fluid movement, shawl rippling behind her, and steps around the desk—slow, deliberate, dangerous. You don’t breathe.

“You don’t know?” she repeats, almost gently, coming to stand behind you. “That doesn’t sound like the clever little voice that won’t shut up in my class. The one who always has something to say—until now.”

You sit very still. She smells like smoke and sandalwood and something that doesn’t belong to this century.

Her fingers drift lightly over the back of your chair. Not touching you. Yet. “Is it stress?” she asks, low near your ear. “A bad grade? Boy troubles? Girl troubles? Hmm?” You start to speak, but her hand finally does touch—fingertips grazing the back of your neck, feather-light. You shiver. “Oh,” she purrs, and you can hear the smirk in her voice. “It’s me, isn’t it?”

You tense. A heartbeat of silence.

“Say it,” she murmurs. You open your mouth.

“No, wait,” she says, stepping in front of you now, leaning on the desk again, arms crossed so the sleeves of her blouse pull tight across her chest. She looks down at you like she’s grading your soul. “Let me guess. You don’t want to admit it. You’re embarrassed.”

You flush. “I’m not—”

“Please,” she interrupts smoothly. “You stare. You squirm. You bite your lip like you’re in a bad paperback novel. If I made a drinking game out of your distractions, I’d be in rehab.”

You don’t know what to do with your hands. Your voice comes out too quiet. “It’s not my fault.”

Her head tilts. “Oh?”

“You walk into the room and everyone notices. You talk like you already know what people are going to say. You look at me like you see right through me. And—” You stop. Too late.

“And?” she asks, with exquisite cruelty. You bite the inside of your cheek.

Lilia steps closer, between your legs now, and you realize suddenly that she’s barefoot—silver rings on her toes, ankle bracelets that jingle softly. Her hand lifts and gently tilts your chin up. Her voice is a whisper, but sharp enough to cut glass. “And that makes it hard for you to concentrate?”

You nod. Once. Slowly.

“I see.” Her thumb drags over your lower lip. “And here I thought I’d lost my touch.”

You exhale—more like a tremble than a breath.

She doesn’t move. “I should report you,” she says. Not a threat. Just a thought spoken aloud. “You’re a distraction. A danger to decorum. But you know what, darling?” Her voice softens, grows silkier. “I think I like watching you struggle.”

You should be offended. You’re not.

“You come into my class pretending to be clever. But all it takes is a little pressure,” she presses her thumb a bit firmer against your lip, “and look how quickly you fall apart.”

You stare at her. You want to say something scathing. Something flirty. Something to take back an ounce of control. All that comes out is a whisper: “Lilia.”

Her eyes glint like obsidian catching firelight. She leans in, lips barely brushing your ear now, voice a dagger wrapped in velvet. “Do you need me to help you focus, darling?”

READ MORE ON AO3

[depravitycentral]

Inspired by my impending period (and scouring through the yan overhaul tag and finding this lovely piece by @after-witch), basically just a short, non-comprehensive yan Overhaul blurb when you’re on your period but I staunchly believe he's Weird About It in a pathetic sexually-repressed way

Tw: dub-con fingering, m masturbation, recording, kind of infantilization, minor mention of forcing you to finish your food

Thinking about Overhaul who is not the biggest fan of your menstruations. He doesn’t find you repulsive – far from it – but there’s still the fear of germs. He’s still hesitant about the dirtiness of it all, the messiness, the fact that you can’t control it. It’s a constant war in his head, each side of him wanting to simultaneously comfort you through the pain and your obvious embarrassment while the other side recoils and urges him to wrap you in disinfectant-imbued absorbent pads.

And he prepares very well for your periods – he’s got a few sets of antimicrobial sheets dedicated to your time of the month, the crisp white stretched taught over three layers of absorbant bed protectors. He’s got a set of extra absorbant panties with a wax coating in the material to minimize leakage, all in that same soft, off-white color Kai always prefers you in.

(Buying the panties had been a decision purely motivated by his worry for the mess you’d inevitably create, but the first time he sees you in them he has to suck in his breath, pupils dilating and his pulse quickening because fuck, how can you still look so enticing with clinical, full-coverage underwear?)

He’ll force you to wear special clothing during it, too – nightgowns that leave you skin feeling simultaneously ticklish and unbearably soft, the material of such high quality that you’re terrified you’ll somehow stain it. He’ll have you lather yourself in a special selection of ointments and exfoliants in the shower, claiming that your body needs exposure to more vitamins and quality supplements to account for everything you’re losing. He’s insisting that your portion sizes get slightly bigger even when you refuse to finish your plate.

