#content warning: pseudo incest

[do-you-ship-this-taz-ship]

Propaganda: Theyre soooo fucked up <3

Submit a ship through the form or in my askbox!

[gigabyte-flare]

The Death of Peace of Mind

[A Gigabyte Flare One Shot]

Summary: Traumatized by your time in Skyhaven, you seek the comfort and safety of the man you trust with your heart, little do you know, however, that nowhere is truly safe anymore; not even the N109 Zone.

Word Count: 3.3k

Pairing: Caleb x fem!reader (afab)/Sylus x fem!reader (afab)

Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Actions depicted in this story are not condoned in real life. You are responsible for your own content consumption. If any of the following warnings trigger you, please read at your own risk. Minors do not interact, this story is 18+ only.

WARNING, THIS STORY WILL CONTAIN THE FOLLOWING: DEAD DOVE, DO NOT EAT, Spoilers for Homecoming Wings, yandere tropes, non-con kissing, implied non-con s3x, pseudo-incest, depictions of PTSD, vomiting, mention of loss of virginity, pet names, unprotected but consensual p in v, denied orgasm, depiction of a panic attack, aftercare, implied murder, stalking

A/N: I have been totally, utterly consumed by Caleb brain rot. Sylus is still my man, but oh my god Caleb does things to me. Inspired by this scene in Caleb's main story, I was so utterly unnerved and fascinated by this whole interaction and I was immediately inspired. Beware that this is very dark. Reader's discretion is advised.

Title inspired by The Death of Peace of Mind performed by Bad Omens

Line Break Divider by cafekitsune

"What if I told you I was always like this?"

Your breath hitches as you press yourself against the back of the sofa, moving away from Caleb's outstretched hand. Caleb's face immediately darkens, his form towering over you as he cages you on the sofa with his arms.

"You're always hurling yourself into danger, whether you realize it or not," Caleb continues, his violet gaze boring into yours, "those that are after your power, you know, the ones that wanna hurt you? They should all just…"

He leans in close, his face inches away from yours, "disappear."

You can feel your heart racing in your chest as you desperately try to move yourself away from him, however, his 'cage' keeps you firmly in place, his resolve unwavering.

"The only place you are truly safe is by my side."

There is a subtle smile on Caleb's lips that unnerve you to your core and you exhale a heavy sigh in an attempt to calm your racing heart. You swallow hard, gathering up your resolve to retort his words, "I am a Deepspace Hunter, Caleb. I face danger head-on, not cower behind a façade of "safety." I don't need--"

"You don't need me? You don't need me?!" he says as he shakes his head; you hear his hands dig into the fabric of the sofa, "is that what you truly think?"

You bring your hand up to shove him away, however he grasps your wrist, squeezing it in a vice-like grip as he pins it to the couch; he leans in closer, his expression taking on a half crazed look, "Tell me what you need, and I'll give it to you."

He pauses before continuing. "Wanna return to Linkon? Just say the word. We'll go back to our past, rebuild our old house and move in together. If that isn't enough for you, I'll build you a whole mansion; you know, the kind with one of those large hedge mazes. I'll plant all your favorite flowers and decorate it with all your favorite things," he gently cups your right cheek before continuing, "it will be the most beautiful, stunning garden you will ever lay eyes on."

Your words fail you, all you can do is stare up at him, completely stunned into silence. A gentle smile forms on his lips before he continues once more, "where I take you, no one will ever find you again. I'll protect you forever."

You blink a few times, shaking your head as you curl up your right fist, placing it on his chest, "Caleb… you can't just--" you stop yourself, considering your next words very carefully, lest you invoke his fury, "I can't let you do that… you are very important to me, but--"

"But what?"

You take his hesitation as an opportunity to escape from his grasp. You try to stand up and push him off, but he grabs both your wrists, pinning them back onto the back of the sofa, his form looming over you once more, "ever since I first met you, I've stifled my true feelings for you every… single… fucking… day. It was suffocating."

A sudden flash of lightning, followed by a roar of thunder, causes you to jump. Your breath trembles as Caleb leans in closer to your face.

"I am done playing these games."

Without any kind of warning, Caleb's lips crash into yours in a searing, passion filled kiss. He practically devours you like a starving animal, a low moan escaping him as he pushes himself into you. You open your mouth to scream, however this just invites Caleb's tongue to delve into your mouth to perform a sick dance with yours as his hands move to slide under your shirt--

You wake up screaming, clutching your pillow tight to your chest as your eyes snap open. You take in gulps of air as your eyes dart around your bedroom, taking in your surroundings.

You're at home in your apartment in Linkon. It was just a nightmare.

You close your eyes, taking deep breaths as you calm yourself; your racing heart taking a few minutes to finally settle into a steady rhythm. You feel a couple of tears roll down the sides of your face. You slowly sit up in bed, however a sudden wave of nausea comes over you and you quickly climb out of bed and race to the bathroom with your hand covering your mouth. You barely are able to turn the bathroom light on and kneel in front of the toilet when you begin heaving into the toilet bowl, only managing to vomit up bile.

You start to sob as you continue to cough into the toilet bowl, your throat stinging as you swallow back more bile. When your stomach finally settles down, you sit back with your legs tucked beneath you. You wipe a tear from your eye when you hear it, a subtle noise coming from inside your apartment. Immediately, you're on high alert. You stand back up, stepping into the doorway leading into your living room, you peer around your darkened apartment, the open layout allowing you to see that its empty; there's no one here but you.

So what was that noise you heard?

Not giving yourself another opportunity to hear it again, you race back into your bedroom, shutting and locking the door behind you. You dart over to your nightstand, grasping your phone like it's your last lifeline and call the one person you are now realizing you can truly trust, especially at this hour: Onychinus's fearless leader, Sylus.

You press the call icon as you sit on the end of your bed. The phone barely rings before he answers.

"Kitten… what are you doing up so late? It's three in the morning; did you miss--"

"Can you come pick me up?" you ask, cutting him off.

You hear Sylus suck in a breath before he continues, the alarm evident in his voice, "what's the matter, Sweetie?"

It's then you hear another noise from inside your apartment beyond your bedroom door, "can you just come? You have the key to my apartment I gave you, right?"

"I do. What's this about? Are you ok?"

"Sylus, please…" you plead, tears once again threatening to fall down your cheeks.

"I'll be there in 10 minutes."

You hang up the call, clutching your phone to your chest, your heart once again racing in your chest as your mind wanders back to one of your last encounters with Caleb. He was someone you grew up with, trusted, and loved. You called it a miracle when he came back into your life after you thought him dead for over a year, but something happened to him. Something changed him, or so you thought. You'd never thought in a million years that Caleb would force himself on you. You shake your head as you choke back a sob, willing yourself not to think about what happened after he kissed you that night.

The only reason you're back in Linkon now is because Caleb and his fleet were sent on an expedition into the Deepspace Tunnel, granting you your only means of escape from him. While it's been a few days since you got home from Skyhaven, each time you close your eyes, you see Caleb's face, those words burned into your brain.

As you wait for Sylus, you think back on your childhood, your eyes widening in horror as you slowly come to the realization that Caleb was right. From that time he locked you in the attic to prevent you from confronting those bullies to his insistent hovering over you, he was completely and utterly obsessed with you. So why didn't you see the warning signs sooner?

"What if I told you I was always like this?"

When you look at someone through a rose colored lens, all the red flags just look like flags…

The sound of keys jingling followed by the front door of your apartment opening snaps you back into reality; you practically spring off the bed and whip open your bedroom door. You don't even give Sylus a chance to say anything as you slip on some shoes and approach him, wrapping your arms around his torso, burying your face into his broad chest as you inhale the scent of his cologne. The relief you feel is indescribable as you break your embrace and take his hand, practically dragging him out of your apartment before shutting and locking the front door.

It takes everything in you to not run to Sylus's sports car waiting outside. Sylus guides you to the passenger's seat, opening the door for you to climb inside as he walks over to the driver's side, getting in and starting the car before driving off into the night.

"Do you want to explain what this is about, Kitten?" he asks as he looks over at you, his face full of concern.

"I'll tell you once we're at the base. Just drive," you say, your voice flat as you lean your head against the passenger's side window, watching the city lights go by as Sylus drives.

Sylus reaches over, gently rubbing your thigh before placing his hand back on the car's stick shift. Seeking his touch, you place your hand on top of his as he shifts gears, your fingers intertwining with each other. Before you know it, he drives into N109 Zone territory, the red moon casting an eerie glow as he continues his drive to his base. Once he arrives, he parks the car and motions to you to stay seated. He climbs out of the car, coming over the passenger's side to open the door. He scoops you up out of the car, carrying you bridal style into the base.

Once inside, Luke and Kieran stand to attention, clearing their throats before Luke speaks, "Boss, you're back! That must be some kind of record-- Oh! Miss Hunter!"

"Ensure the base is secure, I do not want to be disturbed," Sylus orders as he carries you deeper into the base.

"Yessir!" you hear the twins reply before listening to their steps scurry away.

Sylus carries you into his bedroom, laying you down onto the bed gently before walking around to climb onto the bed next to you. He brings his hand up to your face, gently caressing your cheek with the backs of his fingers.

"Now, Kitten, do you mind telling me what's the matter?"

You take a deep breath, but despite trying to compose yourself, you break down and begin to spill everything to Sylus. You tell him about how you infiltrated the Farspace Fleet to investigate an explosion that was eerily similar to the one you had experienced that took the lives of your adoptive grandmother and your adoptive brother; only to find out that his life wasn't claimed in that explosion after all.

You tell him about the relief you felt finding out that your beloved Caleb was alive and well, but were shocked to find out he's now the ruthless Colonel of the Farspace Fleet. You tell Sylus about your growing suspicions of Caleb, about how he had drugged you to prevent you from rescuing a child that was involved in the explosion you were investigating. You told him about Caleb's increasingly unhinged behavior that eventually led up to… what had happened to you before Caleb's departure to the Deepspace Tunnel expedition. It was the first time since it happened that you let yourself recall the full details of that night.

Sylus's expression grimaces, his lips twitching into a snarl as he clenches his fists in his lap. "Was that your first time?" he asks, his voice low.

You bite your bottom lip, desperately fighting back more tears as you nod, "yes… it was."

Sylus closes his eyes, taking a deep breath before looking back over at you. Funny enough, you once feared those crimson eyes, but as you got to know Sylus, you came to love them and, in a way, fall in love with the person attached to them, although you didn't want to admit it given the fact you were a Hunter and he was the leader of the largest crime syndicate on the planet. After the incident with the Aether Core at the auction, you came to discover that Sylus was not the heartless monster that everyone painted him to be. He was always kind to you, showering you in gifts and affection; not even mentioning he always empowered you to be your best self, no matter what. He also was always honest with you.

Caleb was not.

Overwhelmed with emotion, you shift yourself closer to Sylus, gently caressing the side of his face in your hand. Sylus gives you a gentle smile before once again caressing your face with the backs of his fingers.

"If you'll have me, Sweetie, I want to take away your pain. Let me replace that horror with my love."

Smiling at him as a tear rolls down your cheek, you give him a subtle nod. Gently grasping the back of your head, Sylus pulls your face to his, his lips pressing against yours gingerly, as if testing the waters. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer and you feel yourself practically melt in his embrace. His kiss was nothing like Caleb's had been; it was gentle and loving, but also confident. Your hands caress his chest, feeling his toned muscle beneath his shirt. It's not long before your fingers are undoing the buttons on his shirt.

Within minutes, yours and his clothing have been discarded on the floor on each side of Sylus's bed. Having climbed under the sheets, Sylus positions himself above you, his mouth devouring yours, your tongues dancing in each other's mouths as his large hands grope your breasts. You moan Sylus's name between kisses, the slick of your arousal gathering between your legs. Sylus breaks the kiss, staring down at you as he slowly parts your legs, his eyes glazed in lust as he stares down at you.

"Do you want this, Kitten?" he asks softly.

Your chest heaving, you stare up into Sylus's crimson gaze, a smile teasing the corners of your mouth before you whisper, "yes, I do."

Sylus smiles as he reaches down between your bodies, grasping his throbbing hard cock and positioning it at your entrance, but as he moves his hips to sheath himself inside you, you place your hand onto his chest, stopping him.

"I'm safe here, right?" you ask, the worry clear in your eyes.

"Of course you are," Sylus whispers before placing a gentle kiss on your forehead, "no one enters the N109 Zone without me knowing about it, I assure you."

"Ok," you reply, gently nodding as you remove your hand from his chest.

"You haven't changed your mind, have you? It's ok if you have, Sweetie."

You quickly shake your head as you drape your arms around his strong shoulders, "no, I haven't. I need you, Sylus…"

Sylus leans back down to kiss you once more and as he does so, he pushes himself into you, the feeling of your soft walls caressing his length pulling a soft moan from him. Once he's sheathed himself fully inside you, he pauses his movement to allow your body to adjust to his length and girth. Your breaths become ragged as your legs hook around his waist; the brief discomfort quickly replaced by pleasure as the head of his cock presses gently against your cervix.

"You can move, Sylus, I'm ok."

Smiling at your reassurance of your comfort, he begins to move his hips into you. His thrusts are gentle at first, but as your soft whimpers evolve into loud moans, he quickens his pace, burying his face into the crook of your neck, sucking and biting marks into your skin, marking you as his.

"Oh my God, Sylus…" you moan, tilting your head back against the pillow behind your head, allowing better access to your neck for Sylus, who happily accepts your unspoken invitation.

Completely lost in pleasure, you feel Sylus move himself away from your neck after a few minutes to cage your body with his. He angles his hips in such a way that the head of his cock hits your g-spot repeatedly, causing you to see stars behind your eyelids.

"Fuck…" you breathe out, "I'm gonna cum…"

You slowly open your eyes to look up as Sylus before he hurtles you over the edge, however, it's not Sylus's face staring down at you.

It's Caleb's.

"Doesn't this feel good, pip-squeak?"

You suck in a breath as your eyes widen in horror. You bring your hands up to push him off as you start screaming. You kick at him and thrash your body as you are thrown into a full blown panic. Tears stream down your face as you shut your eyes tight, refusing to look into his purple eyes. You feel hands grasp your arms.

"Hey, hey, hey! Shhh, shhh, shhh…" you hear Sylus's voice say as he abruptly pulls himself out of you, cradling your face in his hands, "I'm right here, Kitten. You're safe, it's ok…"

Upon hearing Sylus's comforting voice, you slowly open your eyes and see Sylus's concerned expression staring down at you as he gently grasps your shoulders, caressing them slowly in an effort to calm you down.

"Oh my god, Sylus… I'm so sorry…" you say, your lips trembling as you start to cry, "I'm so fucking sorry…"

"There is nothing to apologize for, Kitten," he replies as he brushes your disheveled hair away from your face, "what can I do to help you?"

"Just hold me… please…"

"Of course."

Rolling off you, Sylus wraps his arms around you, holding you tight as you snuggle into his embrace, the warmth of his body lulling you to sleep as you wrap your arms around his torso. He rubs your back, placing a kiss onto the top of your head before closing his eyes, quickly falling asleep as well.

The bodies of two masked men lay crumpled on the floor in front of the intruder, their blood seeping out onto the marble. Their positions are unnatural, as if they were crushed by some unimaginable force. Clutched in the intruder's right hand is a mechanical crow, it's neck crushed by his grasp. He let's go of the bird, its metallic body hitting the floor with a loud clank. He adjusts the hat on his head, signifying his high rank in the Farspace Fleet as he begins to walk down the hallway, his leather boots picking up the blood from the bodies and trailing it down the hall.

It only takes him a few minutes to find what he's looking for: the master bedroom. His gloved hand grabs the handle, slowly turning it as to not announce his presence as he gently pushes the door open. It softly creaks as it opens, opening up into a large bedroom. The intruder's purple gaze shifts across the room, observing the lit fireplace and a four poster bed over to the left. His brow furrows when he sees the bed's occupants: his beloved and the leader of Onychinus himself. The sight of their nude bodies embracing each other causes his blood to boil.

The muscles in his neck tensing, he slowly walks over to the bed. When he approaches, he stands at the end of the bed, staring down at the bed's occupants, watching their chests and shoulders rise and fall in unison as they slumber, completely unaware of the intruder's presence. He simply stares at them for minutes on end, allowing himself to ruminate and let his anger consume him. He narrows his eyes at the silver haired man as he slowly pulls out one of his large pistols from its holster. He twirls the gun in his hand, using one hand to check the chamber to ensure it's loaded before twirling it again, aiming the gun at the silver haired man's head.

And pulling the trigger.

[cbeargyu]

I loved the taehyun step siblings fic and I would love to read the soobin one you mentioned😭 can you pls post it🥺

sinners

summary: you were an orphan, quiet and careful, when soobin’s family took you in. they gave you shelter, a new name, and a place at their table—but what bloomed between you and soobin was never meant to grow. you didn’t see him as a brother. he was the boy who looked at you like the sky was something he could touch if you asked him to. your love began in secret—beneath candlelight, beside old barns, and behind locked doors—and it survived the storm of shame, rejection, and exile. years later, your daughter gyuri starts asking the questions you never answered, uncovering the shadows of your past. 

pairing: step brother!soobin x adopted sister!reader

genre: historical fiction, slow burn, forbidden romance, family drama, generational angst, emotional intimacy, bittersweet nostalgia.

warnings: forbidden romance (pseudo-incest, adopted siblings), themes of religious guilt, emotional tension, grief (mention of death of a spouse), strained parent-child relationships, implied sexual content (non-explicit), mention of underage intimacy in historical context, family rejection, generational trauma, secret-keeping, emotional vulnerability.

wc: 12,1k

notes: you guys know how much i love that late 80s/90s vibe… i don’t even remember how this idea came to me honestly, but i really hope you enjoy it. truth is, i rewrote this like three times—i tried adding a bunch of explicit smut but it just didn’t sit right in the end. felt like i wasn’t digging deep enough into the story and ughhh this was supposed to be the final version, i swear. i don’t wanna touch it again or i’ll end up redoing the whole thing from scratch lol. anyway, hope you enjoy it 🫶🏻

year 1999

it was your 39th birthday.

you sat at the head of the low dining table in your traditional house, a small cake resting in front of you with a single sky-blue candle flickering gently under the warm glow of the paper lanterns above. your family sang happily, voices echoing softly across the wooden beams of your home, and you smiled—genuinely, though modestly—at their thoughtful gesture.

to your left was your eldest daughter, choi gyuri, already bearing the subtle weight of adolescence in her slouched shoulders and disinterested gaze. to your right sat your youngest, choi beomgyu, bright-eyed and clapping enthusiastically, barely able to contain himself—because in your modest home, sweets were a rare and treasured delight.

and directly across from you sat the man who had known you longer than anyone alive.

your childhood friend. your confidant. your lover.

your husband.

choi soobin.

he wore a plaid shirt rolled up to the elbows, tucked meticulously into black dress pants cinched with a worn brown belt. he looked every bit the part of the respectable village schoolteacher, the kind who children admired and parents trusted without question. but beneath that calm, clean-cut image—beneath the way he smiled at your children, beneath the way he handed you a bouquet of dahlias with quiet reverence—there was something else. something deeper. older. sharper.

you accepted the flowers with a bashful smile, lowering your head as you inhaled their sweet scent. then you stood, smoothing your apron, and moved toward the kitchen to place them in fresh water, before retrieving a knife to cut the cake. beomgyu, ever eager, practically jumped into his seat, clapping again as if it were his birthday. gyuri hesitated, dragging her feet to the table, arms crossed. her father reached out to ruffle her hair—a gentle attempt at warmth—but she merely sighed under her breath and looked away.

you returned, slicing the cake into careful portions, serving each plate with delicate precision. you began with your husband, placing the dish before him with a slight nod, avoiding his gaze. he smiled softly and murmured a polite thank you, to which you only replied with a small nod, your hands folding in front of you, retreating.

gyuri watched this with a twitch in her brow. her mother—always so composed, so obedient—seemed like a woman from another century. a servant to her husband, not his equal. a ghost of a woman with a gentle voice and tired hands who never looked soobin in the eyes when she spoke to him. who called him not by his name, not with affection, but with the formal, distant title of “dear husband.”

to gyuri, something was off.

she had never seen them kiss. never seen them touch in any way that seemed truly intimate. and while she knew her parents were devout catholics and perhaps conservative in their ways, it didn’t explain the total absence of warmth. it didn’t explain why the most tender phrase her mother ever used for her father sounded like it belonged in a prayer, not a marriage.

it made her wonder.

what were they like when no one was watching?

because beneath the silence… something buzzed. a current of secrecy wrapped around her parents like smoke. sometimes she caught them exchanging glances across the room—brief, loaded, and unreadable. sometimes she noticed the way her mother’s hand would linger on the hem of soobin’s sleeve as she passed him tea. or the way soobin’s jaw would tense when someone brought up their respective families.