(Something he won’t stand for: you’ll finish, or someone will pay – you’ll have a front row seat as he slips off his glove, and even afterwards you’re still expected to finish that last bite of mushy, flavorless ‘food’.)

You’re getting more protein on these days, too, his paranoia eating away at him because he needs to make sure you’re healthy and that you don’t develop any sort of deficiencies or illnesses or anything else that could snatch you away from him.

Anything that could cause you to abandon him.

But really, while his hyper-controlling behavior and the constant scrutiny and micromanaging of your every move is heightened on your period, arguably the worst time is the leadup to the first little drop of blood. Of course it’s never really a surprise when you’re due because he keeps anally strict records and documentation of your cycles – tracking each phase and making sure that everything is uniform, consistent, healthy.

(And yes, that includes tracking your ovulation phase as well – he still can’t quite muster up the courage to fuck you, his own insecurities and fears barring him each time his hand hovers over his zipper, each time the pretty pout of your lips and the lull of your voice leave him hard enough to hurt. He’s still tracking it, though, the start and end dates marked with a big red check mark on his personal colander, the sight making him adjust his tie in the mirror, eyebrows furrowing slightly as he takes in his appearance.

Maybe he should leave his tie just slightly askew – women like the casual, effortless look, right? Maybe it’d make him seem less stoic, less alien, less intimidating – maybe you’d even fix it for him, reaching out with hesitant hands, asking in that pretty voice of yours for him to let you fix it, the feeling of your fingertips through the layers of his clothing enough to get precum staining his boxers. He’ll swallow and leave the tie slightly off-center, throwing off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves for good measure. He’ll run a hand through his hair as he knocks on your door, already anticipating and hoping for even the slightest sign that you notice.

Perhaps your ovulation will leave you more recipient to the way he awkwardly settles at the edge of your bed beside you, his thigh just barely brushing against yours, your breaths close enough that he can hear. Hopefully you will be, because when he spends an hour that night with his cock in hand, embarrassment and shame creeping up his spine at how he's unable to stop thinking about how horny you must be, it would be much easier to imagine you'd at least be willing to let him help you. He wants to help you.)

He's tracking everything, and so he knows exactly when your period is due - but the human body is fickle, and so he relies on a system to ensure you've actually begun bleeding each month. It's clinical, more than anything - he'll ask you to follow him to the room with the gynecologist's chair, the kind with cold metal that bites into your skin. You'll settle in, legs spread and pretty cunt on display, Kai's gaze never wavering from the sight as he rolls on an additional layer of surgical gloves.

He'll maneuver the rolling seat up to the space between your spread legs, his voice monotonous as he asks you whether cramps have started, whether you've noticed anything unusual, whether you're yet experiencing that occasional bout of horniness that accompanies the first few days.

It's hard to answer with a straight voice as cold, latex-covered fingers prod at you, two thumbs spreading apart your labia to peer at your clenching hole, a single finger even running over your clit to test your sensitivity.

(Blink and you'll miss the way Kai tenses at the noise you make, his jaw clenching and his sharp inhale - he won't comment on it, but tonight it'll be on repeat in his head, your small oh mentally punctuating each of his strokes.)

He's silent once the touching begins, partially out of distrust for his own voice and concentration, and you won't bother to fill in the silence. You're completely dry each time, and after he spends a few moments poking and prodding to look for any signs of swelling or abnormalities, he'll pull back for a few moments.

It's short lived, and as he squeezes a bit of antimicrobial lube onto his pointer finger, you'll only shudder. He'll shudder too, for an entirely different reason, as he slowly pushes a single finger in, taking care to go slow.

(He feels a bit pathetic for being so attentive and slow with the 'exam', but he can't shake the feeling of wanting each and every sexual encounter between the two of you - he counts this as such - to be a positive experience. He wants you to associate him with treating you well, with taking the proper precautions for your comfort. Because ultimately, when he finally works up the courage to replace his fingers with his cock, he wants you to be receptive. He needs you to be receptive.)

It's still silent, and as he pushes all the way to the hilt, he'll curl his fingers slightly. He's moving them slowly and methodically, pressing his gloved fingertips against every inch of your walls, the sensation making you bite your lip.

And Kai's watching you - his gaze flicks between your face and his fingers, wanting to bask in the sight of you but also fixated on the sight of his fingers inside you. All the while he's trying to memorize the exact pressure of how you squeeze him, your natural curvature, committing everything to memory because it'll make his fantasies tonight that much better, that much more real, that much more preparative for when he finally, finally has you underneath him, staring up at him and begging for more, please Kai please...

After some thirty seconds he'll pull back, the wet noise of the lube making you cringe and him shiver, and he'll carefully examine the latex for any signs of blood.

If there's no visible blood, he's quick to discard the glove, immediately washing his hands in triplicate at the nearby sink, his voice finally cutting through the oppressive silence in the room. Everything checks out, he'll say, go shower. I'll have dinner delivered in an hour or so.

He'll pause, turning off the sink, but not turning around to face you. I'll be joining you this evening.

There's no question in his voice, no desire for your permission, only a vague sense of resoluteness that makes your heart sink.

Okay, Kai. The sound of his name rolling off your tongue makes his eyes flutter closed, and he only turns around once he's fully in control. The sight of you still spread in the chair catches his gaze, the beat of silence as he openly stares at your cunt nearly impossible to catch, but nonetheless present.

He swallows. I trust you remember where the shower is in this examination room?

He matches your nod with one of his own, before slipping past the steel door. Once it's shut behind him, he sighs, flexing his hand that had been, just moments prior, inside you. He stares at his finger for a moment, still gloved and protected, before slowly exhaling and returning back to his office, the footage from the examination bathroom already live on the screen as he waits for you to disrobe and follow his instructions.

You, meanwhile, will be left to bite your lip and try to forget the feeling of his finger inside you and the obvious bulge in his slacks.

And as the warm water runs down your back, you'll content yourself with the knowledge that at least the specula remains untouched on the bedside table.

For now.

(TLDR Kai uses checking for your period as practice for fingering you, and yes it's just as unsexy and weird as it sounds. And the longer it goes on, the more likely he is to record it - to record you, really, and the sight of his fingers sinking into you.)

[thef1diary]

Thinking about ghost!max teasing and edging tf out of reader (im talking vibrators, fingers, his mouth… the whole 9 yards) while she tries to get ready for a NYE party… he has her panting and crying for a release he will ONLY give her if she stays home… essentially he wants reader to ring in the new years with his cock burried deep in her pussy.

Anyways whore house hours while at work 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

-❄️

— hi nonnie!! So glad to see you back in my inbox <3 whore house is open 24/7 🤭 this is sooo ghost!max, but how dare you even think of leaving him alone on nye of all days? 18+ content below

The short black dress clung to your body like a second skin, paired with shimmering gold heels that sparkled in the soft glow of your vanity lights. New Year’s Eve promised glamour, champagne, and laughter. You were almost ready—almost—if only Max wasn’t tormenting you.

The vibrator tucked into your panties buzzed mercilessly against your clit, its rhythm relentless yet carefully orchestrated to pull you back from the edge every time you got too close. A familiar cool draft curled around you, despite the lack of an open window, sending a chill down your spine.

“Max,” you hissed, gripping the vanity’s edge as your reflection blurred in the soft glow. “Stop playing games.”

Nearby, the spirit box on your dresser crackled to life, faint static filling the room before his voice filtered through. “Stop playing games?” The box repeated his words in fragmented bursts, mocking your plea as his shadowy presence sharpened behind you in the mirror. “Why would I stop when you’re this perfect? A trembling, desperate little mess for me.”

You could barely see him—just a faint, smoky outline, more suggestion than substance. Yet his touch was undeniable as cold fingers trailed down your spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

Two fingers slid in your pussy, curling against that sensitive spot inside. You gasped, your knees buckling as his invisible hand held you steady, keeping you pressed against the vanity.

Your constant moans filled the room as he pumped his fingers inside you, his presence looming, the faint scent of gasoline and something slightly woodsy wrapping around you like a cocoon.

“You’re not leaving tonight,” he murmured through the spirit box, the sound enough to make you shiver. “Not when you should be here, screaming my name into the new year.”

Your hips instinctively rocked against his fingers, only amplifying the torment of the vibrator on your clit causing slick arousal to pool in your panties. You were teetering on the brink, your pussy clenching desperately around his fingers, your moans growing louder as release hovered just within reach.

But just as you were about to reach your orgasm, his fingers stilled, his voice from the spirit box cutting through the haze. “Not yet.”

You whimpered, thighs trembling, and as he slid your panties down your legs, the buzz of the vibrator moved away with an almost mocking finality. “Max,” you groaned, but he only chuckled, the sound resonating around the room like a ripple of cold air.

Before you could protest further, he dropped to his knees, his outline barely visible in the faint glow of the vanity light. His mouth latched onto your clit, his tongue cold but relentless as it worked you over. The spirit box crackled again, his voice threading through the air in between the sounds of your desperate moans.

“Stay home,” he whispered, interspersed with static. “Let me fuck you.”