which was rare.

no one ever talked about the grandparents. not on your side, not on soobin’s. gyuri only knew that you had been orphaned at eleven, and that soobin—once heir to a large estate—had cut off all ties with his family over some unresolved, unspoken rift. there were no photos. no names. no stories. just silence.

and that silence had grown like a weed in gyuri’s heart.

there were nights she would lie awake, thinking of all the strange pieces: her mother’s unwavering devotion, her father’s cold poise, their refusal to speak of the past. she wondered if her mother had been forced into marriage, if her father had taken advantage of her, if something awful bound them together. but the truth—buried deep in the folds of your shared history—was stranger, more haunting.

you had been taken in by soobin’s mother after your parents died, because your mothers had once been dear friends. what had begun as a noble act of charity turned into something the village—and the family—would one day label as sinful. for as you grew in that house, under the watchful eye of soobin’s mother, you and the boy meant to treat you like a sister grew closer… in ways that defied blood and duty and the cold rules of religion.

at sixteen, you were no longer a child. and Soobin—eighteen and earnest—could no longer pretend that his feelings were brotherly. when his mother discovered the truth, she saw it as betrayal. a violation. her fury scorched everything. she condemned you both as ungrateful, as impure. she accused you of seducing her son, of shaming her house. and soobin… he stood by you. for the first time in his life, he defied his family, abandoned his name, and disappeared with you into the countryside, leaving everything behind.

together, you built a life out of the ashes of disgrace.

in a village far from seoul, among hills and rice paddies, you made a home in a modest hanok, raising your children with quiet pride and guarded love. you went to church every sunday, your rosaries worn from constant use, your souls constantly seeking forgiveness for a past neither of you would ever renounce.

and yet—despite the piety, despite the sacrifices, despite the masks you wore for your children and the neighbors—there was nothing holy in the way you touched each other when the doors were closed.

there was nothing brotherly about the nights when soobin pressed you into the wooden floor of your room, his hands in your hair, your rosary beads tangled between the sheets. you were still sinners. still burning.

but that part of you—of your marriage—remained hidden, sacred and profane, between the creaks of the old wood and the shadows of candlelight.

and gyuri… she was starting to hear those creaks.

you were eleven when you arrived at the choi household, a thin little thing swallowed up in a dress two sizes too big, the hem dragging slightly in the dirt behind your scuffed shoes. your hair had been braided that morning with trembling fingers, not with care, but with the quiet desperation of needing something—anything—to hold onto. clutched tight in your hands was a bouquet of dalias, their petals already wilting, curling inwards with the kind of sadness flowers seem to carry when they’ve been pulled from the earth too soon. they had sat on your mother’s grave just that morning, and you had taken them before leaving, dirt still clinging to their stems. not out of disrespect, but because you needed something of her, a piece of her scent, her favorite flower, her last offering to the world. they were all you had.

mrs. choi was kind, in the way women are when they’ve been raised to smile through expectations. she met you at the gate with a soft expression and hands that moved quickly—brushing your shoulders, smoothing your braid, plucking a leaf from your sleeve like she was trying to erase any evidence of your sorrow. she ushered you in with the firmness of someone who had done this before—inviting, but brisk. you remember the smell of the house before anything else: something like soy sauce and wood polish, and a faint floral scent that didn’t belong to your mother. it was strange to step into a home that was already warm, already full of someone else’s laughter and footsteps and silence.

she introduced you to her daughters first—two girls, both older than you, both wearing matching pinafores and the exact same look of quiet suspicion. they didn’t say much, only offered stiff little nods and a glance that lingered just long enough to let you know you didn’t belong. and then, she gestured toward him. “this is soobin,” she said, like she was handing you a pair of mittens or naming the weather.

he was thirteen. awkwardly tall for his age, all elbows and sharp angles, his hair falling slightly into his eyes. he had dirt under his nails, a smudge of something on his cheek that looked like oil, and a mouth that seemed permanently on the edge of some secret thought. his gaze met yours for only a second, and then dropped—like looking at you too long might expose something he didn’t want anyone to see. he said nothing. neither did you.

you stood there with your wilted flowers and your aching chest and your fingers trembling from holding on too tight, and in that silence, something shifted.

he couldn’t think of you as a sister. not even for a moment.

he tried. for the sake of his mother, of the idea of family. he kept his distance, polite but distant. he wouldn’t sit next to you at dinner. he never offered to share his candy. he didn’t look at you when you crossed the hallway in your oversized nightgown, dragging a pillow behind you like a ghost. but he watched you. when you weren’t looking, when you were curled up on the porch with your head on your knees, crying so quietly it barely made a sound. when you whispered to your flowers, begging them not to die yet. when you stared at your plate and blinked too much because the soup reminded you of her.

you didn’t speak to him much in the beginning. you didn’t speak to anyone, really. everything felt foreign—the food, the air, the way the girls whispered behind doors, the way mrs. choi hummed songs that weren’t lullabies you knew. but soobin... he was different. he was quiet too, in a way that made space for your grief. he didn’t ask questions. didn’t tell you to smile. but sometimes he left things on the edge of your desk—a mango candy, a piece of folded paper with a doodle of a cat, a small rubber eraser shaped like a strawberry. small things, nothing dramatic. but enough to say: i see you. i know you’re here.

as you both grew older, the quiet began to change. he started to fill out, his voice cracked, his limbs became less awkward. you watched him help his father at the factory, lifting sacks that looked too heavy for his back but never once did he complain. he would come home with his shirt sticking to his skin, his arms smeared with sweat and grease, and something inside you stirred that had no name yet. he started smoking, poorly, like a boy trying to understand what made a man, and you watched from the second floor window as he lit a cigarette behind the shed, cupping it with one hand like a secret.

you noticed how he argued with his mother when she scolded him, how he slammed doors when frustrated, how he bit his nails when he was nervous, but no matter what, he never skipped school. never missed a test. he would throw pebbles at your window at night when he couldn’t sleep, just so you’d peek through the curtains and roll your eyes at him. he liked making you roll your eyes. he said it made you look less sad.

and somewhere along the way, something else bloomed.

you stopped looking at him like a housemate, like the boy you were supposed to call ‘brother.’ you started looking at his hands, long and veined, stained with ink from the homework he scribbled down too fast. you watched his mouth when he chewed gum, when he muttered curses under his breath, when he grinned after winning a bet. you listened to the sound of his footsteps down the hall, the way his door clicked shut every night at 10:07.

you didn’t understand what you were feeling at first—just that it wasn’t the same warmth you had for the girls who braided each other’s hair and gossiped in the kitchen. it was something else. something heavy and warm, like the sun sitting low in your belly. and you knew, even if you couldn’t say it out loud: soobin wasn’t your brother. not to your heart. not to your body. not in the way you caught yourself staring when he wasn’t looking, or how his name felt softer on your tongue than any other word.

he had changed your world the moment he saw you standing there with your dead flowers and broken heart.

and you had changed his, too.

he just didn’t know what to do with it yet.

you were fifteen, maybe a little older, but still young enough to call it curiosity—though in truth, it was far more than that. the summer was thick with heat, and everything around the house had slowed to a drowsy lull. the trees hummed with cicadas, the air tasted like metal and dust, and the scent of boiling soy lingered in the corners of the kitchen long after dinner was cleared. you had taken to escaping out back, into the barn where the air was still and dense, where the light filtered through slats in golden beams that danced with motes of dust like fireflies.

he was already there when you arrived. you paused in the doorway, eyes adjusting to the amber gloom. he was sitting on a stack of old burlap sacks, his sleeves rolled up, shirt stuck to his back, a lit cigarette dangling between his fingers even though he wasn’t smoking it. he looked older like that. worn in. dangerous in a way that made your heart twist in your chest.

“you shouldn’t be here,” he said without looking at you, his voice low, almost careful.

“neither should you,” you replied, just as quietly, closing the door behind you.

you didn’t mean to sit so close. you hadn’t planned it. but there was a pull between you, invisible but certain, that made you drift toward him like gravity itself had changed direction. the silence stretched, but it wasn’t awkward. it was thick, electric. the kind of silence that buzzed in your ears and made you hyper-aware of the space between your knees, your fingers, your breath.

he glanced at you then. not in that way he usually did, not like a passing look or something casual. this time it was deliberate. his gaze caught yours and didn’t let go. your stomach flipped. you wanted to look away. you didn’t. couldn’t.

“your braid’s messy,” he murmured.

you reached up instinctively to touch it. he reached too. fingers brushing yours. and for a second—barely even a second—you both froze.

that was it. that was the moment.

his hand didn’t move away. and neither did yours. your fingers were touching now, not quite entwined but pressed together, uncertain, trembling with the awareness that you were crossing a line that no one had drawn out loud, but that you both felt.

he shifted, just a little, just enough to close the breath of space between your shoulders. your thigh touched his. the fabric of your skirts rustled against the coarse material of his pants. you heard the softest intake of his breath and realized it matched the way your own lungs had stalled.

and when he looked at you again—really looked—there was something new behind his eyes. something tender, but also hungry. a question. a truth.

“you’re not my sister,” he whispered, like it hurt to admit it, but more than that, like he couldn’t keep pretending anymore.

and you didn’t flinch. didn’t correct him. because you weren’t. not in your heart. not in the way you had begun to trace the shape of his body in your dreams, or the way your thoughts wandered to the curve of his neck, the roughness of his hands, the softness of his voice when he was half-asleep and called out for someone—maybe you.

you nodded, just barely.

“i know,” you breathed.

and that was the first permission.

nothing else happened that day. no kiss. no confession. just that quiet, burning truth. your fingers, still touching. his hand, warm and trembling like yours. the silence stretching again, but now laced with something heady and forbidden and sacred.

a promise, unspoken. an understanding.

the beginning of the end of pretending.

the second time it happens, it feels different.

not like the first—the accidental touch of hands as you both reached for the same rusted pair of shears outside the shed, and your fingers had lingered a moment too long. that first time had left your stomach in knots, your breath caught, your chest rising and falling too quickly as he quietly pulled his hand away and murmured, “sorry.”

but this time... this time there’s no accident.

it’s late, the sun long set behind the ridge of hills, and the house is asleep, wrapped in silence except for the occasional groan of the old wood settling into the cold of night. you should be in your room. you should be under the covers, eyes closed, heart still.

but you’re not.

you’re barefoot, quiet, holding the hem of your nightgown in one hand as you creep down the hallway. you don’t even know what you’re looking for. or maybe you do—but you’re not ready to say it aloud.

not even in your mind.

you find him by the back door, half-shadowed in moonlight. he’s sitting on the bench where they usually leave baskets of vegetables from the garden. the window above him spills silver across his cheekbones, and his shirt is loose, sleeves rolled up, collar open. he’s always been handsome, even before you understood what beauty meant. but now... now there’s something dangerous about the way his eyes find yours, like he’s been waiting.

you hesitate. he doesn’t speak. neither do you.

his gaze drops, just for a second, to your bare feet. then travels up slowly, too slowly, until it meets your eyes again. and in the space between your lungs, something flutters wildly. heat creeps across your skin, shame and longing tangled like vines. you’re not a child anymore. and neither is he.

he nods toward the empty space beside him.

you sit.

for a while, there’s only silence.

the kind of silence that isn’t empty, but thick, heavy with everything unsaid. your knees almost touch. your arms almost brush. and every breath you take is a little harder to swallow.

when he finally speaks, his voice is low, a rasp in the dark.

“can’t sleep?”

you shake your head.

he leans back, hands braced behind him, elbows sharp against the wood.

“me neither.”

more silence.

but now it’s louder.

because you feel it.

the pull.

your hands are clasped tightly in your lap, knuckles white, trying to anchor yourself to something safe. but your eyes betray you—they wander, tracing the curve of his throat, the way his collarbone moves when he swallows.

“you’ve changed,” he says suddenly, not looking at you.

you stiffen. “what do you mean?”

he exhales through his nose, almost like a laugh. “you don’t cry as much anymore.”

you glance down. “i still do. just not where anyone sees.”

“i see you,” he says.

the words hit you like a match to dry leaves.

you turn to look at him, really look. and he’s already looking at you. the kind of look that strips you down—not your body, not yet—but something more.

he sees all the parts you try to hide. and he doesn't look away.

his hand lifts. hesitates in the air between you.

then slowly, so slowly, it brushes a strand of hair behind your ear.

his knuckles graze your cheek.

and you swear your breath leaves your body.

“you’re not my sister,” he murmurs, voice thick, hoarse, sinful.

and you whisper back—because it’s the only thing your throat can manage—“i know.”

his hand lingers. the warmth of his touch a brand on your skin.

he doesn’t kiss you.

he could have.

god, you wanted him to.

but he doesn’t.

instead, he stands.

and before he walks away, he says, “go back to bed, y/n.”

but you don’t sleep that night.

not even a little.

the barn is quiet at night.

too quiet.

you’re standing in the middle of the hay-covered floor, arms crossed over your chest, breath shallow. the wooden beams creak with the wind, and the air smells of earth, dust, and something older—memories soaked into the grain of the walls.

you came here looking for silence.

but he found you anyway.

soobin steps in through the side door, the same door he always slips out of when he’s trying to disappear for a few hours. there’s something about him in the moonlight—like a ghost from your dreams or a boy made of secrets. his hair is a little messy. his lips a little parted. and he’s looking at you like he already knows. like he feels it too.

“you followed me,” you say, not turning to face him completely.

“i always do,” he answers softly.

he walks closer. slowly. like he’s giving you the chance to run. but you don’t.

you can’t.

“you shouldn’t be here,” you whisper.

“neither should you.”

you finally look at him. and something in you folds. caves in. aches. because his eyes are saying everything his lips won’t.

and maybe… maybe you’ve waited long enough.

“do you think about it?” you ask, your voice trembling, “what would happen… if we let it happen?”

he doesn’t blink.

he doesn’t flinch.

he takes another step, then another. until he’s right in front of you.

your chests almost touch.

your fingers almost brush.

“i think about it every night,” he breathes.

your heart stutters.

“soobin—”

but he’s already reaching for your face, gently, reverently, like he’s holding something sacred. his thumb strokes your cheek, slow and warm, and he leans in just enough for his forehead to touch yours. your breath mingles. your lashes brush.

“tell me to stop,” he murmurs.

you don’t.

you tilt your chin up. just enough.

and he takes it as permission.

his lips meet yours softly at first—so soft it barely feels real. a ghost of a kiss. a breath. a promise. your eyes fall shut as your hands lift to his shirt, fingers clenching the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

he kisses you again. deeper. longer.

his mouth moves against yours like he’s waited years to memorize the shape of it. and maybe he has. because everything about this feels inevitable. like gravity. like fate.

your back bumps against the wooden post behind you. he cages you in with one arm beside your head, the other curling around your waist, drawing you in like he can’t get close enough. and still, you want more. your bodies fit together like pieces of something ancient—unfinished until now.

his lips trail down to your jaw, then your neck, each kiss burning hotter than the last.

“this changes everything,” he whispers.

you nod, eyes fluttering open, chest heaving. “i know.”

“but i don’t care,” he says.

and when he kisses you again, it’s with a hunger that leaves you breathless.

this isn’t just a kiss. it’s the start of something irreversible.

something beautiful.

and forbidden.

and yours.

the back wall of the school gym was cracked and sun-bleached, half-covered with faded graffiti and vines that curled like claws. gyuri sat on the cold concrete ledge, her legs pulled up, hands wrapped around her knees. the others were older, louder, and more careless. but she didn’t mind. she liked to watch. to listen.

hyunjoo was tossing rocks at a rusted trash bin, each metallic thud sharp against the dusk. sungchan smoked lazily, leaning back against the wall with his hoodie halfway down his arms.

gyuri broke the rhythm.

“do your parents ever lie to you?” her voice barely carried.

sungchan rolled his eyes. “they lie all the time. it’s their thing.”

“what kind of lies?” gyuri pressed.

“the kind that don’t matter,” said hyunjoo. “the kind you get over when you’re not fifteen.”

miyeon exhaled sharply from her place near the fence.

“parents have shit they don’t want to explain. maybe yours just had a fight. maybe they hate each other and pretend not to for your sake. why are you digging?”

gyuri looked down at the scuffed toes of her shoes. her heart buzzed. “my mom… she never talks about her parents. she acts like they never existed. and my dad, he’s… careful. with her. in this weird, quiet way.”

jaemin, quiet until now, glanced over. “so? it’s not your business.”

but a moment later, as the others argued over a broken lighter, jaemin leaned closer and murmured, “if you really want answers… check their drawers. the back of closets. old boxes. they always keep the truth somewhere they think no one will look.”

gyuri didn’t reply. but the idea burned into her mind like a secret too dangerous to speak aloud.

that evening, while you were out running errands—your cloth bag slung over your arm, your steps light down the dirt path—gyuri waited exactly nine minutes before pushing open the door to your room.

it was quiet inside, filtered with afternoon light, the tatami floor warm under her socks. she moved with practiced silence toward the chest of drawers you always kept locked. but the latch was old. with a little effort and a bobby pin, it clicked open.

papers. ribbons. folded cloths scented with lavender.

and photos.

she pulled out a faded photograph: a little girl, no older than six, in a pale floral dress, straw hat tilted, hugging a small bouquet of sunflowers. you.

your smile in the picture was wide, your cheeks round and eyes bright. it didn’t look like the mother she knew.

then—another photo, hidden between envelopes.

you again, but older. a teenager, your hair windblown, your eyes narrowed like you’d been laughing or crying. and beside you, soobin. he looked younger too, with his arm slung around your shoulders, a cigarette in his other hand, lips slightly swollen. your bodies pressed close, close enough to feel the heat through the photo itself.

gyuri stared at it, something tight in her chest.

this was not the calm, practical love she saw at the breakfast table.

this was fire.

the photo haunted her. not in the way ghosts do, but in the way questions do—questions that twist themselves under your ribs and refuse to leave, even when you close your eyes.

gyuri hid the picture beneath her mattress. for now. but the next morning, when you hummed softly while making barley tea and the radio whispered old songs from the kitchen window, she watched you with sharper eyes.

you didn’t notice.

you never did.

your hands moved with the grace of someone who had made peace with their days. folding his shirt just so. placing the thermos into his old canvas satchel. checking the weather by stepping outside barefoot, always barefoot, and squinting at the clouds.

when soobin came down the stairs, you straightened his collar. he bent slightly to kiss your cheek. it was all routine. all silence and smooth edges.

but gyuri saw it now—the way your fingers lingered too long on the buttons, the way he looked at you like a man who once knew chaos but had buried it beneath the soil.

and when he left for the school, driving that wheezing car that always coughed twice before starting, you stood at the gate until the sound faded.

only then did you return inside.

gyuri waited until your steps disappeared down the hallway before slipping into the back room again. not your bedroom—this time, the storage closet at the end of the hall. the one that always smelled of cedar and old cloth.

she found a wooden box tucked behind a stack of winter blankets.

inside: a handkerchief, embroidered with a sun. a wrinkled envelope with no stamp, just your name written in all lowercase letters. and a necklace—simple, silver, with a tiny locket that clicked open like it still remembered how to breathe.

inside the locket: a dried petal. yellowed, fragile. maybe from a sunflower.

gyuri sat back on her heels, heart stammering. what was this? a keepsake from before her father? or something that belonged to him… before he was him?

she wanted to ask.

but how do you ask someone about the pieces of themselves they’ve hidden?

that night, soobin came home late.

he looked tired. not in the way the body is tired—but the soul. the kind of exhaustion that clings behind the eyes. you met him at the door, towel in hand, wiping your damp hands from washing dishes.

“dear husband, you stayed late again,” you said softly.

he nodded, kissed your forehead, then leaned against the frame. “new kid. cried the whole hour. didn’t want to let go of his mom.”

you smiled, sad and gentle. “you used to be like that.”

“i was worse.” he laughed, a soft sound.

you watched him. and he watched you watching him.

the kitchen smelled of garlic and rice, of comfort. but the quiet between you suddenly felt charged. like static before a summer storm.

“gyuri,” he said.

you tilted your head.

“what about her?”

he hesitated. eyes dropping to the floor. hand curling slightly at his side.

“she’s… asking questions.”

you stiffened, barely. “what kind?”

he didn’t answer right away. instead, he crossed the room and poured himself a glass of water, fingers trembling just slightly as he set it down on the table.

“she’s too curious. like you were.”

you blinked. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

he didn’t look at you. just stared out the window, where the moon was a thin white scar in the dark sky.

“you remember that night… outside the temple?”

your breath caught.

he never talked about that night.

you stepped closer, fingertips brushing the edge of the table.