His hands—more firm and defined than his ghostly form—gripped your thighs, holding you steady as his tongue licked and sucked in a rhythm that had you sobbing. Your fingers scrambled on the vanity, searching for a way to ground yourself, your nails scraping against the polished surface as your knees threatened to give out.

“Say it,” he growled against your folds. The vibration of his voice hit your pussy yet the sound came from the spirit box, sending jolts of pleasure and slight confusion straight through you. “Say you’ll stay.”

“I—I can’t,” you stammered, your resolve crumbling with every flick of his tongue.

He pulled away just long enough to speak, and you could make out an outline of his form looking up at you from between your legs. “Then you’ll be starting the new year with a punishment. You don’t want that do you, schatje?”

When his mouth descended on your cunt again, it was too much. You broke, sobbing out your surrender. “Fine! I’ll stay! Please, Max, I’ll stay!”

A satisfied moan echoed through the spirit box, and his shadowy form rose behind you, pressing you against the vanity as he guided you to bend over. You barely had time to brace yourself before he pushed into you, stretching you to the hilt in one slow, deliberate thrust.

Soon, it was nearing midnight, and he had you exactly where he wanted—pliant, desperate, and utterly ruined. The once-neat dress you’d planned to wear to the party was crumpled somewhere on the floor, forgotten hours ago when he’d pushed you down onto the bed.

Your loud, almost pornographic moans blended with the rhythmic sounds of skin meeting skin, the slick slide of his cock driving into you while he had finally let you to cum over and over again.

“You’re perfect,” he groaned, his faint outline shifting above you as he kissed down your neck. “So fucking perfect when you’re like this. All mine.”

You whimpered as he thrust into you harder, deeper, his cock hitting that devastating spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. The spirit box in the corner crackled again, faint words lost in static, a hauntingly intimate sound that only heightened your arousal.

When the chime of midnight echoed through the room, paired with fireworks happening outside your house, Max gripped your hips tightly, his thrusts quickening. “Cum for me,” he commanded, his voice a growl of pure possession. “Now, schat. Scream my name.”

Your body obeyed, the orgasm ripping through you with high intensity. You screamed his name, your voice hoarse and raw as he continued to move inside you, drawing out every wave of pleasure.

As the last aftershocks left you trembling, Max leaned down, his lips brushing your ear in a ghostly kiss.

“Happy new year,” he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. His presence lingered, a cold yet comforting press against your skin as you lay there, completely undone.

This year, you thought hazily, you wouldn’t need a resolution. You already had everything you wanted right here.

want more ghost!max? send me an ask with your filthiest thoughts and it’ll get answered during one of my dirty drabble days

[princessbrunette]

i feel like rafe is so possessive over bunny!reader’s social like we know she loves her revealing outfits so taking photos he’s always lurking somewhere in them making sure her followers know she’s his

- 🌺

୨୧ . ﾟ ㅤ૮꒰ ⸝⸝ ◞ ˬ ◟ ꒱ა

if you wanna dress slutty, that’s fine by him. but on the condition that you make it explicitly clear that he’s your man. he’s gotta let people know he’s allowing you to dress like that, you know? hes more calculated than you’d think, ensuring to take your silly little outfit pic infront of a reflective surface, one where you can see his frame, shadow, silhouette, anything — taking the picture for you.

if he can help it, he’ll accessorise any of your mirror selfies by having his arm in frame, or his hand round your waist or on your ass. anything to let people know you’re spoken for, a constant reminder to the world of his presence. if he’s not managed to weasel his way into the picture in a subtle way, he’s hovering over your screen as you organise the photos you’re posting on instagram.

“tag me. yeah?” his eyes swoop over to you, like a warning. you giggle.

“you’re not even in these ones rafe!” you grin, continuing to press away, manicured nails tip tapping at the screen.

“uh, doesn’t matter— okay? give me that.” he takes your phone and does it himself, placing the ‘tagged’ arrow on each photo, tagging himself as your ass, your pussy, the random plant in the background. all sprouting a black box that reads as ‘ @ therafecameron’ if it makes him feel better, you let him get on with it.

୨୧ . ﾟ ㅤ૮꒰ ⸝⸝ ◞ ˬ ◟ ꒱ა

[crypt1da]

Part 1 Part 2

You've been stuck on this planet you could not pronounce. Its residents mysterious and elusive as ever; their forms unconforming and strange. They reminded you of brittle stars or siphonophores who drifted into the air as if it were the ocean waves instead.

The air was thin and hard to breathe, you were forced to having to take deep breaths and careful steps amongst the terrain that was unbelievably moist and smooth as if was drenched from an ancient flood eons ago...

You could easily slip and die.

Suffocate from the sparkling blue mud that twinkled underneath your every step like a velvet carpet. You only found solace in some rocks that shielded you from the winds that sliced your skin, almost literally, when you see small cuts of blood daring to pool out of the small crevices.

That's how life here went for you.

You watched, waited, and hoped.

You watched those aliens float through the air like fish as if you were stuck at the bottom of the sea. Or perhaps they were birds instead. And as you stared up at the atmosphere where you could see the neighbor planet's magnificent colors and rings; you waited. For help to come to you, waiting for your fellow human comrades to come rescue your predicament.

But hope.

Hope was something you kept close to your chest like a deck of cards. It was the only thing keeping you awake at night and alive every day; it was the thing that convinced to keep eating those weird algae clumps found in those shallow tide pools and drink the crystal clear water that you hoped was safe. It was the thing that told you everything is okay, wait it out, this will be a story you will laugh off after a few years.

But it waned every day.

Day by day, you began to grow hopeless, almost succumbing to the whims of your dying sanity and the constant, repetitive colors of this planet that was permanently made of dark algae greens and neon oceanic blues. You felt like you were going blind when you stared at the cool colors, you felt like your vision was going red and pink, you were seeing things you shouldn't be seeing. And feelings things you shouldn't be–

You saw "him."

At least, you thought it was a "he."

He who you funnily called "Cthulhu" to save your sanity. (The nickname didn't last long)

Every day, when the half sun rose from the dark horizon like a broken toy being taken out of its play box to be toyed again by its celestial child, you see him hovering over the pond of muddy water like an angel. He who observed you with his eight eyes that spiraled into the center of his face. You were sure he was hiding more eyes.

But it went on like this for most days, he never moved, only followed your form when you moved across the treeless swamps for the edible algae next to the sea. And then, when you returned, you could count on him to just stand there.

It was normal, you didn't know how to feel about this strange routine, but you rationalized that as long as you both never bothered each other then everything is alright.

But that morning, when the sun emerged out of its horizon, you noticed he was a lot closer this time. In fact, he was standing right in front of your rocky entrance. You panicked, but you didn't scream, you didn't know what will happened if you did. All you could do was stay still like a snowshoe hare waiting for the lynx to scamper off, only running when necessary.

But to delicate surprise, you only saw clumps of algae neatly fitted into an "orb" of sorts? You shyly peaked out of your rocky hideout to match your eyes with his red eyes. A stare contest that lasted only for a few seconds before he began to slowly hover away with his limbs flying along with him like ribbons gently caressed by wind. You would hesitantly take the orb and indulge in a morning of...algae.

It went like this every morning for a while.

You didn't hate it, but you both weren't exactly friends yet. You couldn't trust someone like him. It would be dumb to just accept free offers like that left and right. But despite fear, you watched him watch you. Sometimes you would see him dance across and around the pond as if he was a bird of paradise performing a ritualistic dance to entice his female counterparts. Sometimes you would see him float up high in the sky, eyes moving across his body as if he was surveying for something, or someone. Sometimes you would find some pretty jewels laid out in the entrance of your rock home like offerings.

Then, the incident came that day.

The wind was particularly harsh that day and it cut against your skin so deeply you had large gashs across your skin like tiger stripes. You stumbled across the lands to try and hide away back to rocky solace. But you felt the air lighter and your vision brighter, flashes of life and memories passing by you like a sped up movie titled "You."

And maybe you found relief that you could die. Dying in a painful and agonizingly way was not the way to go, but dying nonetheless, allowing for a greater force to take you when you hesitated... It was almost like hope gave up on you yet weirdly decided to save you too.

But as you finally slipped and laid out across the glowing blue mud to accept the cruel winds, you felt your body caressed and gently curled up like you were a burrito wrap. The nodes and texture similar to that of soften leather and rubber. His limbs took you up and close to his form, shielding you from the winds as you were wrapped protectively. So much so that you felt yourself getting warmer and hotter in his grips when the cool air was refused entry.

Wrapped and succumbed to his needle appendages that dug into your flesh, like you could pop like a balloon in a box of needles. He was incredibly strong despite his "flimsy" looking tentacles as they curled and carried you around. You were lifted off of the ground, losing your worn out shoes in the process. The air up in skirs got thinner and harder to breathe in, your chest began to hurt a little like something was pressing against your chest. You almost felt your eyes go out, your head getting lighter but pressed against him.

He begun to "climb" through the air, his appendages acting like there were invisible climbing walls you couldn't see. It wasn't like the times he could just literally float.