“what about it?”

soobin’s jaw clenched. his voice dropped.

“i should have left town after that. should have gone somewhere far.”

you flinched.

“you didn’t.”

“no. because you kissed me like you meant it. and suddenly leaving didn’t make sense anymore.”

you stood there, silence thick and trembling between you. the kitchen light flickered once.

“you’ve never said that before,” you whispered.

he turned to you finally. eyes soft. aching.

“i know. and i don’t know if i ever should again.”

then he touched your cheek. one finger, barely there.

“if she finds out how it really began… if she knows the weight of everything we chose to forget…”

you swallowed.

“then we deal with it. together.”

but neither of you said what you were really thinking.

what if we can’t?

dinner was quiet. too quiet.

the clinking of cutlery against ceramic plates echoed louder than usual, like a metronome ticking down to something inevitable. the stew was warm, the bread fresh—but there was a chill in the air that had nothing to do with the autumn breeze outside the hanok’s wooden walls. gyuri sat across from you, eyes sharp, lips pressed into a tight line. beomgyu, as always, was oblivious—talking about school, a funny story from his literature class, a friend who forgot his homework.

but gyuri was watching soobin. not with affection or casual curiosity, but with the precision of someone looking for cracks.

soobin chewed slowly, eyes down. he hadn’t noticed the intensity of her gaze—yet.

“appa,” she said suddenly, voice smooth, too smooth.

soobin looked up. “mm?”

“why did we never visit your family?” she said, resting her chin in one palm, elbow on the table like she knew it would annoy you.

soobin blinked. “we talked about this before. it’s… complicated.”

“complicated?” gyuri’s tone was light, but her eyes were anything but. “is that why you’ve never even tried to reconcile? not even once? not even for us?”

soobin’s jaw tensed. he put his spoon down gently, the soft clink against the bowl somehow louder than necessary. “gyuri.”

“no, really,” she continued, still smiling, but her words were daggers. “you never thought maybe beomgyu and i deserved to meet our grandparents? or your sisters? or your old friends from the village? anyone from your past?”

“gyuri, that’s enough,” you warned softly, but your voice barely reached her.

“because it almost feels like…” she tilted her head, watching soobin intently. “you’re ashamed. or hiding something. like maybe… you weren’t supposed to marry mom?”

soobin’s head shot up. his eyes locked with hers, and for a moment, you saw the flicker of something primal. something raw. he looked like a man trying to hold the world together with two bare hands.

“what did you say?” he asked, his voice low.

“i said,” gyuri leaned forward, her voice cutting, “maybe you and mom did something that would’ve made your family disown you. something… sinful.”

“gyuri!” you snapped, but she didn’t even flinch.

“and maybe,” she went on, ignoring the rising tension in the room, “that’s why we live here. why we’re so far from everyone. why there are no photos from before. no stories. nothing.”

soobin pushed his chair back. not violently, not loudly—but the screech of wood against wood was enough to make beomgyu look up from his soup, eyes wide.

“stop it,” soobin said, barely holding himself together. “you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

gyuri didn’t stop. her tone turned mockingly sweet. “or maybe i do.”

you moved before you could think.

the sound of your hand striking her cheek echoed across the table like thunder.

gyuri froze. so did beomgyu. even soobin looked stunned.

“that’s not how you talk to your father,” you said, breath trembling with fury. “you don’t get to sit there and act like you know what we’ve been through. like you understand.”

gyuri slowly turned her head back to you. her eyes shimmered—not from the slap, but from something deeper. fury. pain. betrayal.

“then tell me,” she said, voice breaking as it rose into a scream. “tell me what you’re hiding!”

you froze.

her words struck deeper than your slap ever could. your eyes widened. your heartbeat roared in your ears.

soobin stood behind his chair, fists clenched, knuckles white. his face was pale, mouth slightly open like he wanted to stop her—but couldn’t.

gyuri stood now too, breathing hard, staring at both of you with a fire that could burn the whole house down.

“i’m not stupid,” she whispered, trembling. “i see the way you two look at each other. like there’s something more than just love. like there’s a… weight. and i’ve always wondered why it felt like i was born from a secret.”

you opened your mouth to speak—but no sound came.

there was nothing you could say.

because the secret she was clawing toward wasn’t just a shadow. it was a truth buried deep beneath years of silence.

a truth with sunflowers and barn dust and trembling hands. a truth that still lived behind the locked door of your bedroom each night.

gyuri’s chair scraped back sharply as she stood, her breathing erratic and shallow, eyes glistening with unshed tears. the sting on her cheek had faded, but what remained was far worse—a wound that no reprimand could erase.

“i hate this,” she spat. “i hate this family. it’s all fake.”

you tried to reach for her, but she flinched away before your fingers could even graze her sleeve.

“don’t touch me,” she whispered.

and then she was gone—barefoot, running out through the wooden door of the hanok, her footsteps echoing down the porch, swallowed by the night. beomgyu started to rise, confused and unsure, but soobin shook his head gently.

“let her go.”

the house fell into a silence so thick, it hurt. only the soft crackle of the oil lamp by the wall offered a heartbeat.

you stood frozen in the middle of the room, hand still trembling from the slap you hadn’t even realized had landed with so much force. shame burned under your skin, and guilt twisted your stomach in violent knots.

you turned slowly to look at him.

soobin hadn’t moved. he stood there, staring at the space gyuri had just occupied, shoulders hunched forward as if the weight of her words had crushed something inside him. his lips parted slightly, but there was nothing left to say—at least not out loud.

you walked to him, slowly, carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal. your hand reached for his, the same hand that had struck your daughter, and laced your fingers with his.

“dear husband…” your voice cracked.

he looked at you finally. god, his eyes. they were the same ones that used to look at you through haylofts and chapel candles and whispered sin. the same eyes that had begged you to run away with him when the world turned against you. now they looked tired. defeated.

“we’ve hurt her,” he said quietly. “we’ve hurt her without meaning to.”

“i know,” you whispered, stepping closer, your forehead gently resting against his chest. “but how do we explain what they were never supposed to know?”

he wrapped his arms around you. it wasn’t lustful. not tonight. it was grounding. protective. desperate.

“maybe we don’t,” he murmured against your hair. “maybe we just hold on to what we still have.”

you stayed like that for a long while, swaying slightly, the cool air creeping in from the open door where gyuri had disappeared.

you remembered a night years ago when you were the one who ran—barefoot, tears in your eyes, with soobin chasing behind you. how he held you then, in a field of stars and silence, swearing that no matter how wrong the world said your love was, he would carry it like a vow. not once, not out loud—but every day, in every look, every secret touch behind closed doors.

and now here you were. grown. older. married. parents. but the sin never washed away.

“she’s not wrong,” you whispered. “we did something we can’t undo.”

“but we never regretted it,” he said, brushing your hair behind your ear. “not once.”

“no,” you admitted, looking up at him with tear-glossed eyes. “not once.”

he leaned down slowly, so slowly, as if kissing you in that moment might shatter something irreparable. but your lips met anyway, soft and solemn, like a prayer spoken through breath.

when you pulled apart, he didn’t smile. he didn’t need to.

because you both knew gyuri’s question had cracked open the past—and whatever came next, it wouldn’t be silence anymore.

the next morning arrived heavy with a silence that pressed against the walls like fog. the table remained untouched, bowls of rice cooling, untouched plates of banchan abandoned in awkward arrangement. the hanok, usually filled with soft rustlings, tea being poured, the creak of floorboards—felt like a house holding its breath.

beomgyu sat alone on the porch, his long legs folded, head resting against one of the wooden pillars. the air was still, early sun flickering through the slats in golden lines. he had barely touched his food. eyes puffy. quiet.

soobin found him there. he approached slowly, cautiously, as if stepping into a room mid-prayer. he stood for a moment before lowering himself beside his son, knees cracking, posture weighed with unspoken things.

"she didn’t come back," beomgyu said without looking at him.

soobin nodded. "i know."

silence.

"what happened?" beomgyu finally asked, turning his face, those dark eyes searching—gentler than gyuri’s, but sharp with their own awareness. "why did she say all that? why did mom slap her?"

soobin exhaled. "it’s complicated."

"it always is. but she’s not stupid. neither am i. i’ve seen how you two look at each other when you think no one’s watching. the way you… hold her hand. the way she disappears into the room with you for hours. it’s not just marriage. it’s something else. it always has been."

soobin closed his eyes, feeling the weight of every word press deeper into his chest. he wanted to speak, to explain, to protect.

but how do you tell your son that the woman he calls mother once arrived at your doorstep with a braid, a bouquet of wilted dahlias, and the saddest eyes you had ever seen?

he opened his mouth, but before anything came out—

—he remembered.

it had been a rainy afternoon.

she had just turned fifteen. her body had begun to shed its childish awkwardness, and the girl who once cried quietly in the corners of rooms had started to smile again, though only when no one was looking.

he was seventeen then, taller, broader, already helping his father in the workshop, muscles forming from labor, hands always smelling faintly of metal and pine.

she came in from the rain that day, soaked through her hanbok, her braid unraveling, clutching something to her chest.

"they trampled the dahlias," she whispered, trembling. "the neighbor boys. i left them by the grave and—"

she couldn’t finish.

soobin reached for her instinctively. hands warm, steady. he took the crushed flowers from her palms and placed them carefully in a bowl of water on the kitchen counter.

when she looked up at him, her lips trembled.

"do you ever forget her face?" she asked. "your real grandmother. or anyone who died?"

he shook his head. "no. not really."

she blinked rapidly. then nodded.

"i think i’m forgetting my mother’s voice."

that broke him. and before he could think, before he could breathe—he cupped her face. gently. reverently. his thumbs brushed her cheeks, wet from tears and rain. and in that moment, neither one of them saw the other as siblings.

her lips parted slightly, eyes wide but unafraid. she leaned forward. and so did he.

their lips met like a question. like a secret held too long.

when they parted, they stared at each other. and neither ran.

because they both knew, deep in their chests, that whatever had just happened—it was the beginning.

a love too strong for rules.

a devotion born not of duty, but of recognition.

and they never looked back.

the rain has been falling for hours now—thick and steady, soaking the ground, turning the gravel road to sludge, beating soft rhythms against the tiled roof above your kitchen. it’s well past dark, the dinner dishes washed and dried, the lamps dimmed, and the fire still flickering low in the hearth. you had tried not to look at the clock too much, had tried not to glance at the window every few minutes or keep imagining the sound of footsteps beyond the gate. but you failed. every few moments your heart skipped in your chest, waiting—aching—for her.

and then, just as the wind howled again and you stood from your chair with a hand to your chest, you heard it. the creak of the gate. the hurried, uneven footsteps through mud and puddles. the jingle of the latch being lifted with cold, clumsy fingers.

you rush to the door before anyone else can. and there she is.

gyuri.

drenched. breathless. her long hair plastered to her face, her clothes soaked through, clinging to her like wet fabric against porcelain. her cheeks are red from the cold, her eyes swollen from crying, her hands trembling at her sides. she looks exhausted. like she’s been running for hours and has only now remembered where home is.

you don’t hesitate. not even for a second.

you step into the rain, barefoot, dress billowing behind you, and you wrap your arms around her so tightly that she gasps. you don’t care that she’s dripping wet. you don’t care that her boots smear mud across your skirt or that your own hair is beginning to cling to your temples. she’s here. she’s safe. she’s in your arms.

“beomgyu,” you call behind you, voice shaking, “bring towels. now.”

but you barely hear your own voice. everything in you is focused on the girl in your arms—the girl who came from your body, who once fit into the crook of your elbow, who now stands almost eye to eye with you but still feels like your baby. your gyuri. your stubborn, wild-hearted, sharp-tongued daughter. the one who slammed the door and said things that broke you.

and yet here she is, returning through the rain like something half-drowned and half-redeemed.

you press your hand to her cheek, feel how cold her skin is. you smooth the hair from her face even though it’s soaked. your hands tremble as they touch her, as if trying to memorize her all over again. your eyes sting. and you can't stop them.

the tears fall without permission. silently. without sound. just warm trails down your cheeks as you kiss her temple, her forehead, the corner of her eye. her wet lashes brush your lips.

“you’re home,” you whisper, voice cracked and trembling. “thank god, gyuri… you’re home.”

she doesn’t say anything. not at first. her chin lifts slightly, defiant still. proud as ever. the tears on her cheeks mix with the rain, and she refuses to meet your eyes. but her hands clutch your dress tightly, fists balled against your waist like a child afraid to let go.

and then, quietly, like the softest confession—

she sobs.

her shoulders shake. a small, broken sound escapes her throat. she doesn’t speak, doesn’t explain, doesn’t apologize. but she cries. and you hold her even tighter, swaying slightly on the porch, the rain still falling around you both like the sky is mourning too.

beomgyu appears at the door with a stack of towels and wide eyes, unsure of what to do. you don’t even look at him. you just say, “leave them by the fire,” and he does, retreating quickly, sensing something sacred unfolding.

you guide her inside. you don’t let go of her for a long time. not even as you wrap her in towels, not even as she sits beside the fire and you kneel in front of her, drying her hands gently, brushing the water from her hair like you did when she was five years old and cried because her favorite dress got muddy.

she doesn’t speak. neither do you.

but your eyes say everything.

you’re forgiven.

you’re loved.

you’re my daughter.

and i will always open the door for you.

always.

gyuri sat on the edge of her bed, the room swallowed by darkness except for the faint glow of the streetlamp outside casting soft shadows across the walls. her clothes had long since been changed, the damp fabric replaced by the warmth of dry, soft fabric, but the weight of everything lingered on her shoulders. the fight. the words she’d thrown, the anger that had surged up from places she didn’t want to acknowledge. she didn’t regret them, not exactly. but as she sat there, your face came to her mind, soft and sad in a way that made her heart ache.

you had embraced her in the rain—soaked, cold, angry—and she hadn’t said a word about it. just held her, wrapped her in warmth, never letting go, even when gyuri had tried to distance herself. gyuri could still feel the dampness of your dress against her skin, the way you held her so tightly, as if afraid to let go.

it was a strange feeling, one gyuri had never truly known before. this kind of care. it wasn’t like how other parents might act. it wasn’t just about doing what was expected. it was something deeper. something that, sometimes, made her feel guilty.

the door creaked softly, and her mother had left her there, alone, with only her thoughts for company.

as the minutes passed, the tension in gyuri’s chest slowly began to loosen. she couldn’t explain it—didn’t understand it. but something inside her shifted. the anger, the frustration—it all started to fade away. and what remained was that feeling, the warmth of your arms, the unspoken words of forgiveness that hovered in the space between them.

she pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, feeling small again. the way you had always made her feel safe, even when she didn’t want to admit it.

but now, in the silence of her dark room, it was like she was seeing you in a new light. not just as a parent, but as a woman. someone who had her own history, her own battles, her own wounds. and gyuri didn’t know everything about you. didn’t know the full story. but she knew, deep down, that you had fought for her—for all of them. and maybe, just maybe, she had been wrong to shut you out. wrong to think she could handle everything on her own, without you.

there was still so much she didn’t understand about her family. so much she didn’t know. but as the night stretched on, with the soft sounds of rain tapping against the window, gyuri slowly started to piece together what she’d been too stubborn to see before.

you weren’t perfect. but you had always loved her. loved them. and that, more than anything, was something that gyuri could never push away.

the darkness of the room wasn’t so suffocating now. she could breathe again.

and for the first time that night, gyuri closed her eyes and allowed herself to let go of the tension in her shoulders, curling up in bed as a tear slipped down her cheek, swallowed by the pillow beneath her.

the chapel is small, quiet, and slightly hidden at the edge of the new town, nestled between low hills and the old almond trees that lean in like witnesses. it's not grand. the paint is chipped, the wooden pews creak when you sit, and the stained-glass windows cast warm, dusty colors on the stone floor. but it’s perfect. it feels untouched by the world’s noise—like this place was waiting, quietly, just for you and him. and that’s all you’ve ever wanted. a place to say “yes” to him without having to explain to anyone why your heart has already been his for years.

you stand at the entrance in a simple dress, soft and cream-colored, stitched lovingly by the widow down the street who still remembers when you were just a quiet girl walking alone to the bakery. your hands aren’t shaking, though your heart is loud in your chest. there’s no veil, no jewels—only your unpinned hair, your sun-kissed skin, and the bouquet of sunflowers you picked yourself from the edge of the field. the same sunflowers he once tucked behind your ear when you were seventeen and he told you he couldn’t live without you. the memory presses close to your skin as you step forward, your bare feet soundless against the floor.

soobin waits for you at the front, his hands clutched so tightly in front of him you’re sure his knuckles are white. his suit doesn’t quite fit—it’s borrowed from a cousin—and the tie is a little crooked. but nothing could make him more beautiful to you. he’s only twenty, but he already looks like a man who has chosen his path with his whole soul. he looks at you like you’re everything. and you are. to him, you’ve always been everything.

there’s no one here from his family. no tears from a mother, no handshake from a father. the last time you saw them, his mother couldn’t even meet your eyes, and his father had shouted so loud the walls shook. they had made it clear you were not worthy. not with your history. not with your name. not with the scandal of that summer still clinging to you like sin. they told him he was throwing his life away. but soobin had looked them in the eyes, said nothing, and walked out. walked toward you.

you’ve never had family to disappoint. no father to give you away. no mother to kiss your cheek and smile through tears. you’ve known the ache of empty chairs all your life, and today is no different. but it doesn’t hurt the same, not now. because every step you take toward him fills the hollow places you once feared would stay empty forever.

the priest’s voice is soft, worn by time. he says the words that have been said for centuries, but they feel new in your ears. he asks you if you choose him, and you say “i do” without hesitation. and when soobin says it back, his voice is low and steady, like a vow that’s already been living in him long before this moment. he slides the simple gold band onto your finger, hands trembling as they always do when they touch you. and then he kisses you. in front of god and sunlight and the smell of lilies—he kisses you like you’re his miracle. like you’re the salvation he never dared to hope for.

you walk out of the chapel hand in hand, the sun hanging low and golden behind the hills, and his thumb traces small circles over your knuckles the entire walk home. when your heels begin to blister, he lifts you onto his back and laughs when you call him ridiculous. you laugh too, pressing your face into his shoulder, breathing in the scent of sweat and sunlight and everything that is him. your home is small, paint peeling, the furniture mismatched. but it’s yours. it’s safe. it’s real.

and that night, under the flickering light of a single candle, he kisses you again—slower, deeper, with the weight of something holy. you undress for him like you’re unwrapping a secret you’ve kept only for him. and when his hands explore the curves of your body, they do so with reverence, with familiarity, with love that has never asked for permission. your first night as husband and wife is not hurried or wild—it is sacred. it is soft moans and slow breaths and eyes that never stop searching. it is whispered promises between each thrust, each gasp, each whispered “i love you” pressed into the skin of your throat and the shell of your ear.

and afterward, when he holds you against his chest, when your fingers find the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat and your limbs tangle beneath the thin blanket, there is only peace. only the kind of silence that means something has finally come home.

the next spring, gyuri was born. and a scowl that already reminds you of her father. you hold her to your chest and feel something shift inside you—like your heart just split open and poured itself into her tiny body. soobin cries when he holds her for the first time, rocking her gently and whispering that she is everything. everything.

your love never needed the world’s approval. you never wore it proudly in public or shouted it from rooftops. but behind the locked door of your bedroom, where the children never knock and the world can’t reach you, it still burns. it is magic, sacred, eternal. even now, when the house is quiet and your hair is no longer the same as when he first kissed you by the temple, he still undresses you like you’re the same girl who changed his life with a sunflower in her hand.

because behind that door, with the lock turned, with the moonlight brushing over your bare shoulders and his name whispered like a hymn from your lips—nothing has changed.

and everything has.

the following day, the heavy silence from the night before still lingered in the air. gyuri moved cautiously through the house, her steps softer than usual, almost hesitant, as if every sound she made could shatter the fragile peace they had reluctantly agreed to. her eyes would flicker to you and soobin when they were close, but she said nothing. there was still so much left unsaid, too many unspoken questions hanging in the space between them.

after breakfast, when the house seemed to quiet down, gyuri finally found herself alone with you in the living room. the weight of their secret hung over them, but you’d never let it show. you had mastered the art of keeping it buried, safe under layers of silence. you looked at her with a soft, almost sorrowful expression, but there was strength there too—something in her gaze that said she wasn’t about to back down. it was that same strength that had carried them through everything.

"gyuri," you began, your voice calm but with an undertone of resolve, "we’ve said this before, and we’ll say it again: there are things from the past... things that we simply can’t bring to the surface. some things are better left buried. not because we want to lie to you, but because some truths aren’t meant to be known. not now. not yet."

gyuri’s gaze flickered to her father, who was sitting on the couch, his eyes lowered in thought. he didn’t look up, but the silence between them spoke volumes. he agreed. you both did. you had made their peace with the past, even if it was a peace built on secrets.