As you both ascended the heights of the thin and light atmosphere your eyes began to close in on themselves and perhaps this was the end of it. The end to your hope and fears. And maybe, it was for the better. But when you feel the limbs of his needles gently poke into you, you felt like you wouldn't die, he wouldn't allow you to.

To be continued...

[j23r23]

Ooo would this be an okay request?

Where Tangerine is married to an innocent civilian who has no idea that him and his brother are hitmen, like they’ve been married for a few years but somehow Tangerine and lemon have managed to keep it a secret from her… Imagine her shock when she finds out both her hubby (the love of her life) and her brother in law are both assassins, she’d be sooo scared and upset at the same time because she was lied to and the way she finds out they’re assassins is probably in a scary and traumatic way?

No worries if not!!💜💜💜 Ty!

Hello sweetheart, sorry for taking so long. I finally managed to find some time. I do hope you enjoy and that its to your liking. Was fun writing for someone =)

Happy wife, happy life?

Tangerine x fem!reader

Angst

Blood

If there is anything else to mention let me know!

The morning unfolded quietly, sunlight creeping through the curtains of your modest flat in Notting Hill. The soft clatter of pans and the low hum of your voice filled the kitchen as you whisked eggs, the warm smell of butter and spices mingling in the air. From the hallway, Tangerine’s voice filtered in, smooth but edged with irritation as he spoke sharply into his phone.

You tilted your head toward the sound, lips twitching in a small smile. Always with Lemon, you mused. His brother was a constant in your lives, part of the deal from the moment you and Tangerine became serious. Lemon’s easy charm and Tangerine’s blunt wit were two halves of the same coin, a bond so unshakable it made their squabbles oddly endearing.

“Yeah, I’m done talkin’,” Tangerine said firmly, the sharp click of his phone hanging up punctuating his words. When he appeared in the doorway, his presence filled the room. His dark hair was slicked back in his usual style, the rolled sleeves of his crisp shirt revealing the ink etched on his arms.

“What’s cookin’, love?” he asked, stepping behind you and slipping his arms around your waist. He pressed a warm kiss to your cheek, his stubble grazing your skin.

“Breakfast,” you replied, sliding the eggs onto a plate with a faint grin. “Your favorite, if you promise to stop scowling. Honestly, what could you and Lemon possibly argue about at this hour?”

“Business,” he said without missing a beat, his answer too practiced to invite questions. Before you could pry, his gaze dropped to the plate in your hands, and he changed the subject. “This looks bloody fantastic. You spoil me, you know that?”

It was moments like these that made you feel like you were living a dream. Tangerine—intense, magnetic, and wholly yours—was everything you’d ever wanted. He wasn’t perfect, though. There was the occasional late-night call that dragged him out of bed, the bruises he waved off as “work hazards,” the way he dodged your questions about his job with charm and a clever quip.

But you trusted him. You loved him.

The first hint that something was wrong came that afternoon. You’d been cleaning out the basement—a long-overdue task you’d been putting off for weeks—when your hand brushed against something unfamiliar. Pushed behind a row of coats and stacked boxes was a sleek black case, its smooth surface and pristine edges starkly out of place among your other belongings.

You paused, unease prickling at your senses. Your fingers hovered over the latches, torn between leaving it alone and giving in to your growing curiosity. Finally, you give in.

The case clicked open.

Your stomach dropped.

Inside was a meticulously organized array of weapons. Pistols, knives and other tools you couldn’t even name, each snugly fitted in custom foam compartments. The sight of them sent your heart racing, a cold sweat prickling at the back of your neck.

You slammed the case shut with shaking hands, breath coming in shallow gasps. This wasn’t just some random find. This belonged to Tangerine—it had to. What reason could he possibly have for keeping something like this?

When Tangerine came home that evening, you still haven’t found your footing. Your stomach churned as you waited, rehearsing a hundred ways to confront him, each one unraveling before you could settle on the right words.

The sound of his key in the door made you jump. You sat frozen on the couch as he walked in, the usual swagger in his step. His sharp features softened the moment he saw you, and his lips curved into a faint smile.

“Hello, love,” he said, tossing his coat onto a chair before making his way over. He bent to kiss your forehead, the scent of his cologne familiar and almost comforting. “Long day. Missed you.”

Your hands hovered at his chest, caught between pulling him closer and pushing him away. Your throat tightened around the words you wanted to say, the questions that had plagued you all afternoon. But his warmth, his ease—it was disarming.

“What about you?” he asked, stepping back just enough to study your face. “You alright? You look… off.”

Your pulse quickened. “I’m fine,” you lied, yourvoice barely steady.

You wanted to believe there was a simple, reasonable explanation. That there was some part of him you just hadn’t understood yet. But doubt gnawed at the edges of your thoughts, the image of that black case burned into your memory.

For now, you swallowed your questions.

A couple of weeks later you came home to your flat, which was eerily quiet. You set your bag down by the door, glancing around with a small frown. Usually, Tangerine would be there to greet you when you came back early from a work trip, even if it was a surprise. He was intuitive like that, always one step ahead.

But today, nothing.

You checked your phone. No messages. No missed calls. He had mentioned something about helping Lemon with a “project” while you were gone. Maybe he was still at his brother’s place.

Your lips twitched into a soft smile as you decided to surprise him there instead. Lemon’s flat was just a short walk away, tucked into a quaint building near the canal. You’d been there before, but rarely—it was more a crash pad than a home, and Lemon had joked that the decor was an affront to your more refined tastes.

Still, you didn’t hesitate. Tangerine would be thrilled to see you, and you’d been missing him more than you cared to admit.

The walk was brisk, the damp London air clinging to you as you climbed the narrow stairs to Lemon’s flat. The door at the end of the hall was slightly ajar, the faintest sliver of light spilling onto the threadbare carpet. You hesitated, your pulse quickening. It wasn’t like them to leave a door open.

You pushed it wider.

What you stepped into didn’t make sense. Your mind refused to connect the dots at first, as though shielding you from the truth.

The harsh fluorescent light buzzed overhead, illuminating the scene in stark detail. Lemon stood to the side, his arms crossed, expression unreadable. Tangerine was seated, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his hands soaked with something dark. His knuckles were bloody, his breathing labored.

In front of him, a man was tied to a chair, his face swollen and unrecognizable beneath layers of blood. Underneath him a tarp, covered in blood, spread out. He groaned, barely conscious, as Tangerine leaned forward with a knife glinting in his hand.

“What were you thinking?” Tangerine snarled, his voice cold, clinical. “Betraying your Boss like that and stealing his Money? Thought you’d get away with that, yeah?”

The man tried to speak, but only blood gurgled out of him.

You gasped before you could stop yourself, the sound loud and sharp in the silence.

Tangerine and Lemon turned toward you at once.

“Darling—” Tangerine was on his feet in an instant, his face morphing from rage to something that looked almost like panic. His hands twitched, as if he wanted to reach for you but didn’t dare.

You stumbled back a step, your mind reeling. “What… what is this?” Your voice shook, barely above a whisper.

“It’s not what it looks like,” he started, his tone too calm, too rehearsed.

You laughed, a hollow, disbelieving sound. “Not what it looks like? You’re covered in blood, Tangerine! There’s a man—” your voice cracked as you gestured wildly toward the bound figure. “What the hell is going on?”

Lemon cleared his throat, taking a tentative step forward. “Listen, love, it’s… complicated.”

“Complicated?” You turned on him, your eyes wide and wild. “You’ve both been lying to me, haven’t you? All these years! What do you even do for a living? What is this?”

The man in the chair moaned again, and you flinched, clutching your arms as if that might hold you together.

Tangerine’s jaw tightened, his voice dropping. “You shouldn’t even be here.”

Your blood ran cold at the words. They weren’t a threat—you knew that much—but they weren’t comforting either.

“I wanted to surprise you,” you whispered, the betrayal hitting you like a physical blow. “I thought I was coming home to my husband, to the man I love. And now… now I don’t even know who you are.”

Tangerine stepped closer, his movements slow, deliberate. His hands were still bloodied, but his expression was pleading. “I can explain—”

“No,” you snapped, stepping back. “Don’t you dare try to explain this away. You’re a… a killer.” your voice broke on the word. “Both of you. All this time, and I didn’t see it. How could I not see it?”

“Because we didn’t want you to,” Lemon said quietly. “We kept you out of it for a reason. To keep you safe.”

“Safe?” You turned on him, voice rising. “Do I look safe to you?”

The room fell silent, the weight of the truth settling over them. Tangerine’s shoulders slumped, his usual confidence stripped away.

“I didn’t want you to find out like this,” he murmured. “I swear to you, love, I did it all to protect you.”

You shook your head, tears streaming down your face. “You don’t get to decide that for me. You lied to me. You both lied to me. And now… I don’t even know what to do with this.”

Your gaze flicked to the half dead man in the chair, and you felt your stomach churn. You backed toward the door, hands shaking.

“Wait,” Tangerine called, his voice breaking. “Please, just—”

You didn’t let him finish. You turned and ran, the sound of your footsteps echoing down the hall as the door slammed shut behind you.