"but..." gyuri started, her voice quieter than usual, uncertain. "don’t you think... don’t you think that if i knew the truth, i could understand? i could... i could make sense of things? you always tell me to be strong, to face the world head-on. but how can I do that when there’s so much I don’t understand about... about you?" her voice trembled slightly, but she held her ground.

your expression softened, but her tone remained firm. "there are things that, if you knew, would only hurt you. the truth you think you want could be a heavy burden to carry, gyuri. we protect you, and we protect your brother, by keeping this buried. some things should stay locked away, hidden in the past where they belong."

you look at her, and your heart aches. you want to tell her. you want to let her in, to tell her the story that’s been buried beneath so many layers of silence. but you know that revealing it would only break her. break all of you. some truths, you’ve learned, are too heavy to carry.

you can see the doubt in her eyes, but she doesn’t push. not anymore. instead, she takes a step back, her shoulders sagging with the weight of what’s unsaid. she lowers herself slowly to the floor, kneeling before you, her hands clasped in front of her in a quiet show of respect. her head bows, and you can feel the depth of her apology, even if she doesn’t say the words aloud.

"i’m sorry," she murmurs, her voice thick with emotion. "i shouldn’t have spoken to dad like that... or left the house. i didn’t understand." her hands tremble slightly as she presses them to the floor, as though hoping the act of humility will somehow atone for the anger she’d shown. the anger that came from a place of confusion and hurt, but a place you, too, had once known.

you kneel beside her, your hand gently resting on her back, comforting her in the way you always had. "it’s okay," you whisper, your voice soft but firm, the love for your daughter unwavering. "we understand. just remember that there are things we protect to keep you safe. it’s not about hiding the truth from you... it’s about protecting you from it."

gyuri remains still for a moment, her breath shaky as she tries to hold back her tears. she doesn’t look up, doesn’t try to meet your gaze. but you can feel the relief in her posture, the small weight lifting from her shoulders as she finally lets go of the anger that had built up inside her.

"thank you," she whispers, her voice barely audible now. "i won’t ask again. i just... i want to understand." she pulls herself to her feet, still not meeting your eyes, but her body language softer now, more vulnerable than before.

you pull her into a tight embrace, your arms wrapping around her, holding her close, not letting go. she doesn’t resist. you can feel the warmth of her body against yours, the beat of her heart under your palm. "i know, gyuri," you whisper into her hair. "i know you want to understand. but some things, you just can’t change."

you hold her for a moment longer, letting the silence stretch between you two. this is how it is now. this is how it will stay. you will continue to live with your secrets, your past buried deep within, and your children will carry on without ever knowing the full story. you’ll keep them safe, even if it means keeping them in the dark. it’s a sacrifice you’ll make, over and over again, for their peace.

when you finally pull away, you kiss the top of her head, feeling the weight of your decision settle around you once more. "we’re here for you," you say, your voice steady but full of the unspoken promise of your love.

gyuri nods slowly, a small, uncertain smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "i know, mom. i know."

and as she turns away, walking back to her room, you watch her go, the ache in your chest a quiet reminder of the love you’ve always had to protect—love that sometimes needs to stay hidden, even from those who deserve to know it the most.

it’s 2023, and gyuri is now 39 years old. she stands in the quiet living room of her home, staring at the old photo album she found in the attic earlier that day. the room is softly illuminated by the light of a late afternoon, with the fading sunlight casting gentle shadows on the walls. the scent of rain still lingers in the air from earlier in the day.

as she flips through the pages, memories flood back to her, each photo telling a story she once tried to forget. some are faded, some are torn, but they all hold a part of her past—a past filled with both joy and sorrow. she lingers on the picture of herself as a child, her six-year-old self dressed in a simple, but beautiful, floral dress, holding a small bouquet of dalias.

next, her fingers trace over the picture of her mother—you—as a young woman, smiling brightly, so full of life. and then, she stops. her gaze lingers on the next photo—the one of her parents on their wedding day. the two of you, so young, so in love, sharing a moment that was supposed to be your forever. soobin, her father, had passed away just a year ago, leaving her with a gap that could never be filled. he was her protector, her provider, and now he was gone.

gyuri gently places the album down on the coffee table, and for a moment, the house falls into complete silence. a deep, unsettling silence that reflects the weight of what she’s just seen. the family that once seemed so whole, now fractured. her father, the man who’d always been there for her, was gone. you, her mother, were now all she had left. after soobin’s death, you had moved in with gyuri, her husband, kang taehyun, and their son jeongin, who was now nine years old. despite the changes, the memories seemed to weigh heavier with each passing day.

as gyuri looks at the photos, she notices something in her mother’s eyes that makes her pause. there’s a heaviness in the air, something unspoken, something buried deep within you. she’s seen it before, but now, after all these years, it feels like the right time to finally ask.

gyuri turns to you, her gaze soft but searching. “mom,” she begins, her voice careful, “i’ve always wondered about these pictures. about you before… before everything changed.”

you stay silent for a long moment, the words you’ve kept hidden for years threatening to surface. you’ve kept so much from her, from everyone. the truth about your past, about who you were before meeting soobin. the pain, the love, the sacrifices—all buried beneath a veil of silence. but now, as gyuri looks at you with those eyes full of curiosity and longing, you know it’s time to tell her the truth.

you close your eyes briefly, taking a slow, steadying breath. then, with a voice barely above a whisper, you speak. “there are things you don’t know, gyuri. things i’ve never shared with you... because i wanted to protect you. but now, i think it’s time. you deserve to know.”

gyuri’s expression softens, concern growing in her eyes. “what do you mean, mom? what things?”

you don’t speak for a long time. the photo album rests open on your lap, but your gaze is no longer focused on the images—it’s turned inward, heavy with years of silence. gyuri sits beside you, quiet, respectful, but the tension in her shoulders reveals her anticipation. she knows there’s more. you feel it too. this moment has been waiting for decades.

finally, you shift, your fingers lightly brushing over the wedding photo. soobin, with his solemn eyes and gentle smile, standing beside you in the white chapel, the day the world seemed to stop for both of you. you were eighteen. he was twenty. you had never felt more certain—or more afraid.

“gyuri,” you say her name with the softness of a prayer, “what i’m about to tell you... i’ve never told anyone. not even your father spoke of it again. but you’ve always known something was different. i saw it in your eyes, even when you were young.”

she nods slowly, silent. you know she won’t interrupt.

you take a shaky breath. “we were sinners.”

your voice trembles, not with regret—but with the weight of the truth.

“people would say we were. and perhaps they were right. we weren’t related by blood... but the world wouldn’t have cared about that technicality. not in a place like ours. not in a time like that.”

gyuri blinks, confused, brows tightening.

“soobin’s mother... she adopted me.”

the words hang in the air like thunder before the rain.

“i was just a child when she took me in. i had no family, no name anyone remembered. i was a stray soul. she raised me as her own. gave me food, a roof, a school uniform. i was expected to grow beside soobin... like a sister.”

you pause, your hand clenched gently on your lap now, voice low.

“but i never saw him like a brother.”

your throat tightens. the guilt returns—not because you loved him, but because you had to hide that love behind closed doors for so long.

“i saw him grow taller, stronger, kinder. i saw the way he held books like they were sacred, the way he spoke when he was angry—so full of fire and righteousness. the way he looked at the stars, like they were speaking directly to him. i fell in love with that boy. and he... he looked at me not like a sister, but like i was the center of his world.”

you wipe a tear from your cheek before it falls.

“we tried to deny it. we tried so hard. but you can’t unfeel something like that. not when it consumes you.”

gyuri’s hands are folded tightly on her lap. her eyes are full, but her face remains still.

“when his mother found out... she was furious. betrayed. she called me names i’ll never repeat. she accused me of corrupting her son. she said i was ungrateful, a viper who’d been fed and turned to bite the hand that saved her. i was cast out. just like that. no farewell. no kindness. just the door, and the rain, and a suitcase that wasn’t even mine.”

you close the album now, holding it against your chest like a shield.

“but he followed me, gyuri. your father followed me into the night. and he told me that if the world condemned us, then we would build our own. that if god turned his eyes away, then we’d find a new kind of holiness—in each other.”

your voice breaks for a moment, but you smile through it.

“we found a chapel in another city. a small, crumbling place that smelled of wax and roses. no one asked questions. we exchanged vows with trembling hands and lips that had already known each other’s sins. a year later, you were born. our little miracle. our redemption.”

gyuri is crying now, silently, hands trembling on her lap.

you reach for her, gently brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, just like you did when she was a baby.

“i don’t tell you this to shock you. i tell you because it’s part of who we are. we weren’t perfect. but we loved fiercely. we defied every warning, every doctrine, every cruel whisper... because what we had was real. and that love—it carried us through decades. it gave us you.”

you lean forward now, resting your forehead gently against hers.

“so don’t hate your past, gyuri. don’t hate the pieces of us that had to hide. because without them, there would be no you. no jeongin. no home full of photographs and laughter. we did what we had to... for love.”

gyuri doesn’t speak for a long time. her eyes stay lowered, heavy with emotion, and for a second, you wonder if the truth was too much. too old. too strange to comprehend. but then she shifts forward, takes your hand gently in hers, and kisses the back of it with reverence—like a child greeting a sacred object. her voice is hoarse when she finally speaks.

“i’m sorry,” she whispers, “for everything i said. for the way i left. for how i judged you. i didn’t understand. i didn’t see...”

you shake your head gently, placing your palm on her cheek.

“you were just a girl trying to understand her world,” you murmur, “and we never made it easy.”

gyuri lowers herself slowly to the floor, knees against the wood, hands pressed together flat in front of her in that deep, traditional apology—one only offered when words are no longer enough. her tears fall quietly, but she doesn’t hide them this time. and you… you can’t hold back your own.

“appa would be proud of you,” you whisper, voice trembling with memory, “he always was.”

and it’s in that silence, the warmth of her reverence still lingering between you, that your thoughts drift—past the years of pain and secrecy, past the small house and whispered nights behind a locked bedroom door, all the way back to a moment that never left you. a single fragment of time, like a pressed flower hidden between the pages of a long-forgotten book.

you’re sitting on the grass, the warm light of late spring wrapping itself around your shoulders like a shawl. soobin’s arms are behind him, leaning back as he laughs at something beomgyu says—beomgyu, barely five years old, climbing over his father’s legs with a paper crown on his head. gyuri, only seven, is running barefoot across the small field, a ribbon tied in her hair, holding a wooden sword and pretending to battle invisible dragons.

soobin turns to you, and his eyes are so full of quiet love that it still takes your breath away. he doesn’t say anything—he doesn’t need to. his smile says it all. we made it. against everything, we’re here.

you remember reaching out and placing your hand on his cheek, the stubble rough beneath your fingers, the sun painting him golden. he kissed your wrist then, soft, grateful. and in that moment, you believed—fully—that whatever sins the world placed upon you were washed away by the love you had built together.

you blink back into the present, your hand still holding the photograph of that sunlit day. your fingers trace the faces, the ghost of his smile, the youth in your own eyes.

“he was everything,” you whisper, barely audible.

gyuri leans into your side, head resting gently on your shoulder.

“and so were you,” she says.

outside, the wind carries the scent of blooming dalias from the garden. jeongin’s laughter echoes faintly from the hallway where he plays. and for the first time in a long time, you let yourself smile—not with longing, but with peace.

because even if the world never understood the story you lived, your heart always did. and that… that was enough.

yes, you were sinners.

but you were also in love.

[trivia-yandere]

tape

before leaving for college jungkook doesn't know when he'll see you again after this week and wants something to remember you by… @mother2monsters @darkuni63 @sweetempathprunetree @momnomnom @yoongiwantsme @chimmisbae @whipwhoops @prettyxxxplease

word count: 1.969

warning: car sex, pseudo incest, oral sex, smut, dirty talking, protected/unprotected sex, coercion, handjob, manipulation, creampie, video taping, dub-con,

series masterlist | part one | part three

“You don’t have to record everything.” you say, panting. Your eyes, glossy and full of tears, glance up at Jungkook who’s heaving. “You have enough content.”

Jungkook blinks his eyes a bit to look at you - cheeks puffy, eyes glossy and lips wet with saliva. Your hand softly strokes his cock as you await your answer. 

“Of course I do.” Jungkook responds. He places his hand on top of your head, glancing up at the camera shining directly at the two of you. “Who knows when we’ll be doing this next.”

Jungkook loved taking pictures of you - he made it a routine. It was easier, of course, because you were his (step) sister. He took pictures of you randomly around the house, sometimes some of you and him together. At school when the two of you were together, he’d snap some pictures and it was never considered weird because you were his sister.

Some pictures were just for Jungkook’s eyes only - the ones where he would sneak up on you in the shower or the pictures he would capture while you were beneath him. You allowed him to take pictures of your naked body because he promised it was just for him to see - and it was kept privately hidden deep in his phone that only he had the access to.

Jungkook wanted something to remember you by - something that he could look back on. It wasn’t like you had an illness that was so incurable that you’d die - or that he was going off to war to never see you again. You and he were both going to college; separate ones. 

And as months went by and graduation had come and gone, he knew he only had a limited amount of time with you.

Jungkook wanted more and more pictures and videos of you - whatever he could get. He took every chance he got to shine his camera in your face especially while you were so fucked out and moaning his name desperately. 

Tonight was no different. This was going to be your last night with Jungkook and then you’d be on your way off to prepare for your college move-in day and soon, he’d do the same. 

You snicker. “We won’t be doing this again.” you say, feeling his lips kiss on your neck. “I’m going to college and so are you.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.” Jungkook murmurs. He’s glad that you’ve already discarded your shorts long ago - all he had to do was push your panties aside or rip them off (whichever was easier). “You’re only a three hour drive away.”

“Driving three hours away for pussy is insane.” you respond, feeling Jungkook’s hands slide down your back to cup your ass. Your tongue swirls on the tip of his cock, eyebrows raising.

“Allowing me to fuck you in my car in the middle of an empty parking lot is also insane.” Jungkook retorts with a sudden chuckle. He licks his lips as he watches you. “Allowing me to fuck you at all is insane…yet we do it.”

You roll your eyes but even you could agree with Jungkook. You had allowed him to get away with a lot - taking your virginity months prior was one of them; allowing him to continue to fuck you was another. 

But you told yourself that this was just something you were going to do for now and take to your grave - as would Jungkook. 

You don’t respond and instead decide it was better to continue your sucking. You take Jungkook back fully into your mouth.

You recall the first time you’ve done this and how horribly it was. But that didn’t make you stop - you were determined to know how to do so before college and Jungkook was the perfect candidate. “Add a little pressure to it…” Jungkook had said, wrapping his own hand around yours to guide you. He then begins to guide your closed fist up and down onto his cock. “You don’t have to go too fast, but anything slower than this is a bore…” he instructs, eyelids watching you as you get the hang of how exactly he wanted you to jack him.

Jungkook adored having to teach you how to pleasure him - you were such a curious person and naturally, like him, always strived to be better. It was a matter of time until you knew exactly what to do with your hands and mouth to get his toes curling and his legs shaking.

You bring Jungkook out of your mouth to pump him a bit - your touch was his favorite. Your hands are always soft and gentle, even when you wrap them firmly around his cock. Your tongue circles the tip of his cock, eyes watching his every reaction. You run your tongue over the swollen head, passing his slit with each lick. You enjoyed watching Jungkook become the submissive one who depended on you for pleasure - thighs shaking, mouth agape and releasing such filthy moans. 

There’s a salty taste on your tongue and you know it’s precum instantly. 

“You’re teasing me.” Jungkook grumbles, gripping your hair slightly. 

“We have all night.” you say, muffled. “What’s the rush?”

“I want to fuck you now.” Jungkook responds, voice deep and pleading. “We have to be home in an hour anyways. You know how dad is.”

You release the tip and watch his cock spring back, pre-cum and saliva dripping from it. “Fine.” you tell Jungkook, already lifting from your position to sit in his lap. “Where’s the condom?”

Jungkook always came prepared, going through his pockets to remove the small, golden square package. He hastily rips it open and discards the package lazily beside him. You’re hovering above him, waiting for him to put the condom on.

“Okay.” Jungkook places his hands upon your hips, guiding you down towards his cock. 

You release a low sigh when Jungkook enters you fully, your walls automatically clenching around him. Even with the amount of times the two of you had fucked, you could never become accustomed to him inside of you.

Jungkook, however, is inpatient. He wastes no time in placing his hand beneath your thighs and thrusting upwards. He assures you’re in line of vision with the camera - he needed good material masturbation while you were away.

Jungkook is a greedy person, he wants all of you. As he continues his thrusting inside of you, your breast bounces in his face, the tank top not being able to hold them any longer. As your breast spills out, Jungkook takes the opportunity to pop a nipple into his mouth.

“You’re so deep…” you moan, your nails digging into Jungkook’s shoulders for support. His breathing increases, his tongue suckling on your nipples needily and his hands go to grip your ass.

Jungkook pushes you away slightly, you now lean between the passenger and driver seats. Jungkook groans as he watches you - so fucked out and full of lust. He begins to thrust, his hand against your stomach for support.

“Your pussy’s so wet, Y/N.” Jungkook scoffs, eyes glancing at how good you were milking him; it’s almost a shame he wore a condom. He couldn’t imagine how heavenly you felt bare. “It’s because you love me that it’s like this.”

Jungkook loves touching your bare skin and his hands never settle on anything for long. He grips your breast as he fucks into you, he holds your neck, your waist - whatever. Now, his hands trails down slowly, thumb pressing firmly against your clit. 

Jungkook hisses, “So, so, wet.” he twirls his thumb against your clit, only fucking into you deeper. “Aren’t you going to miss me, Y/N? You’ll be going to college and sex would never be the same with anyone else.”

Maybe Jungkook was selfish, he’s admitting to it. But he could never fathom anyone else having you in these positions - no other man getting to have their face between your legs or getting to touch the soft, gentle skin of your body. Another guy didn’t deserve to feel how wet and tight you were, or hear your soft, sweet moans.

You yelp when you feel a hand around your neck - and it causes you to clench even tighter around Jungkook. He was angered now at just the thought of you leaving him and allowing someone else to do what he could do to you with such love and care. 

“You’re such a whore, Y/N.” Jungkook grunts, pounding into you angrily. Your moans increase, along with the squelching of your pussy. “How many guys are you planning on fucking?”

Jungkook’s grip on your neck grows tighter at your response. “However many I feel like.”

You loved teasing Jungkook ever since the pair of you were children. He rarely gave you a reaction until now and you were going to milk it. 

“So does anyone get to feel your pussy?” Jungkook snarls, releasing your neck to hoist you back up. Your arms are holding the passenger seat for support. “I always knew you’d grow up to be a bitch.”

Jungkook’s insult don’t faze you, maybe because he was fucking you entirely too well. You have no control whatsoever and Jungkook has it all. He thrusts roughly inside of you, dark eyes shining in lust and anger; jealousy. His hands roam your body, gripping your breast and suckling your nipples. He bites along your neck and shoulders, hands gripping and slapping your skin.

There’s a kiss pressed firmly against your lips; deep and full of greed. Even now, Jungkook cannot fathom to think about someone else kissing your lips and it angers him to know that it’s something you’re going to allow.

“I want to cum inside of you.” Jungkook releases your lips and pushes you off of him. 

You stumble in the backseat, eyes widening at his request. 

“You can’t-”

“Why not?” Jungkook is already pulling the condom off of him. “It’s not fair you wouldn’t let me. I love you.”

Jungkook discards the condom out of the car carelessly. “Don’t you love me?” Jungkook asks with a tilt of his head. “If you’re going to have sex in college, I should at least be the first one to feel you bare.”

Jungkook hovers above you, wrapping you in an embrace. Your back is towards him and his hand dips between your legs to rub along your clit. Your mind is hazy and you don’t realize that Jungkook is already inching inside of you.

“Your pussy feels so good, Y/N. You love me, right? You’d let me…” Jungkook trails off, entering deeper inside of you. His body shudders at the new feeling that the condom wasn’t allowing him to endure. 

Jungkook begins to thrust, his twirling of your clit never ceasing. Your walls tighten around him heavenly that he never wants this to end. If he could fuck into you like this - raw - the entire night, he would. It’s something he deserved - he was the only person who would ever truly love you.

“Doesn’t it feel good, Y/N?” Jungkook murmurs against your ear.

You nod your head hastily. The feeling is new; better. You never felt Jungkook’s bare skin inside of you and now with direct skin to skin, the euphoric sensation increases tremendously. 

Jungkook isn’t going to last long - not when there’s mountains of senses going through him. “Come,” he murmurs against your ear.

You turn your head to face Jungkook and instantly, he presses his lips against yours. His thrusts are sloppy and he’s determined to make you cum alongside him, rubbing along your clit hastily until he feels you trembling beneath him.

Jungkook never came so hard in his life. He’s twitching inside of you, cum reaching deep and even then, the pair of you never cease from kissing.

series masterlist

[sugurouge]

— sting: alpha!miya atsumu x omega!f!reader

content warnings! DARK CONTENT, taboo topics, non-canon, (pseudo-)incest, stepcest, omegaverse, heavy topics of jealousy, possessiveness, dubcon marking, begging, very submissive reader, cheating, breeding kink, dubcon knotting, obsession, some blood

summary: in a society divided by secondary genders, a young girl is adopted into the prestigious miya family, defying conventions due to her undeniable charm & precious nature. as you grow up, your bond with atsumu shifts, leading to a complex mix of emotions & forbidden desires

wordcount: 4.6k

fyi: atsumu & reader were pretty much attracted to another since her secondary gender was revealed. reader is one year younger than the twins

a/n: for @goxjo's omegaverse collab! make sure to check out the other works if you've enjoyed my lil story. pspsps thank you for letting me join, aki my luv (˶˃ᆺ˂˶)

──── ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧ ────

by clicking read more you are agreeing to consume and read dark content.

In a society where the hierarchies of alphas, betas, and omegas define social standing and family legacy, adoption is a rarity. Families fiercely guard their bloodlines, refusing to weaken their position with the introduction of an outsider. Yet, in the case of the Miya family, exceptions were made when they saw you. Abandoning a helpless young girl you was never an for your future mother. You were too precious to be left behind.

From the moment your adoptive parents met you, it felt like a blessing. Your sparkling eyes and adorable smile captivated them in an instant. You, in all your little glory, were a true delight.

Neither you nor your new family can recall a time before you became part of their lives. The notion of your adoption was never mentioned, for it didn't matter. To you, they were simply your family, your pack. The protective embrace of the Miya family, renowned alphas, became your sanctuary. Under their care, the eventual reveal of your secondary gender was irrelevant. What mattered was the bond, the love, and the undeniable connection that tied you all together.

To your older brothers, you were their cherished little sister—sweet, gentle, and always eager to bridge the gap between them. You strived to ease their conflicts and show your love for each one of them, appreciating their unique qualities and talents equally.

Yes, you had no favourite. You loved them equally, and they both loved you in return, as their family. Until one didn't. Until something changed.

Suddenly, one of them seemed bothered by your mere presence. Always leaving the second you entered the same room, averting his gaze if your eyes were to ever meet, and ignoring your entire being at school.

This intoxicating, honey-like vapour with hints of candied oranges radiates out for metres around, drenching the halls of Inarizaki High and leaving Atsumu drunk on you.

He can't think straight, can’t focus on sports or academics. You’re the unofficial reason girls are now banned from volleyball practice. Even worse, you’re practically banned from his life. The shift from affectionate brother to distanced meanie was too sudden for you to not feel hurt. So much for your sweet sixteen…

You practically ruined him overnight, your secondary gender holding effects unexpected to it. Now, instead of grabbing ice cream as a group of three, it's you alone. Unless Osamu can join, but even that seems to annoy the faux-blond. He seems irritated by everything you do or do not do. You’re lucky if he walks off without saying a word, as every time Atsumu loses control over his emotions you end up crying in your mother’s embrace. He locks himself in his room and tries to rid himself of the nasty thoughts and feelings he holds inside.

But then there are moments...

Moments when he turns soft, when you meet at night by accident in the kitchen and he’s too drowsy to control his instincts. Suddenly, gentle eyes can't seem to look at anything but you. Suddenly, the smallest space between you seems unbearable to Atsumu.

And you let him. You’re no better.

You embrace him, gently running your fingers through his hair, and hum softly—your tender care is utterly captivating. How could his hands not grasp the fabric of your shirt, his arms tightening around you to hold you close, as the warmth between you rises and your hearts beat in unison?

Yet, it all fades at the break of dawn.  Only a faint blend of your scents lingers—reminiscent of breakfast, with comforting notes of cinnamon and sugar. 

It’s as if the scene abruptly shifts, like a sudden cut in a film. The atmosphere returns to its former state, and you find yourself once again only conversing with Osamu. 

◈ 

Until you turn 18.

Until your first heat starts. Your nest made of anything you could grab in time, stealing blankets, pillows, an accidental hoodie of Atsumu.Something about it seemed so awfully comforting, you couldn’t refuse.

At night, you weep with your face buried in the fabrics, trying to muffle the sounds of your distress while immersing yourself in the rich aroma of cinnamon and spice. You’re burning from the inside, the need to rip your skin from your bones is almost unbearable. Your feverish state leaves you crying under the moonlight's embrace, a trembling plea of desperate longing echoes throughout the night. You crave, you need, more.

But what about your brothers? While they were both forced to wear earbuds and use scent blockers, one suffered just as much as you. Instincts, after all, cannot be completely suppressed.

Atsumu groans, his head sinking into the pillows of his bed as his eyes flutter shut.. God, he loathes this. Loathes having to run his own hands over his physique to remove his shirt. He would much rather feel your soft fingertips dip beneath the fabric and explore his heated torso. Every passing second more agonising than the one before. His only refuge is the enveloping darkness as he presses his eyes shut, desperate to escape the burning torment he's sinking into. He can hear you through the walls, your whines and moans of pain piercing through his solitude.

He really needs to move out.

◈

Your parents welcome you into adulthood, finally granting you the freedom to seek out your life partner, your mate. Yet, your brother won’t even give you the chance to explore this new chapter.

No, after that night, everything changes. He’s unnervingly close, pressing himself against your back, shamelessly inhaling your scent, burying his face in the nape of your neck. He decks you in compliments and constant touches.

Suddenly, he's everywhere around you, determined to keep anyone else at a distance instead. He insists you wear his jackets to school, wrapping you in his scent and effectively isolating you from the world. His overprotective behaviour is so extreme that even your parents are baffled by Atsumu’s mood swings. His intentions unclear as they all believe in the family bond you all have built over the years. 

And you never voice a word of complaint. You would never even dream of challenging Atsumu’s behaviour. In fact, you seem to revel in it.

Despite Osamu’s growing suspicions and the concern it stirs in your parents, their advice falls on deaf ears. Both of you refuse their suggestion: after all, he’s your brother! You feel secure with him close by and aren’t ready to meet your alpha yet. So, your parents can only observe from the sidelines, hoping and praying it’s smooth sailing until the twins move out.

Until the nest is empty.

◈

What they don’t know is how your older brother projects the echoes of your cries and whimpers during your nights in heat onto his fleeting encounters. At 26, he remains resolutely single, every blind date a disappointment, every hookup unsatisfying and hollow. The desire he feels for you overshadows every attempt at connection, leaving him unfulfilled and unwilling to commit.

Everything seems colourless, flavourless-until family calls.

◈

You’ve moved abroad for your studies, seeking to put distance between you and Atsumu, desperate to suppress the sick thoughts and desires that have plagued your mind. You hoped that a change of scenery, far from Japan, would help you start fresh, to find your alpha and live a life untainted by these unsettling feelings.

Yet, returning home for Osamu’s engagement presents an unexpected challenge. The stage is set: the occasion is beautiful, with halls adorned in flowers and sweets to celebrate the festivities. But amidst the elegant decorations, nothing captivates quite like you. Your presence is intoxicating to Atsumu, who can hardly contain himself. Forgive him for losing his composure. Don’t mind the intense stares from across the room, the desire pooling in his dark eyes that burns into your back. Promises made to his brother were forgotten the second he got a glimpse of you.

Suddenly, the suit feels too tight, the necktie suffocating, and his palms dry. Here you are. You, in a stunning dress that accentuates every curve. You radiate a glowing allure that confirms—you're at your prime, ripe for the taking.

A strong arm wraps around your waist, the heat of his body searing through the fabric of your dress. Without needing to turn, you already know who it is; his name escapes your glossed lips. “Atsumu.”

He pulls you close, his presence enveloping you, his voice soft and sheepish against your ear. “I’ve missed ya,” he confesses, the warmth of his touch sending shivers down your spine.

You’ve missed him too, of course. Yet you tried to replace him with someone morally acceptable—a volleyball player from New York, who bore a slight resemblance to your brother. But could he ever truly fill the void left by Atsumu?

The sweet mixture of scents turns sour before you can even reply to Atsumu, before you can admit how much you’ve missed him as well. His fingertips explore your neck, lingering on your scent gland, fainted dents still feasible for his touch. The pressure borders on painful, as he demands an answer with a dangerous edge: “Who?”

If looks could kill, you’d be a dead woman. Your anxious scent mingles with his anger, creating an intense atmosphere that seems to draw everyone’s attention. The events unfold faster than your family can react. You feel the sting of his nails digging into your skin, jealousy manifesting as sharp pain as blood threatens to stain your dress.

Osamu, ever the protector, shields you from Atsumu’s anger, ensuring to guide you out of the halls in a rush. “I apologise for what he did,” the dark-haired twin mumbles, as he patches you up. “It wasn’t supposed to go like this, I promise.” He meets your eyes with a searching look. “He swore to keep his distance. And I thought you’d bring your boyfriend.”

You finally admit in defeat, “He couldn’t make it. I didn’t want to pressure him either—it’s too soon for him to fly over ten hours just to meet my…” You hesitate, casting a glance around the room as a deep sigh escapes you, “…family.”

Osamu nods, understanding. He returns to kneeling in front you, his expression filled with concern. “I hoped that after all these years, Atsumu would have cooled off.”

You cut him off, feeling an odd need to defend the blond. “He never did anything wrong,” you insist, trying to convince both Osamu and yourself as your gaze falters. “I’m just as much to blame as he is.” With this declaration, you rise and offer Osamu your hand, helping him back to his soon-to-be wife and the rest of the guests.

Nothing could have prepared you for the smell—the overpowering stench that no flowers could mask. Atsumu sits at the table, his eyes unfocused as your father speaks to him, the words a blur as his lips move too fast for you to catch. You only learn the outcome of the conversation when your mother asks you to approach your oldest brother.

Standing beside him now feels different, a new layer of fear creeping into your emotions—something you never anticipated feeling from him. “I’m sorry,” Atsumu finally breaks the heavy silence, straightening up to face you while avoiding your eyes. “I guess my protective instincts went a bit overboard after… all these years.” He clears his throat, cringing slightly at his own words.

With all eyes on you, you can only hum in agreement before you’re guided to sit beside Atsumu. The effort to mask the sour scent of his anger and soothe him only possible with you being closeby. You have to forget about your own feelings for the day; after all, the event is meant for enjoyment and celebration. Every smile you force, every laugh you share feels tainted with an aftertaste of discomfort, yet you try to maintain a semblance of normalcy, for Osamu.

But the close proximity—shoulders brushing, hands fleetingly touching, eyes meeting—heightens the tension between you. Your heart races uncontrollably, and shivers travel down your spine, each sensation a reminder of the internal struggle between your morals and instincts.

Atsumu, everso selfless, extended an offer for you to stay at his apartment. It was a gesture of goodwill, though it now feels like an unexpected complication. No one anticipated his behaviour would spiral this much, especially after the plans had been made. Your parents, trusting their children, hoped that Atsumu would have matured enough and that staying at his place would be more comfortable for you. They assumed you were busy enough with your studies and the hassle of flying back home to Japan that they simply decided for you weeks ago.

But as the door to Atsumu’s apartment clicks shut, the reality of the situation settles in. The safety of this space, the sanctuary you hoped for, now feels like a fighting ring where the unresolved tension might only grow.

Atsumu carefully guides you to your room, setting down your luggage, while repeating the same sentence over and over in his head: “Let her in and leave, lock your door, go to sleep.” Yet, as he turns to face you, his presence looms over you like a storm, his hands grazing your neck with a possessive, almost reverent touch, as his eyes lock onto yours.

“Who?” he asks again, his voice a low, dangerous murmur that sends shivers down your spine.

The blockers you’ve relied on falter under the overwhelming force of his scent, a potent mix of spice and raw desire that fills the room and stirs something deep and primal within you. You try to form a coherent response, try to remember the name of your partner, but your mind is consumed by the intoxicating presence of Atsumu. Each breath you take is thick with his scent, and you find yourself struggling to maintain a shred of rational thought.

Your attempt to explain dissolves into a stuttering mess, and all you can manage is a pathetic, “Not you.” The words escape your lips as a weak, desperate whimper, and Atsumu’s reaction is immediate and intense. A guttural groan of frustration erupts from him as he seizes your hips, pulling you roughly against his chest. His powerful arms encircle you, creating a cocoon of warmth that feels both incredibly comforting and alarmingly suffocating.

You can’t deny the wave of relief that washes over you as his scent engulfs you, blending with your own and heightening the undeniable ache between your legs. The slickness pooling in your panties is a blatant testament to your arousal, and Atsumu’s keen senses pick up on it immediately. His fingers dig into your body with a possessive urgency that makes your head spin.

A mental war rages within you: the clear, rational part of your mind screams that this is wrong, that your relationship with Atsumu is taboo and fraught with complications. But it’s overpowered by a darker, primal greed that drives you to clutch at him with a fervent need. You can’t ignore the way your body responds to his touch, the way every fibre of your being craves him despite the guilt and confusion clouding your thoughts.

Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer as your lips brush against his neck. A desperate plea slips from your lips, echoing a longing you can no longer suppress. “Alpha…”

Atsumu’s groan vibrates through your body as his lips trail down your jawline, a possessive hunger that makes your knees weak. His tongue flicks over your scent gland, marking his claim with a rasping, “Mine, always been mine.” And it all gets too much for little you. Tears stream down your cheeks as you plead, “Tsumu… please…” Each cry is a mix of desperation and guilt, torn between what you know is wrong and the overpowering need within you.

“You’re telling me you belong to someone else? Yet you beg for me,” he speak lowly into your ear. As his sounds and murmurs fill your ear, the boundaries of right and wrong blur, leaving you surrendering to Atsumu’s fierce desire. His hands grip your waist with a primal hunger, the scent of desire thick in the air as he towers over you. 

You shake your head, incoherent cries escaping your lips. “Just you… Ever always… Tsumu… Yours…” Atsumu’s breath hitches as he nips at your neck, his canines grazing your skin with a tantalising edge that sends shivers down your spine. The primal need within you breaks free, overwhelming your morals.

His erection presses against your tummy, the scandalous sensation causing a moan to escape you. You arch your body, craving the heat and pressure only he can provide. Atsumu’s grip tightens, fingers digging into your flesh as he revels in your response.

“Good omega,” he growls, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you. His hands explore your body, tracing your curves before sliding under your dress to caress your bare skin. Every touch is electric, fueling the fire between you.

When his fingers brush against your damp panties, Atsumu’s leans closer, his breath hot against your ear as he whispers, “You’re mine, every part of you.” You moan in reply as his touch makes your body tremble, his weight pressing against you with a throbbing intensity.

“Please…” you beg, grinding against him, seeking more friction. “Tsumu… I need…” The energy almost driving you to come undone already, each touch overwhelming your self-control.

Atsumu’s movements are motivated by an insatiable need, his rough hands unrelenting as he pushes you onto the bed. “I need you,” he utters, his voice thick with desire. Your heart pounds, anticipation and desperation spiralling out of control as he undresses, his clothes hitting the floor in a blur. The raw need coursing through you is almost unbearable, each second that passes intensifying your craving. His every movement is a tease, a promise of the release you’re aching for, and your body trembles with a desperate hunger that feels as though you need him to survive.

He tears away your dress with frantic urgency, his lips scattering kisses across your exposed skin. “So perfect,” he murmurs into your skin, his breath hot and ragged. His touch ignites a fresh wave of need as his lips trail down your collarbone, his fingers finding the hem of your panties and stripping them away with fervent determination. “Tell me what you want,” he demands, his voice a low rasp.

When he finally tastes you, his tongue exploring your core with hungry abandon, each lick fuels the fire within. “More,” you plead, “Please, Tsumu, more!”

He hums in approval, swearing to himself to give you everything you crave. As he positions himself between your thighs, his body presses against yours with an intensity that leaves you breathless. Atsumu’s breath comes in ragged bursts as he looks down at you, his eyes dark with an almost feverish desire. “Maybe I should just fuck you senseless,” he muses, his voice thick with hunger. You whine in need, your body trembling as you practically drool over the sight of him. His slightly too-big cock rubs teasingly against your folds, each friction sending jolts of pleasure through your core.

“Gonna fill that sweet little cunt with my cum…” he groans, his words a sultry promise as he coats himself with your juices. Without any further preparation, he pushes into you. The stretch is overwhelming—too much, too good, too painful, yet just right. It’s as if he belongs inside you.

Your body arches instinctively to meet him, a desperate cry escaping your lips as you revel in the sensation. The connection between you both is undeniable, and with each inch that he sinks deeper, you’re consumed by the desperate need that has built up between you over the years.

Atsumu moans in response to your cries, his voice a low growl. “Breed you all day long, fuck…” he continues, his words a promise of unrelenting passion. He pauses for a moment, his hand gripping your hip tightly to hold you in place. The tip of his cock presses deeply into your fluttering walls, each thrust reaching parts of you that make your body shiver.

“Not already coming from just this, are you, baby?” Atsumu growls, his breath hot against your skin. His voice is laced with a mix of teasing and hunger, the edge of possessiveness clear in his tone. When you nod, your soft mewls send shivers through him.

Your arms tighten around his neck, pressing your face against his warm, soft skin as you beg, “Please, plea—ah, take care of me.” Your desperation is punctuated by those pathetic little whimpers, a level of need that drives your Alpha absolutely insane.

Atsumu pulls out of you momentarily, his gaze locked on yours. He groans, “‘Course I will,” before his hips snap forward again, plunging into you with a relentless force. Each thrust is driven by years of pent-up frustration and need, every motion filled with unfiltered desire.

You writhe beneath him, consumed by an overwhelming urge for his bite, his cock, his knot. You crave to be filled to the brim, your body yearning to be stretched and stuffed until you're perfectly round and swollen. “Tsumu” Your voice is desperate, barely recognizable as your own, laced with need. “I'm breeding your sweet little cunt and you’re going to take every. single. drop.” With the last words he already thrusts harshly into you. Big hands claw into your waist, forcing your body to arch helplessly as he dominates you. His thrusts are deep and relentless, each powerful movement making the fat of your ass jiggle. “Such a good bunny…” Atsumu groans, his voice dripping with possessive satisfaction.

“Now, come for me,” Atsumu commands, his gaze fixed on your quivering form. “Come all over me.” Desperation claws at you as you seek your release, your weak hands scratching at Atsumu’s back, leaving red streaks that burn on his skin. Legs spread wide for your alpha, your breasts bounce with every forceful thrust of Atsumu’s hips, connecting with yours in a delightful rhythm. Pleasure clouds your mind, reducing you to a chant of his name, each utterance a desperate plea.

Atsumu's mind roars with need as he looks down at you. He wants to mark you, claim you completely, and breed you. Now that he has you beneath him, he is determined to savour every moment, to ensure you are utterly his. He wants to see you drunk on his cock, to take care of you, his darling omega, until all but him is forgotten.

Atsumu feels you clenching around him, your tightness pushing him to the brink. “Just like that, good girl,” he groans, his voice rough with need. “You’re gonna make me cum.” The desire in his eyes is fierce as he thrusts deeper, the remnants of his control fraying with every movement.

With each powerful thrust, Atsumu's need to possess you grows. He envisions you marked, claimed, and filled by him, an unbreakable bond forged in this moment of passion. The rhythm of your bodies is a dance of primal desire, your cries of ecstasy blending with his guttural groans. The world outside fades away, leaving only the two of you, lost in a whirlwind of pleasure and need.

As you feel the peak of your release approaching, your body tightens around him, every nerve ending aflame with sensation. Atsumu's words, his touch, his presence, all coalesce into a symphony of desire that drives you over the edge. You tremble beneath him, your breaths coming in ragged gasps, your heart pounding in time with the rhythm of his thrusts.

You ache for him to release inside you, to fill you to the brim with the warmth you craved. The slap of his thighs against yours, the wet, frantic noises, and the erratic breaths all that fills the space between you. His strong scent envelops you, mingling with your own, as his fingers find your clit, rubbing with a relentless rhythm. The pleasure is overwhelming, stars exploding behind your closed eyes, your mind unable to grasp anything but the ecstasy he is giving you.

Atsumu’s chest presses heavily against you, a constant reminder of his dominance. “Don’t ever forget—” he rasps, his grip tightening on your hips. “That pretty cunt… these perfect tits… every damn inch of you belongs to me.” His words were a possessive threat, a vow of ownership.