The rain was coming down in sheets by the time you made it back to your flat, your clothes clinging to you like a second skin. You barely registered the cold, your mind still replaying the scene at Lemon’s flat in an endless, gut-wrenching loop. The blood on Tangerine’s hands. The lifeless look in that man’s eyes. The sound of your husband’s voice, low and cruel, as he spoke words you could hardly believe came from him.

You locked the door behind you and slid down against it, burying your face in your hands. Your body trembled, your breaths coming in short, ragged gasps as you tried to process the enormity of what you’d seen.

It wasn’t something you could rationalize away.

Tangerine was a killer.

He didn’t come home that night. You didn’t expect him to.

The hours dragged by, the flat feeling too quiet, too empty, despite your swirling thoughts. You tried to sleep but couldn’t. Every time you closed your eyes, the image of his bloodstained hands flashed behind your lids.

When morning came, you were still sitting on the couch, clutching a cold cup of tea. Your phone buzzed on the table, breaking the silence. The name on the screen made your heart lurch.

Tangerine.

You stared at it, your thumb hovering over the screen. A part of you wanted to answer, to hear his voice, to demand answers. But another part of —the part that was still reeling from what you’d seen—refused. When the call went to voicemail, you breathed a sigh of relief.

Then came the knock at the door.

Your stomach flipped. You stood slowly, hesitating before peering through the peephole.

Tangerine.

He looked rough—his hair disheveled, dark circles under his eyes, his shirt rumpled as if he hadn’t slept either. For a moment, you considered pretending you weren’t home, but the weight of his presence was too much to ignore.

You opened the door just a crack. “What do you want?” you asked, your voice hoarse.

“To talk,” he said, his tone soft, almost apologetic. “Please, love. Just let me explain.”

You hesitated, then opened the door wider, though you didn’t move to let him in. “You’ve got five minutes.”

He nodded, running a hand through his hair as he searched for the right words. “I know how it looked,” he began, his voice strained. “And I’m not gonna insult you by sayin’ it wasn’t bad, because it was. But I need you to understand why—why Lemon and I do what we do.”

“Do what?” you interrupted, voice sharp. “Murder people? Torture them?”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t deny it. “We take out people who deserve it. Criminals. Traffickers. Dangerous people who’d hurt a lot more than just us if we didn’t stop them.”

You stared at him, incredulous. “You’re trying to justify this to me? What—you’re some kind of vigilante now? A hitman with a heart of gold?”

“It’s not like that,” he said, his voice rising in frustration. “I’m not sayin’ it’s good, but it’s what I’m good at. It’s how I keep you safe.”

You flinched at the word. “Safe? That word again? Do you even hear yourself? Tangerine, the real danger is you.”

The words hit him like a slap. He took a step back, his face a mixture of hurt and guilt. “You don’t think that.”

“I don’t know what to think anymore,” you admitted, your voice breaking. “I don’t even know who you are.”

His shoulders sagged, and for the first time, he looked… vulnerable. “I’m still me, love. The man who wakes up early to make you coffee because I know you hate doing it. The man who knows how you take your tea and what song you hum when you’re nervous. The man who loves you more than anything in this bloody world.”

Your throat tightened. “The man who lies to me. Who kills people. Who pretended to have a normal life while dragging me into something I never asked for.”

He stepped closer, his expression desperate. “I didn’t want this for you. That’s why I kept it from you. To give you a life that wasn’t… tainted by what I do.”

You shook your head, tears streaming down your face. “But you lied, Tangerine. For years. How do we come back from that?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. Then he looked down, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know.”

Days passed. You stayed in the flat, avoiding his calls and visits. Lemon came by once, leaving a box of your favorite chocolates and a note that read, We’re not the monsters you think we are. You didn’t know what to do with that, so you stuffed it in a drawer and tried to pretend it didn’t exist.

But the silence didn’t bring you peace. It only left you with more questions.

The thought of losing him was unbearable, but the thought of staying felt impossible.

One night, there was another knock at the door. This time, it was Lemon.

“I know you don’t want to see him,” he said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “But you need to hear this.”

You crossed your arms. “Hear what?”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Tangerine’s pulling out. From all of it. The jobs, the contracts—everything. Said if it meant losing you, he’d rather walk away.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “What?”

Lemon nodded. “He’s serious. Don’t ask me how he plans to do it, but he’s already burning bridges. He’d never say it outright, but… you’re his whole bloody world. Always have been.”

Your chest tightened, torn between anger and the faintest flicker of hope. “That doesn’t erase what he’s done.”

“No,” Lemon agreed, his tone grave. “But maybe it’s a start.”