He has you, his delicate omega, completely at his mercy. He's never going to give you away again. He feels high thanks to the way you unravel beneath him, turning you into a trembling, sobbing mess, overwhelmed by the intensity of his touch and the sheer force of his desire.

In that moment, you both reach the pinnacle of your desires, your high-pitched moans intertwining with Atsumu's deep, guttural ones. And he fills you so deliciously. Atsumu’s knot swells, pressing tightly inside you as he fills you with his cum. Each pulse of his release sends waves of ecstasy through you, making you feel as if you’re on the brink of losing yourself. His teeth bite down on your neck, and the stinging sensation sends lightning to course through your weakened frame, chiselling your bond in stone. It feels as though the world has narrowed to just the two of you, your bodies entangled in a state of perfect, overwhelming bliss. “Mine, all mine...” the hushed promised whispered into your nape.

As the sensations finally begin to recede, you drift into unconsciousness, the warmth of sleep enveloping you and providing a hazy escape from mistakes made in the dark.

[arieswritez]

puppy love

puppy love | yandere!mark grayson x afab!reader | MULTI-CHAP: 3

chapter 2

cw; DARK CONTENT!!! MDNI!!! reader is neurodivergent, ableism, growing up is messy & adults suck, angst, niceguy™/slight incel mark, childhood friend/bully!mark, mark gets his powers sooner, teeny tiny implications of pseudo incest (blink and you'll miss it), violent rape, threats of violence, & canon typical violence, stalking, implied murder, gender & body dysphoria, mentions/implications of disordered eating, mark teases reader about their body once, overall asshole mark, implied grooming (mark handles it but he's a lil bitch about it later), so, victim blaming, misogyny, the inexplicable horrors of being afab, objectification, sexualization

about; you don't know how long i could stare into your picture and wish that it was me i guess it's different 'cause you love him but i've got an interactive sick and twisted imagination and that's gotta count for something - not allowed (tv girl)

3.

you'd found a boy that made your heart go thump thump, thump. and you knew very well how the rest of that story usually went.

your love was encompassing. asphyxiating and obsessive. and in the very first moment the two of you interacted, you knew, this could be it.

you didn't blame yourself.

you couldn't blame yourself.

blame the love stories.

the disney movies with the princes and the magic mirrors. breaking curses with true love's kiss. much like the fabricated sugary fantasies, your potential life with him unfolded before your eyes.

he could be the one.

true love's forever kiss.

you imagined it all.

movie theater dates, awkward parental meetings, proposals, a home, kids, pets. arguments. therapy, even. pushing through at the end. death. rebirth. trying it all over again in the next life.

all you had to do was get him to stick around.

you had to make him understand that you could be his true love kiss, too.

you had to be perfect.

. . there was just one miniscule problem.

the boy so happened be on the same baseball team as mark.

it's the way the two of you had met.

despite the fact that you were supposed to be there for mark: your eyes were . . elsewhere. your eyes - then your focus - had gravitated towards him even before the first pitch. and you found yourself blushing as you watched him stretch: holding his baseball bat over his head.

you'd made it your only goal to attempt to extract as much information about it from mark as discretely as you could. and frankly, you should've known mark would be able to read you like the back of his hand.

because he found out what you were trying to do embarrassingly quickly.

and he was just as quick to shut it down.

you hadn't noticed the boy before. not really. but since the baseball game, he seemed to be everywhere. and you were excited to find that he was the new addition to mark's friend group. you knew this because you saw him and mark sitting together during lunch.

which meant they were at least acquaintances.

so imagine your shock when you came to find out. . mark didn't like him.

everything about him seemed to rub mark the wrong way. mark would clam up the moment you mentioned your boy. he'd change the subject. or his mood would just straight up sour. he'd go quiet and avoidant. and when you kept pushing, he finally snapped.

your boy was stupid.

your boy was shallow.

"don't say i didn't warn you." mark would mumble.

but warning you wasn’t enough.

your boy barely looked at you.

and you weren't sure if it was in part because of the way you acted. . the way you looked. maybe he was so out of your league that he'd completely removed you from his radar.

you'd watch him from across hallways and excitement would swell in your chest when you found that you'd be walking in opposite directions.

you'd see him coming.

he'd see you.

time would slow as you walked past him.

your heart rate would pick up.

but his eyes would remain forward and time would pick back up again as soon as you were past each other.

all it'd leave you with was the bitter taste of rejection in your mouth and a deep ache of anxiety bubbling in your stomach.

the only thing that sobered you up were the dizzying possibilities.

he hadn't seen you. he hadn't noticed the effort you'd put in.

but eventually, he would.

you don't know what it was that grabbed his attention.

mark was vehemently against introducing you two.

you were at a loss until you realized that you'd just have to try harder.

whenever mark left for the bathroom, you'd made it a mission to swipe mark's phone during study sessions. you'd go through his socials and send yourself screenshots of both his follower count and who he was following.

it was a long tedious progress but eventually, you'd found your boy's account.

thankfully, it was public. which meant the the decoy accounts you'd made to snoop just in case he was private turned out to be a waste of time.

you looked through his followers and did your homework on anyone he showed a particular interest in. you'd even made a list of the usernames of the people who’s posts he interacted with the most.

and soon you became a master of disguise.

you studied them top to bottom.

those that went to the same school were far easier to emulate.

you copied their mannerisms, the way they styled their hair, you changed the cadence of your voice, the way you rolled your r’s. your clothing grew tighter and your slouch was now an exaggerated upbeat gallop as you chased after the object your new affection, hoping one day he'd notice.

. . and the exact moment he looked into your eyes and did a double take. . you did one, too.

it was completely out of surprise before you caught yourself and continued to saunter away from him with butterflies in your stomach: flapping their wings so violently it felt like you'd be swept away.

his attention was the most excitement you'd felt. . in a long time.

and you knew you'd do anything to retain it.

it was a sickly sweet feeling: syrupy, sticky. clogging your vascular system to the point your head swelled. the lack of oxygen only heightened your fantasies.

the attention was addictive and so, so good you found yourself chasing that high all the time. going to extreme lengths to get his attention. even if they’d end up embarrassing you after.

you never allowed yourself to wallow in the feeling of dread that settled in your stomach when you did everything in your power to get his attention, though.

specially whenever it made a smile stretch across his face.

whatever you did faded into the background.

it was all worth it in the end.

something was wrong with mark.

and he needed to get to the root of the problem fast.

he was looking at you. . differently.

he talked to his dad.

nolan had said something about the changing moods having to do with his powers. how being intense and passionate was just in his blood.

he talked to his mom about it. albeit in a more discrete way. he'd never be able to live it down if she'd found out you were making him behave a certain way.

she'd just chalked it up to it being puberty.

mark didn't know who to believe.

he just wanted to stop thinking about you.

his nerves were shot to shit whenever you were near.

senses heightened: you were a fog blanketing his brain until your voice carried with it a technicolor vision.

he could smell you coming like a damn blood hound.

he could hear your pulse while sitting next to you.

something was wrong with mark.

he knew it when his teeth ached when you'd stretched your neck: raised your arms over your head and let out a little sound of pain and discomfort.

something was wrong with mark.

when the day's turned warm and wet. . and your clothing became more revealing.

he could see more of you.

freckles and moles, blemishes and scars, he hadn't noticed before.

he'd follow sweat drops rolling down your skin.

smooth. soft.

he'd held you, once.

when was the last time?

something was wrong with mark.

he'd lay awake at night staring up at the ceiling.

thinking about how you'd looked while you concentrated on a book. while you looked down at your phone. while you listened to music: smiling when a song you liked came on.

your little humming. . but not singing.

never singing.

mark noticed you'd stopped singing in front of him when he started to make fun of you for it.

that, too, was how mark knew something was wrong with him.

the way your moods would shift like tides under a crescent moon whenever he'd said something excited him. he felt pleasure - a violent zap of electricity shooting up and down his spice - watching your eyes light up or darken when he'd say something to you.

about you.

i like your hair today.

light.

you talk so goddamn much.

dark.

i missed you.

light.

your stories take fucking forever.

dark.

something was wrong with him when he found his own mood depended on fantasizing on how he'd make you feel that day.

if he was in a bad mood, seeing you in one, too, was a sure-fire way to make his day a whole lot better.

something was wrong with mark.

when he'd have to smother the sounds he made while imagining you -

something was wrong with him. . when red, hot anger consumed him when one of his friends made a smart quip about your body.

when he couldn't just laugh it off anymore.

something was wrong with mark.

. . or so he thought.

because he'd later find out. .

. . no.

something was wrong with you.

all of a sudden: mark was the one double texting.

triple texting.

mark was the one asking if he could hang out. . and when the fuck did he ever need permission?

mark was the one seeking you out.

something was wrong with you.

and he needed to get to root of the problem.

he picked his brain apart in an attempt to figure out what it was. you couldn't be under any stress. you looked fine. better than fine.

you looked happy.

fucking elated.

to the point where mark couldn't affect your moods anymore.

mark wanted to know what the fuck you were so happy about.

why the fuck you were so happy when he was falling apart at the seams. when his world was crashing down.

and there you were, completely fucking oblivious.

mark had always been curious.

and so, he went to see you.

the two of you were in your room.

you'd excused yourself to go to the bathroom.

and mark started looking.

you were predictable.

he knew where you kept your journal. despite how many times he'd found it and read it aloud - holding it above his head whenever you tried to snatch it away - he'd always managed to figure out your next hiding place.

it was easier that way.

he pretended he didn't know where it was.

you pretended to have some privacy.

he pretended not to know every single, minute, insignificant detail of your life.

of your thoughts.

thank fuck you were still so naive.

thank fuck for dairies.

he'd found it in a box under your bed.

and after flipping to the page with the freshest set of ink. . he'd found out what your problem was.

you'd found a boy who'd made your heart go

thump.

thump.

thump.

CHAPTER 4

[lanalace]

Our Last Hunt - Part 4

Yandere Caleb x Reader

[Chapter 3]

Summary: Y/n made a mistake that changed her life forever. Once a fearless hunter of blood-sucking fiends, she is now becoming the very thing she once swore to kill. How can she live with herself? And how will her immortal brother—the one who raised her, trained her, and protected her react when he discovers she’s turning into a creature of the night?

Warning: Manipulation & Pseudo Incest

Word count: 5.8k 🍎🍏

@mcdepressed290

Y/n woke tangled in his limbs, the crushing weight of him pinning her to the mattress. A wall of bare chest rose and fell against her cheek, too steady, too calm, utterly unyielding. Caleb’s arm was slung around her waist like a shackle wrapped in silk, deceptively soft. His fingers twitched slightly where they curled at her hipbone, possessive even in sleep. For one disorienting moment, Y/n didn’t move, didn’t even breathe, too afraid that the slightest shift would break whatever fragile spell had lulled them into this quiet, horrifying aftermath.

Then it hit her, a suffocating wave. The unbearable weight of everything he’d taken, the raw, brutal memory of the night before. Last night was supposed to be the breaking point, the moment she shattered free. Instead, it was the breaking point, but in a way that had utterly consumed her. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing her heart to stop its frantic, stuttering ache, willing away the sick taste of regret in her mouth. 

Her body ached, too. But with pain, but a deep, aching tenderness that felt like a brand. The bond hummed low in her chest like a drugged pulse, slow and syrupy, still feeding her the insidious memory of his touch. His mouth. His blood in her veins. ‘He could’ve killed me.’ she thought, the realization a chilling echo of every fear she’d ever harbored about him. ‘And I let him do everything but.’ The true horror wasn’t the surrender itself, but the insidious, undeniable truth….. it was how much she craved to surrender again.

She shifted slightly, just enough to feel his warmth bleed back into her skin, a comforting blanket that felt like a suffocating trap. She hated how safe it made her feel, how easy it would be to simply nestle closer and pretend they weren’t a disaster, two broken things entwined in a lie.

A flicker of movement—Caleb stirred. His grip tightened almost imperceptibly as he exhaled softly through his nose, the kind of sound that hinted at deep contentment. Like he was dreaming of her. Like this was what he wanted. A life where she stayed beside him, bound and compliant, her will subsumed by his. 

Her stomach twisted, a nauseous lurch. She turned her face against his chest, biting back a bitter, hysterical laugh. ‘You really think you won, don’t you?’

Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her hand, her fingertips brushing the warm skin of his collarbone. He didn’t wake, but the muscle beneath her touch twitched. That was all she needed—proof that his body still responded to hers without question, a primal, undeniable connection. The bond shackled her but she was coming to understand that it enslaved him. It had turned obsession into a relentless, burning need. 

He was obsessed. He always had been, but now she understood the depths of it.

She remembered the way he’d looked at her in the dark hours before dawn, like she wasn’t a person at all, but some sacred, forbidden relic he’d spilled blood to worship. Her blood had never been enough for him. She had never been enough. He needed it all, her mind, her body, her very will.

But what he didn’t understand, what she was just now realizing herself with terrifying clarity, was that he had needs, too. Weaknesses. And she, in her new, unwilling power, was the biggest one.

Her fingers drifted lower, feather-light, barely grazing the hollow of his throat, just where his pulse beat strongest, a frantic rhythm beneath her touch. He shifted again, a low groan rumbling in his chest, and this time, his breathing hitched.

‘Good. Wake up needy. Start the day already wanting more of me, already desperate.’ A cold, steel resolve began to solidify in her core, pushing back the lingering shame. ‘I’ll play your game, Caleb.’ she thought, her touch still impossibly soft, a whisper against his skin. ‘But I’m not playing to lose. I’m playing to win everything back.’

She pulled back just enough, her body aching with the effort to resist the magnetic pull, to meet his eyes as they opened, dark and slow and heavy with sleep, like pools of liquid obsidian.

“Morning.” she whispered, her voice soft as a secret, a dangerous invitation.

A slow blink. A lazy, pleased curl of his lips. “You stayed.” He murmured, his voice rough from sleep, disbelief and relief warring in the single word.

She gave him a small, close-lipped smile, utterly unreadable. A mask. Then she leaned in, her lips brushing his jaw, a fleeting caress, before she whispered. “Where could I go that you wouldn’t find?”

And just like that, she saw it. The flicker in his gaze. Surprise. Hunger, sharp and immediate. And then, a terrifying, vulnerable flicker of hope. ‘Hooked.’ she thought, withdrawing slightly, the subtle movement a calculated retreat. 

Her traitorous body still responded to him, aching for his closeness, a physical pull she fought against with every ounce of her will. But she had her role now, a part to play. She’d be the drug he couldn’t get enough of, the tantalizing whisper he chased into madness. She'd become his perfect addiction. And like any good dealer, she'd make sure his hunger outlasted her supply

Then, when he was soft and open and desperate for her like a helpless addict, she’d rip it all out from under him. ‘Let’s see how it feels to be the one on your knees. Let’s see what happens when the one who owns you is the one who breaks you.’

The smile he gave her was soft and disbelieving, like a man waking into a dream he didn’t think he deserved. She let him have it—just for a moment, a fleeting illusion. Caleb reached for her, his fingers brushing her jaw, tentative, hesitant despite everything he’d done to her body the night before. 

That alone told her how off-balance he was, how deeply her facade was working. The man who had broken her down piece by piece now searched her eyes as if afraid she might vanish, as if her presence was a fragile mirage. ‘He doesn’t trust this.’ she thought, studying the minute furrow in his brow, the slight tension around his eyes. ‘Good. The more uncertain he is, the more control I gain.’

“I can feel you, you know?” he murmured, his hand sliding around to the back of her neck, his thumb tracing the line of her spine. Her heart stopped and she stiffened, not believing she was caught before she even started. “Even when you sleep. Like you’ve soaked into me, become part of my blood.”

He didn’t further elaborate so she figured she was in the clear… for now. She offered no answer, just let her lashes drop, as though she were overwhelmed by his words, by his presence. He liked when she was vulnerable, small, wounded but forgiving. She could be that for now, a compliant doll.

His thumb traced her lower lip, a possessive, intimate gesture. “You’re hungry.” It wasn’t a question. Her body betrayed her too easily now, a constant traitor. The ache in her throat had bloomed steadily since waking, a dull, dragging throb that demanded attention. She hadn’t fed since he’d drained himself for her last night.

The memory flashed too vividly in her mind. Her lips pressed to his neck, his blood, thick and burning, sliding down her throat as his voice coaxed her through it, a dark symphony of surrender. ‘I should’ve bitten his throat instead.’ she thought, her pulse stuttering at the memory, a sudden surge of cold, ruthless power. ‘But not yet. Not like this. Not for mercy.’

She tilted her head into his hand, a seemingly yielding gesture, and whispered, “Are you offering?”

Caleb’s eyes lit up, not just with desire, but with something deeper, more profound. Worship. Adoration that bordered on terrifying. “I’m always offering.” he said, his voice quiet, rough with unbridled longing. “You don’t even have to ask. My blood is yours.”

She rose onto her elbows, the blanket sliding away from her, exposing her naked form, pale in the dim light. She hesitated for a moment, contemplating if she could be a bit bolder, if she could push him further, before sliding her leg over him, straddling his hips with slow, deliberate movements. 

His hands instantly found her waist, his touch reverent again, almost careful, as if afraid to spook her and she’d bolt, a wild thing. ‘I could tear his throat open right now. Drain him dry. He’d let me. He’d welcome it.’ The thought was cold, sharp, a seductive whisper. ‘But that wouldn’t be enough. He needs to suffer.’

She looked into his eyes, her favorite part about him, the universe she’d once lost herself in. She always saw something so vast and sparkling there, something that had never failed to captivate her. Even now, as she stared at him, they hadn't changed, still holding that hypnotic depth. A small, cold smile graced her face before she deliberately turned her gaze to his neck, to the pulsating vein beneath the skin. 

She flicked her eyes up to his once more, silently asking for permission. Caleb chuckled, a low, pleased sound, turning his head slightly, still watching her from the corners of his eyes as he offered himself to her. 

Y/n leaned down, her lips brushing the side of his neck, letting her breath ghost over the warm skin before she pressed a soft, gentle kiss there. The way she’d seen him do to her, over and over, a tender predator. Her fangs itched, a sharp, insistent craving. 

The scent of him was thicker here, intoxicating. Warm and dark and brimming with the bond’s addictive pull. “Don’t be sweet.” he whispered, his voice rough with restraint, a desperate plea. “You’ll ruin me.” 

‘I want to.’ she thought, a cold, fierce joy blooming in her chest. ‘I want to ruin every inch of you, piece by agonizing piece.’

She bit down before she could hesitate. Not too hard, not too deep, but just enough to pierce. Enough to remind him. Enough to assert control. Caleb gasped, his hands tightening on her hips, his body arching instinctively as her mouth sealed around the small, precise mark. 

His blood rushed in, familiar and rich, a flood of power and heat that curled through her insides like wildfire, exhilarating and terrifying. She drank, slow and measured, letting him feel her intention, her deliberate control, every drop a defiance. She didn’t lose herself like she had on previous nights, didn't drown in the dizzying rapture. 

‘Maybe because I’m not starving like before, or maybe it’s because he completed the bond, sealing this connection.’ It didn’t matter. She was elated that she wasn’t trying to force herself onto his cock again, wasn’t consumed by that desperate, physical need. Though she could feel herself growing wet for him, the devious pull of the bond and his blood was there, still egging her on to take pleasure in this moment, but now she was of sound mind. She could enjoy it in measured intervals.

She couldn’t help the low moan that slipped past her lips. Drinking from him was always so intense, the taste of him perfect, intoxicating. She knew, with absolute certainty, she’d never get tired of it. But she’d never give in again either; she owned this moment now. Not him. Even as she felt her pussy clench around nothing, even as she felt his hard member twitch underneath her, she would control it. 

The bond flared, a hot, desperate throb. She felt him shudder beneath her as he rolled his hips against her slick cunt, a raw, unconscious plea to sheath himself within her. He could feel her desire for him, mentally and physically. The way she soaked him as she fed was almost too much for him to bear.

His hands slid down, grabbing the fat of her ass and squeezing her, keeping her still, keeping her close as he rolled his hips into her again. Slow and hard, making sure she felt every inch of his length, every desperate inch. He wanted to be inside of her again, to feel her, to connect, to own. He craved the contact like an addict, a desperate, undeniable hunger. His fingers skimmed up her back, desperate for proof she was still there, still his, still within his grasp.

She pulled away, licking the bite clean with slow, deliberate precision as he blinked up at her, dazed and unblinking, lost in the afterglow. “You taste really good.” she murmured, watching the reaction bloom in his face, a slow, dawning realization.

A twitch at the corner of his mouth. Jaw clenched tight, a struggle for control. Eyes too soft. Too open. Too pleased. He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. She shifted her weight to lie against him once more, settling into the illusion. 

She rested her head against his chest again, a small knowing smirk evident on her lips as she feels how much he wants her. His heart beat just a little too fast, a frantic drum against her ear. “Thank you.” she whispered, quieter now, her voice a deceptive note of tenderness. 

Caleb sighed, realizing that she wasn’t as needy as he was, that her hunger was sated, and instead ran his fingers threaded through her hair comfortingly, possessively, using the other to pull the sheet over them, drawing them into a cocoon of false intimacy. 

“You never have to thank me, little one.” He meant it. He didn’t feed her for her gratitude. He enjoyed it even more than she did, the ultimate act of possession.

They lay together in silence, his fingers trailing over her back like he couldn’t stop touching her even if he tried. Y/n let him. Let herself breathe in his scent, let the weight of his arm drape across her waist like it belonged there. But the ache in her chest didn’t dull. It sharpened with every minute that passed, a steel thorn beneath her breastbone, a reminder of the price of this fragile peace.

As she laid there, she pondered on how to broach the subject, the pink elephant in the room. Praying her acting skills would suffice, she shifted slightly, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. There was no trace of a smile on her face now. Her gaze was direct, unwavering. “We need to talk, Caleb. Really talk.”

Caleb stilled, instantly alert, every muscle tensing. “What is it?” His voice was low, wary. 

She propped herself up on his chest, the sheet falling away from her shoulder, exposing her bare skin again. She didn’t bother to cover herself. Vulnerability, real or not, had its uses; it disarmed him. “This…” She said softly, motioning between them, a sweeping gesture that encompassed their tangled limbs, the bond, the night. “Can’t keep happening the way it’s been. Not anymore.”

His brow furrowed, a shadow passing over his face. “Y/n—”

“I’m not saying no.” She paused, biting at the corner of her lip, deliberately slowing her words, letting them sink in. 

“Not entirely. But last night… I made that choice. I wanted it. I wanted you. But you need to understand something, Caleb.” She sat up completely now, pulling away from his warmth, letting the cool air tighten across her skin. Her still wet, still warm cunt spread around his cock at this change of position and he couldn’t help the way his hard on twitched. Caleb let out a shaken breath, eyes dropping to her perfect breasts for a second before focusing a little too hard on her face. 

She enjoyed flash of torment that crossed his features, welcomed it. It was proof she was getting to him. “You made me what I am. You marked me. You tied me to you in a way that I didn’t ask for. And I’ve been drowning in it, Caleb. Every time I try to breathe, you’re already there. Inside me. Pulling. Demanding. Consuming me.”

He narrowed his eyes, just barely, a flicker of something dangerous. His hand clenched against the sheets, his knuckles white. She didn’t let up, looking away from him, she continued. “I’m angry, Caleb.” she said, her voice low and even. 

“I’m confused. I hate everything you’ve done. But I also feel so desperate just to be near you, a craving that scares me more than anything. I don’t know if it’s love, Caleb. It might just be the bond. That power… And you’ve been using it. Using it to keep me soft. To keep me pliant. To keep me yours without my consent.”

His mouth opened, a protest forming, but she raised a hand, stopping him cold. “Let me finish.” She turned to face him fully now, her eyes clear, unwavering, stripping away all pretense.

“I’m not saying I’m leaving. I’m not even saying I want to. I just…” she sighed, running her hand through her hair. She needed to laced her frustration with the truth perfectly. “If we’re going to survive this— if I’m going to survive you— things have to change. Drastically.”

He swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on hers, searching. “What are you asking from me?”

“Control.” she said simply, the word a blade of steel. “Over myself. Over my choices. I want you to listen to me. I want you to trust that I’m yours, not just because you made me this way, not just because you’ve forced this connection upon me.” 

Caleb stared at her, something stormy and unreadable flickering across his face, a battle waging in his dark eyes. 

“I want agency,” she said, softer now, yet with an unbreakable conviction. “In whatever this is becoming. I want to know that if I stay, it’s because I choose to. Not because the bond makes it easier. I want us to go back— to before you ever changed me. When you spoiled me, when you were still… just my brother. Back then, you actually listened to me. My voice mattered to you.”

“I can give this a chance.” she whispered, the words a chilling promise. “But only if you stop treating me like I’m breakable. Or like you own me. I’m a person in this… relationship too. So from now on, we talk. We decide things together. And if I want space, you have to give it to me. No questions asked.”

He nodded so quickly it almost startled her, a desperate agreement. “Ok.” he breathed, the word torn from him. 

“You’re right to want that. I’ll do whatever you need to make this work. Let’s start over and build from the beginning.” He said so genuinely that she almost held real hope for a real relationship.

Her smile was faint. Pleased but calculated. She gave him a playful angry look, one she was prone to giving before all of this bloodshed. “You promise?” she said,  as her finger pointed to his chest. “You can’t push yourself on me anymore, got it?”

“Ok, ok.” He chuckled at her antics, raising his hands in defeat. “I promise.” he whispered, his sparkled with something almost only her image within them, utterly consumed. “I swear it.” He spoke as he took her hand within his and places a gentle kiss upon the tips.

To his surprise, she leaned forward and kissed him. Deep, slow, like she meant it. Like she was sealing a pact, a binding agreement. And when she pulled away, she let her touch linger for a moment. Let him think she was easing into him again, inch by inch. Trusting. Settling.

But inside, cold and determined, she was already preparing for the game ahead. She would give him just enough. Feed the bond with softness and warmth, lull him into a false sense of security. And then, without warning, she’d pull away. Let him feel the stinging, unbearable agony of her absence. Let him wonder what it meant, every time she turned her back or held his gaze too long without speaking. Because if he wanted to tie his existence to hers, he’d have to suffer for it. One pull, one strategic retreat at a time.

Satisfied, she slipped from the bed like a shadow, her bare feet silent against the cold floor. The sheet slid off her hips, forgotten, a discarded skin, as she disappeared into the adjoining room, leaving nothing but an impression of cool air in her wake.

🍎🍏

Caleb didn’t move. Not at first. He lay there, staring at the space she’d left behind, feeling cold without the warm weight of her body pressed against him. It frustrated him, a raw, demanding ache, but he ignored it.

‘This is progress.’ He let the weight of her words settle into the hollow of his ribs, dissecting them, finding the subtle truths. She was still his. Not entirely. Not in the way he wanted, not yet. 

But she hadn’t left. She hadn’t run. She’d chosen him. Or at least, said she would. On her terms. A bitter, self-deprecating laugh caught in his throat. ‘She wants agency. Control. A say in what this was between us. And she’d asked for it like it cost her something. As if I haven’t already given her everything.’ As if he wouldn’t tear the world apart if she asked him to, lay it bleeding at her feet.

Caleb exhaled slowly and pressed a hand to his face, dragging his fingers through his hair. She’d looked at him like she meant every word. Fierce. Steady. Honest. Like her old self. But he’d felt it… beneath the steel in her voice, the brewing distance. 

He’d felt the bond thrumming in her blood, a frantic, desperate rhythm. Felt her heart stumble when he kissed her back, a physical acknowledgment of her true feelings. She was still tangled in him, even if she wants she to keep herself separate, even if she didn’t want to be his. She was lying to herself. Maybe even to him.

And yet, he didn’t care. If this was how she wanted to play it then so be it. If giving her the illusion of power meant keeping her willing, letting her believe she was the one with leverage, he’d do it. He’d give her the illusion of freedom, the intoxicating taste of control, just to keep her soft when she came back, just to keep her close.  

Because she would come back. She always did. 

That was the exquisite cruelty of the bond. Not just its power over her, but his own unraveling beneath it. She didn’t understand, not fully, not yet. She couldn’t understand how much of himself he’d buried, how much of his monstrous nature he’d restrained, just to hold her without breaking her. How much agonizing effort it took to let her walk away from him, even for a moment.

His hand dropped to the mattress. Gripped the sheets where her body had lain, fingers curling into the cooling heat she’d left behind, still clinging to her memory. He would behave. 

For now.

He would listen, give her choices, let her believe in the shape of the boundaries she’d created. But the moment she truly began to genuinely pull away… the moment she tried to make good on that subtle threat of distance, to starve him of her scent, her voice, her blood— he wouldn’t be able to stop. 

‘You think I’m dangerous when it comes to you, meimei.’ he thought, breathing deep, savoring the chilling truth. ‘You have no idea how dangerous I can be. You haven’t seen what I become when I’m desperate. When I’m truly afraid of losing you.’ He closed his eyes and listened to her moving about in the bathroom, the soft sounds a constant reminder of her presence. Her essence still rippled against his chest like a heartbeat that didn’t belong to him, yet was intrinsically tied to his own.

She was still his. He’d play along. He’d give her this elaborate game. But he’d never let her win.

🍎🍏

Y/n sat cross-legged at the kitchen table, freshly showered and donning one of Caleb’s shirts. The navy blue one, soft and worn, the fabric clinging faintly to her wet skin like memory. He moved around the kitchen shirtless, barefoot, his back lit in gold by the low sun slanting through the UV-protected window. She could see the ripple of muscles under his skin as he sliced vegetables—silent, focused, too casual.

It felt dangerous. This peace. Like a hush before something cracks.

Y/n leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed under the hem of the oversized shirt. Her damp hair clung to her neck. He hadn’t said a word since they left the bedroom. Neither had she.

“Caleb.”

He paused, not looking up. “Hm?”

She swallowed, tongue running over the back of her teeth. “What am I supposed to do now?” she asked. “I can’t go outside. I’m dead to everyone who ever knew me. What happens now? Do I just haunt this house until it starts to feel like a coffin?”

His knife stilled. Slowly, he set it down.

“I know.” he said. “But you can’t be seen. Everyone thinks you’re dead.”

“Exactly. You made that decision for me,” she said, her hands coming up to grip her bicep, a familiar gesture of defiance. “So now you’re going to help me figure out how to live with it.”

Something in him tensed. Guilt. Dull, hot, familiar. But underneath it—something more frayed. Remorse. And quiet frustration—at himself, at the world, at whatever corner he’d backed them both into.

“I can take you out after dark,” he offered. “The woods go deep. There’s a creek. Old trails. We’re far from the city—no one will see you unless you want them to.”

“And if I want more than just a few acres of isolated woods?”

His jaw flexed. She felt the internal grinding of his thoughts through the bond like gears trying to catch.

“I’ll build something.” he said at last. “A space with high walls, mirrored glass. You’ll have privacy, daylight, whatever you want. It’ll be yours.”

She watched him. Let the silence build pressure between them. For once, she let herself believe him—not because she trusted him, but because she wanted to know how far he’d go now that she wasn’t giving herself freely.

“I’ll hold you to that,” she said.

“But I’m cooped up now.” She whined.

She rose from the chair and crossed the kitchen, bare feet soundless on the tile. The shirt clung to her hips when she moved, twisting with her stride. Caleb’s eyes flicked to her, then back to the cutting board, as if it took effort not to watch her too long.

“I could help.” she said. “If I’m going to be your ghost roommate, I might as well pull my weight.”

He snorted under his breath, slicing through a red bell pepper. “You don’t cook.”

“You don’t know that.” She shot back, feigning offense.

“I’ve known you long enough to know you don’t cook, meimei.”

“Well, maybe I want to learn.” she muttered, brushing past him toward the sink. She reached to grab a towel from the counter and caught the sharp edge of a paring knife someone had left turned the wrong way.

“Shit.” She hissed, pulling her hand back fast. Blood welled to the surface, bright and immediate.

The air changed.

Behind her, Caleb went very still. The sound of the knife hitting the cutting board again didn’t come. She turned, slowly, and saw him standing there, motionless, his eyes locked on the thin line of red dripping from her palm.

His lips parted. The color in his eyes deepened. No words came from him. Just breath. Hunger. Reverence.

“Caleb.” Her voice was a quiet warning, eyeing him warily.

But he didn’t blink.

He moved a step closer.

She could feel it through the bond before he made a sound—his desire. It wasn’t just need. It was worship. Her blood called to him like nothing else in the world. A sacrament in skin.

She backed away instinctively. “No.”

That stopped him.

The look that crossed his face wasn’t anger. Not at first. It was confusion. Hurt. Deep and immediate. Then frustration—sharp, strangled, too fast to fully contain.

“I wasn’t going to hurt you.” he said hoarsely.

‘Yeah right.’ She scoffed internally.

“I know that.” She closed her fist. The blood seeped slower now. “But I don’t want you feeding from me.”

His eyes narrowed, and he stepped forward again, slower this time. “You don’t trust me.”

‘Absolutely the fuck not. Wonder what gave it away?!’ She mentally rolled her eyes at the obvious question.

“I don’t trust myself.” she said. “We’ve made it this far. I’m not ready to ruin that.” He knew what she was hinting at but it still irked him.

That was only half the truth, though.

The other half pulsed in her chest like a secret. Because she had felt it in him, the relentless ache for her. And… it thrilled her. She liked denying him. Liked the devastation that flickered behind his restraint.

Caleb’s jaw clenched. He could also feel her pure delight in this situation. His gaze dropped to her hand, then back to her face. Something like desperation clawed behind his eyes, but he kept it buried under the surface of his voice.

“You’re mine. You said so yourself.” he said quietly. “You don’t get to dangle your blood in front of me and then—”

“I didn’t dangle anything!” she snapped. “I got cut. You lost control.”

His nostrils flared. But she saw it—he knew she was right. And that only made it worse.

“I’m not a goddamn beast.” he said through gritted teeth. “Don’t treat me like one.”

She held his gaze. “Then don’t act like one.”

The room trembled in silence. The bond between them stretched, pulled taut like wire. Still humming with that forbidden want.

She huffed and turned from him, rinsing her hand under cold water. The blood thinned, then ran clear. She didn’t look at him again until she felt his presence beside her, closer now, quiet. The wound on her hand had already begun to close.

“You’re not a beast.” she whispered.

“But my blood isn’t yours, Caleb. Not unless I give it to you.”

That hit him harder than a slap.

And yet, he didn’t argue. He wanted her willingness to stay by his side, he’d have to earn it. He knew that but it still sting being rejected.

Caleb didn’t move. Not for a long time.

Y/n dried her hand, slowly, with the cloth. The tension between them had curdled into something denser, more volatile. She could feel it bleeding off his skin, saturating the air around them. The bond throbbed in her spine, alive, reactive, hungry.

She didn’t know what she expected him to say. But when he did speak, it worried her. 

“You think I wanted this?” he said, voice low, teeth barely unclenched. “You think I wanted to need you like this?” Honesty. She felt the raw candidness of those words.

She turned to face him, towel still in hand. “You made me like this. Should I think differently?”

“No. I saved you.” His eyes flared as he stepped closer. “You would’ve died in that alley if that mission were real and disappeared from the world. No justice. No peace. Nothing but rot. Even if I didn’t intervene, it would have been another mission that you recklessly took on. I gave you a second life. And you drip it from your veins like it means nothing.”

Y/n scoffed but she held his gaze. “Don’t you dare make this about gratitude. Should I thank you for actually killing me?”

His laugh was bitter, hollow. “It’s not. It’s about what I am now that you exist. Do you have any idea what it does to me, smelling your blood and being told no like I’m some starving dog?”

She let the towel fall. ‘So damn selfish. Again, it’s about you and your needs.’

“Then don’t look at me like I’m a gift you’re owed.” she said. “You’re not entitled to my blood just because it calls to you. I didn’t ask to be turned!”

Caleb stared at her. Then, without warning, he shoved the cutting board off the counter. It hit the floor with a loud crack, vegetables scattering across the tile.

She didn’t flinch. But on the inside, a cold knot tightened, bracing against his fury.

He dragged a hand through his hair, his breath ragged. “I’m trying to keep you safe. I’m trying to give you space to process everything. But all you want to do is punish me.”

Y/n stepped forward. Just one step, but it cut the distance like a blade.

“You think this is punishment?” she said, soft and sharp all at once. Oh how she wanted to laugh in his face. ‘What a big baby.’

“You should be thanking me.”

“For what?” he growled.

“For not letting you drink. For making you feel it. All of it. The hunger. The ache. The want.it hasn’t even been a full 24 hours and you’re like this over a few drops of blood.”

The silence between them shifted. He looked at her differently now, like she’d taken a weapon from his hands and turned it inward.

“You‘re enjoying this.” he whispered.

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes but she chose to ignore his accusation. “I need something that’s still mine. It’s my blood.”

He moved fast.

In an instant, his hand was at her waist, fingers pressing in, slow and deliberate, like he was staking a claim. Then he pulled her forward until their bodies met, chest to chest, heat to heat. She could feel the hardness of his muscles, the tremble running under his skin, as if every cell in his body was fighting instinct.

“I could make you beg.” he said, voice low and lethal in its intimacy. “One taste and you’d forget every reason you ever hated me.”

Her breath stilled, spine going taut. His thumb brushed just under the hem of his shirt—her shirt now, on her skin and it felt like a brand.

She didn’t pull away. No, she sized him up, completely unimpressed.

“Maybe.” she said. “But I’m not begging. And you’re not feeding.”

For a beat, he didn’t move. His hand remained at her waist, his breath ghosting over her lips. He waited for her to change her mind. Searching her pretty eyes that sparkled with challenge for the smallest hint of backing down but found nothing.

Then slowly, heartbreakingly, he released her.

“All right.” he murmured. “But when you finally crack, I want you to remember this moment. When you thought you had the upper hand.”

She turned from him before he could see the tremble in her fingers. Before he could see how close she’d come to leaning in. To letting him have his way.

She closed the cabinet too hard. Let it echo in the room like punctuation.

The bond buzzed with her annoyance.

And Caleb?

He stood in the center of the kitchen, hand still tingling with the shape of her waist, and breathed in the lingering scent of her blood like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth.

A/N: Look at me go! I said it would be out in 2 days but you guys got it in one! 😎

[do-you-ship-this-taz-ship]

Propaganda: Sylvain was always there!! Sylvain has been with her for so long!! Protecting her!!

Submit a ship through the form or in my askbox!

[damnfandomproblems]

Fandom Problem #7665:

A03 and Tumblr (for all of this website’s faults) have good tagging and filter systems so that if you don’t want to see any fanfiction with a specific type of content such as incest/pseudo-incest, underage characters, non-con, etc, you can use those features.

What I am complaining about are not those elements. I am mostly complaining about that type of content not being properly tagged. Especially on Tumblr, and as buggy as this site is at times, the tag system does work, the only problems are the bots and the people not tagging their stuff properly. If someone is looking for “x reader” content, and they get hit with any of the above elements I mentioned with no warnings, and the execution of that element in the fic is not good (obviously not naming names, not naming fandoms), then that’s where it becomes a problem.

Obviously not gonna pull the “omg, y’all were defending the CP on A03” because of that was the case, how come A03 is still up? How come the millions of users have not been arrested for using A03? How come none of those fanfics got reported for that?

My main concern is people not properly tagging anything. I’m not even asking for trigger warnings in the summary or notes, just properly tag your stuff.

[starkenobi]

Welcome, earthlings!

Hello, call me Rai! | +30 | brazilian | any pronouns | asexual 🌻

Contents you'll find here: marvel, star wars, x-files, doctor who, twin peaks, fabulous actresses, iwtv amc, the pitt, halsey, bts, pedro pascal, oscar isaac.

my tags if you wish to filter something out: starkenobi writing; starkenobi recs; starkenobi asks; starkenobi reblogs; starkenobi ramblings.

This is a lgbtqia+ safe space!

Feel free to send me asks about fics and writing, comments, thot thoughts, headcanons, suggestions, gossip about tvshows and films, ramble about everything and anything!

✸ Writing Guideline:

Writing mostly for Bucky Barnes, Jack Abbot (The Pitt), Natasha Romanoff, Tony Stark and Yelena Belova.

Who I'll write for too: Matt Murdock, Sam Wilson, Wanda Maximoff, Michael Robinavitch(the pitt), Samira Mohan (the pitt).

Crossovers I write for: marvel; criminal minds; the pitt (reader x character on my write list).

Requests: drabbles and imagines will be accepted within reason, but I won't accept oneshots. Please, keep in mind that I can choose which ones to write or not, and it may take a while to be posted!

I do not write: soft!dark; dark; dubcon; noncon; cnc; yandere; ddlg; selfharm; suicide; bullying; degradation; pedophilia; incest; necrophilia; underage; agegap with reader younger than 27; cheating between "main" couple; I'll warn if something makes me uncomfortable.

There's no taglist, but you can follow my work through #starkenobi writing! Some works have their own tag (can be found in the masterlist and stories).

I don't consent to have my work posted, translatet or published by others.

⋮ MASTERLIST!

✸ Demonic Domination Masterlist (on going)

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x Reder; Bucky Barnes x Reader; Matt Murdock x Reader.

Summary: Y/N doesn’t classify herself as a vigilante or, as people on the internet say, an antihero. No, she’s just an occult detective with a fucking amnesia trying to create a new life beyond her secret mutant status. At first, she really tried to keep a normal civilian life, but it’s difficult when you’re rescued from a dark place by a man dressed as a mummy ninja calling himself Moon Knight. So, anyway, working as an occult detective makes her travel around the world, and it’s cool because it gives her a lot of stories… Until her feet touch New York grounds. It’s all downhill from there.

Warnings: +18 romance; angst; fluff; smut; violence; torture; gore; not following 100% mcu events; bisexuality; pseudo harem; feelings.

✸ The Pitt x Avengers Crossover

Pairings: Jack Abbot x reader; Michael Robinavitch x reader; Samira Mohan x reader; Rabbot x reader

Summary: Collection of oneshots with avenger!reader in The Pitt universe.

✸ Bucky Barnes

ᯓ Christmas Elves | Bucky Barnes x avenger!reader

drabble; fluff; first christmas; established relationship; sweetheart universe.

ᯓ Courage Drink | Bucky Barnes x avenger!reader

drabble; fluff; love confession; friends to lovers; sweetheart universe.

ᯓ Handsome | Bucky Barnes x avenger!reader

drabble; fluff; flirty; established relationship; sweetheart universe.

ᯓ Stupidly in Love | Bucky Barnes x avenger!reader

oneshot; idiots to lovers; misunderstanding; romcom.

Summary: Y/N agrees to help Bucky win Natasha's heart. No problem, right? Except for the fact that Natasha is her best friend and Bucky is her crush. Where the hell had she gotten herself into?

ᯓ The White Wolf | werewolf!Bucky Barnes x pirate!reader

oneshot; fantasy au; romance; soulmates.

Summary: She's one of the greatest pirates of her time, bringing chaos throughout the human kingdoms... Until an unfortunate event changes her life completely. And the white wolf makes sure to be definitive.

✸ Jack Abbot

ᯓ Finally | Jack Abbot x firefighter!reader

drabble; strangers to lovers; fluff.

ᯓ Just Another Day | Jack Abbot x firefighter!reader

drabble; established relationship; comfort.

ᯓ curiosities about jack and his firefighter

✸ Natasha Romanoff

ᯓ Bodyswap | Natasha Romanoff x super soldier!reader

ficlet; fluff, established relationship; body swap.

ᯓ Friday Night | Natasha Romanoff x mutant!reader

drabble; mutant harassment; fluff; strangers to possibly lovers.

ᯓ In your arms | Natasha Romanoff x avenger!reader |

ficlet; fluff; established relationship.

ᯓ Kazino | Natasha Romanoff x reader

oneshot; +18 romance; mafia; strangers to lovers; angst with happy ending.

Summary: In the midst of a dark nightmare, Y/N finds a possible spark of hope and love. But to get her own freedom and the chance of a new life with Natasha, she must first destroy the criminal empire that holds her hostage, piece by piece.

ᯓ Sleepover | Natasha Romanoff x avenger!reader

oneshot; unrequited love, angst with no happy ending.

Summary: Living an unrequited love is not easy, but it's necessary to realize the time to move on. Or, reader is secretly in love with her best friend Natasha, who's getting married to another person.

ᯓ Truth or Dare | Natasha Romanoff x avenger!reader

drabble; +18 romance; a bit of smut and a bit of fluff.

ᯓ With Love | Natasha Romanoff x avenger!reader

drabble; fluff; acquaintances to lovers; flirty.

✸ Tony Stark

ᯓ Amnesia | Tony Stark x avenger!reader

ficlet; tiny angst; memory loss; fluff; established relationship.

ᯓ Dracarys! | Tony Stark x avenger!reader

drabble; fluff; established relationship; frosty universe.

ᯓ Draw me like one of your french girls | Tony Stark x avenger!reader

oneshot; established relationship; fluff; flirty; frosty universe.

Summary: Tony was just curious about your new hobby. He wasn’t jealous that you chose Steve Rogers as your partner in crime for drawings and sketchbooks. Nope, not jealous at all.

ᯓ Drunk Confession | Tony Stark x avenger!reader

ficlet; fluff; friends to lovers; frosty universe.

ᯓ Simple and easy | Tony Stark x avenger!reader

ficlet; fluff; friends to lovers.

ᯓ Menace | Tony Stark x avenger!reader

oneshot; +18 romance; established relationship; explicit content; frosty universe.

Summary: Tony and Y/N can't hide their attraction and the effect they have on each other. And what should have been a simple photoshoot's interview ends up becoming the trigger for an important step in their relationship.

ᯓ Lovesick | Tony Stark x reader

oneshot; apocalypse au; romance; angst with no happy ending; description of disease and death.

Summary: When Tony and Y/N decide to change their honeymoon plans, they had no idea that Tony's simple illness was, in fact, a mortal virus never seen before.

✸ Yelena Belova

ᯓ Cardiac | Yelena Belova x avenger!reader (coming soon)

oneshot; romcom; miscommunication; fluff.

Summary: Do you know the saying "fuck around and find out"? Well, that's exactly what she did. Yelena was proud of her skills, but sometimes curiosity really does kill the cat. Or Yelena hears something and draws her own conclusions.

ᯓ Detka | Yelena Belova x reader

ficlet; amnesia; angst; established relationship.

ᯓ Fight or kiss flight | Yelena Belova x reader

ficlet; rivals to lovers; fluff.

✸ Marvel Characters

ᯓ Bait | Logan Howlett x mutant!reader

ficlet; fluff; violence; established relationship.

ᯓ Bodyguard | Clint Barton x reader

ficlet; fluff; implied smut.

ᯓ Damn it | Steve Rogers x avenger!reader

imagine; missing the flirting when it's gone; angstish.

ᯓ JamaisVu | Matt Murdock x reader

oneshot; soulmates; hanahaki; angst no happy ending.

Summary: Like it or not, every choice has a consequence. And no matter how much Matt Murdock and Y/N tried not to acknowledge its existence, the connection of the red thread was there all along.

ᯓ On the run | Nomad!Steve Rogers x reader

ficlet; implied smut; fluff; a bit of angst.

ᯓ Stealing Clothes | Sam Wilson x reader

ficlet; fluff; established relationship.

ᯓ Wanna bet | Frank Castle x reader

ficlet; friends to lovers; implied smut.

ᯓ Wrong Number | Loki x reader

ficlet; fluff; friends to lovers.

[syneilesis]

[fic] so delicate the bones

so delicate the bones

Love and Deepspace | Caleb (Xia Yizhou) x Main-Character!Reader | M | 3.5k words | ao3 link

A treatise on hunger, intimacy, and protection.

Content Warnings: character study, Caleb-centric, unpleasant and violent imagery and themes (one metaphor hints of cannibalism, several body horror/gore), obsession and possessive thoughts/behavior from a yandere character, implied pseudo-incest (mostly as a canonical context), pining, purple prose, angst(?), solipsistic narrative, spoilers.

A/N: I'm going to post this now before I lose any more confidence and chicken out. Nothing actually happens in this fic, I'm only pretentiously waxing philosophical about Caleb. I'd argue that this is tame, contrary to what the warnings suggest (arguably!), but still please heed them. This is primarily inspired by the main story. The line, "You’re only safe when you’re by my side. No one will be able to find you ever again. I’ll protect you forever." is directly lifted from the main story. This fic is just hyperfocused on Caleb's desire to protect MC and desire in general in relation to MC hence the hunger metaphor, so other plot-related characters and whatnot are ignored. However! I included the winter soldier arm because why not.

In conclusion: please be gentle? lol. Divider by @/saradika

you dangle on the leash of your own longing; your need grows teeth

—Margaret Atwood, Speeches for Dr Frankenstein

I.

He is intimate with hunger. A marked emptiness hollowing the core of his being, and each step he takes it rings an echo inside the walls of his flesh, refusing to settle.

No matter what he does to fill it, it never sates, and eventually this hunger grows to eat away at his organs, down to their tissues, and, finally, their cells. It births a set of sharp teeth that scrapes everything, including his ribcage, where inside his heart beats; until all that’s left of him are torn scraps of his remains and an aching need that gives itself life, gaining claws and a voice, desperately whispering to him every nightfall so he lies in bed awake, eyes desperately wide and desperately open.

In the darkness of his room, only one word this voice whispers:

devour

Caleb turns in the direction where your room lies, the bed in it cushioning your sleeping form, always and forever unaware.

II.

He remembers the simpler things, once upon a time.

A kitchen. Silver utensils lined up neatly on the island, glinting under the summer sunlight streaming through the window. The smell of home-cooked meals wafting along his nose. You, sitting at the dining table, leaning forward with huge curious eyes, waiting for him to set down the plates.

Your gaze trailed over the path Caleb carved around the kitchen like a moth fluttering closer to a source of light. It had been like that, always, with you, a compass seeking the magnetic North, and he, stalwart in his promise of protection – and care.

A meal shared between two people signifies closeness, intimacy. Seated across each other, face to face. A direct, transparent meeting of words and actions. No secrets, just equilibrium.

You told him of your day, narrating your adventure through the arc and sweep of your hand, and Caleb listened to your tale, mind and body his own compass pointing to your own North, interjecting every now and then with affirmation and light-hearted teasing. The rise and fall of your expressions satiated him, albeit inchoately, but Caleb swallowed them all greedily in the hopes that one day the feeling of fullness would arrive.

This – what you had with him then – was intimacy, the kind that called upon the image of children running across meadows, their laughter tinkling along the sepia-tinted sky, leaves caught between their windblown hair. This was the kind of intimacy that invited soft, warm dreams, and the weightlessness of waking.

It was the intimacy Caleb had with you, but not the intimacy he yearned for. What he wanted – needed – was the kind that peels away the skin to reveal the muscles, veins, and even bones beneath. Watch the blood circulate all over the body, pulsing with life, a proof of existence. He needed to see what’s protected under the layer of flesh and all its vulnerabilities, darkening from exposure.

III.

Dying, in some ways, is a form of relief that eliminates the persistent hunger that rattles at his core. There are regrets, of course; the last image of his waking life is the memory of you crumpled with hesitation, with secrets – and that is another reminder all over again of the intimacy that you no longer shared with him. Gone are the sepia laughter that floats wistfully at the back of his neck. Though in reality and upon further examination, when it comes down to it, the hunger is stronger than the acceptance of death, because relief is not satisfaction – it is, merely, escape, something that Caleb all his life would never turn to. Secrets, yes – but never escape.

And so this rebirth, he supposes, is another form of intimacy: the unbending will of conviction, of hunger devouring itself and transmogrifying into something else – a fleshless creature pure of want. The bones are his cage that he longs to gift to you; he calls it protection. Intimacy that splinters, that lodges itself deep inside your soul.

This is the price of dying and being born again.

IV.

To everyone else a reunion is an emotional celebration that is as climactic as the peak of a symphony. To Caleb, it is altitude and freefall, the drop into an abyssal pain, all steel walls and surveilling lenses, secrets shadowed into the corners.

When you ask him, Is it really you? and the sheen of your disbelieving gaze cuts through the darkness of the interrogation room, the hunger inside him whips into life. It feels like decades since he had seen you, and Caleb is distinctly aware that you’re no longer that little girl who clung to him whenever something frightening jumped into the frame as you two watched a movie. When you attempt to figure him out it is with the hardened look of a hunter, its own exoskeleton catalyzed through suffering and experience.

It is a reminder that you truly are far from being fragile, and that is a grief Caleb has to swallow. Let the hunger settle with it, if only for a moment.

Who else would I be? he returns. A reunion like this pushes into the surface the long-buried feelings one had stamped down in order to go through each day, as if everything’s still normal. He sees that in the cracks of your posture, the fine, webbed lines that encircle your body, despair leaking out, the proof of your truth. There’s only one Caleb in your life, isn’t there?

The cracks spread until you shatter before him. Caleb catches you in his arms and the warmth seeping through your skin feels like a distant echo against his embrace. Dull, muted – an imitation of stimulus that elicits no correct response except the surge of hunger lunging inside him, overtaking his heart, clamoring for your continuous presence.

His hunger has always toed the line of danger, but now it is precariously so.

His flesh hand climbs to the crown of your head, the strands of your hair oily as he curves his palm according to your shape. It’s easy to fall back into well-worn habits. A pat on the head for praise; a tousle of hair for teasing. A stroke on the top of your head for consolation. And you – bury yourself further into Caleb’s chest, listening to the soothing rhythm of a beating heart.

I missed you, you whisper, the words felt more than heard, and Caleb reinforces his hold on your back. I missed you so much.

The correct response to this stimulus is to say the same sentiment, that he has missed you just as much, and that he’s sorry that he’s had to keep his survival a secret from you, but now that he’s returned, things will go back to normal once again.

But then again – what is normal?

Certainly not the way he misses you – a chimera of ugly limbs with dagger-pointed claws and the torso of a gluttonous beast, black tar dripping from its orifices. If you peel away the veil that hides this creature, you’ll discover the enormity of his hunger, the dense substance that will trap you like glue until it devours you feet to head. There is no escaping it after it is revealed.

And certainly it’s not the way he’s sorry. You know Caleb the best, and that is a truth. But it is also a truth that he’s lived a life full of secrets, and this is just one addition to all other secrets he’s kept from you.

The correct response is to say he misses you too, and that he’s sorry things turned out this way. But this response is not Caleb’s truth, and Caleb may hide many things from you but he has never lied to you. There’s no point in starting now.

So what he says to you in return is: I know.

V.

It’s not their home (home is at Linkon, already reduced to charred rubble); it’s only a house, but it can be a home if you want it.

A lifetime ago, at the cusp of his high school senior year, his teacher asked the class their dreams and aspirations when they reach adulthood. Caleb’s initial answer had been a careless scribble of his first impulsive thought, and he was summoned to the office for it. Is this truly what you want, inquired his teacher, and Caleb said, Yes, I’ll take any lucrative job I’m good at.

He didn’t mention the rationale of that answer, how years before, he had already cemented his plan of providing you a place you and he could call home, and how his future earnings would be solely for you. At the time, that was how Caleb defined the idea of protection – a sanctuary that you and he shared. It’s almost idyllic, how simple his wish had been in the past.

You said you wanted to become a pilot.

Yes, because I like the thrill. Then he added after a thoughtful measure: And it pays well. 

Wariness rippled across the teacher’s movements, in the sway of the hand that dismissed him, and Caleb returned to the classroom already forgetting the entire exchange.

Now, that long-forgotten memory resurfaces, and Caleb faintly smiles as you interrogate him about the state of his abode.

Why don’t you decorate your house more?

How long do you stay here until you’re called back to duty?

Don’t you ever feel lonely?

I never found it to be necessary. Not very long, just a few days. All the time, because you’re not with me.

What he says instead is: This is just a place to stay and sleep.

It’s only a house, not a home. Home is protection, precludes it, a sense of belonging and comfort, security and assurance. It’s more than a roof over one’s head; it is a sanctuary.

Your arms akimbo, a challenge in the tilt of your chin. Well, we can’t have that, can we? Just give me a couple of days.

What is a sanctuary? A place built upon pieces of one’s self, familiar and intimate in every reflection. And Caleb looks forward to discovering your reflection in the pieces of his house that may soon be called a home.

Years ago, this was his dream: a sanctuary for you and him, a place that you and he could call home.

Now: the home you will make out of his house he will fortify with his bones and his hunger. He will place pieces of himself in the hidden cracks of the walls, the threshold of each door, in the mechanism of each lock. He will leave his imprints in the foundation that sustains its sturdy structure. He will make a fortress out of your kindness and keep you there, inside, for as long as he can.

You told him, once upon a time, that you no longer needed protecting – except who else but him could look out for you?

VI.

Growing up, though part of life, tasted a little bitter on his tongue.

Sometimes, Caleb thinks that he is cursed with this inconsolable hunger, impossible to soothe despite all attempts to quell it. It only recedes into the background, a low hum that blends into everyday noise. And then it bares its teeth at the first sign of your freedom.

It feels like a long, continuous burst of snapshots – you getting older, fat and flesh and muscle filling out, inches stacking up yet still remarkably shorter than him (a sore point to you but a point of delight to him), and most of all: the confidence in the way you carry yourself, spine straight and chin up. The days when you stepped behind his protective back, when your fingers hooked into the edges of his sleeves in a coy attempt to make him stay – they’re all rapidly decreasing like a withering tree. And something in Caleb panics, the fear of his becoming obsolete in your life more tangible than the risk of death in his every flight.

Your freedom, then, becomes his shackles. Imprisoned by his hollowness. A role reversal: it is you who flies away and it is he who is trapped on the ground. He can only watch you soar high without his help. His hunger rages at that, at that devouring fear that is rooted at the very core of him. A fear that is actually unfolding in real time.

What can he do? What can he do to vanquish this all-encompassing fear?

VII.

To be human is to feel. To feel, though, requires the presence of sensation.

Rebirth comes with sacrifices, and Caleb has already paid the price.

When he tousles your hair in jest, there is only the pressure of solid object colliding with another. He has to calibrate the strength of his grip to avoid breaking things; has to mind the arc of his gestures so as to remain visually natural, not mechanical. For all the technology afforded in this era, degradation of vital functions is still explained as an unavoidably unfortunate tradeoff.

Take pain, for example. Caleb does not feel anything else, except pain. Blazing heat narrowed within fine, delicate nerves. Pain and numbness, like oil and water swirling at intervals.

In this sacrifice it is the sensation of touch that’s taken the greatest casualty. Texture is the first to go, then weight, then pressure, then pleasure. Only the memories of sensation fuel Caleb’s imagination as he drags his fingers down your cheek, conscious of the amount of force he exerts in the act. Everything now is calculated, down to the minutest of motions.

It’s only a matter of time before the loss moves on from sensation to emotion, and Caleb knows himself to be an indifferent man. Like an ascetic he does not indulge on many a thing, only religiously devoted to one constant truth. He will not mourn the absence of luxury, or boredom. Or the impatience during a wait that’s taking longer than what is originally expected.

He will not consider a loss the fear of death (he has defied it once; who’s to say he won’t defy it again?), or the panic wrought by Wanderer threats. He will not miss the thrill of the extreme, the speed, the alighted nerves like freefall sans precaution. All these ultimately do not matter to him – because he has long been living the life of decimation, a gradual diminishing of everything that he is until all that’s left are the barebones of what’s truly precious to him. Hunger, after all, when overwhelming, does not discriminate.

Consumption, then, becomes another type of numbness.

Only one thing truly matters; the rest are inconsequential.

VIII.

In the end a confrontation cannot be avoided, and Caleb must face this truth.

Betrayal casts a jarring sweep across your floundering form. The sofa muffles your desire to melt into the molecules of space, away from the cage of his arms and the desperation of his hunger. From an outsider’s perspective you and he are engaged in an intimate closeness, the kind of which raises doubtful questions about affinity. At some level Caleb relishes that impression, but on another, it is not enough. It is never enough.

A hunger that has consumed everything and still furious for more is a hunger that is raw, dark, exposed with its bloody bones and its bloody teeth, stripes of flesh insinuated between.

It is his hunger, then, that speaks when Caleb says, You’re only safe when you’re by my side. No one will be able to find you ever again. I’ll protect you forever. 

It is hunger that speaks, no longer whispers bleeding into the shadows of his bedroom but a tectonic roar that shifts and upends the status quo between you and him. It is the hunger that covets the intimacy between intertwined souls bereft of bodies and worldly matter, everything pared down to their essence, to their very marrow, solipsistic in their embrace. It is the hunger that promises sanctuary made out of his bones and blood and the metal-wires-processors that convert his pain into life. His hunger speaks, because Caleb, in the end, is still a man in love, and that love is what propels his existence.

You don’t have to protect me, you say, cruel in your tenderness, tender in your rejection. I haven’t needed your protection for a long time now. 

Caleb staggers, expires a shaky breath. His head sinks into the crook of your neck. The hunger still burns, but he is sapped of energy, tendrils of resignation slithering around his feet.

Why couldn’t you accept? Why couldn’t you see? 

He could tell you all he had seen and gone through in Deepspace – the deafening silence and loneliness; the cavernous black that creeps into your pores and wrings out a seismic tremor throughout your body that lingers on for weeks; the grotesque forms of Wanderers that have yet to reach Earth – and claim that these are the inevitable things, like destiny, that will befall upon the world, and how would you fight them on your own?

Things were better when it’s just the two of us.

Caleb –

I wanted to be your sanctuary. I still do.

Caleb.

A pair of hands cradles his face, light, painful in its softness, and he meets your misty gaze brimming with something he refuses to acknowledge.

In this shiver of a moment, the hunger climbs up to his mouth and the acidic taste of bile scorches his throat, the words push themselves out of his lips but he resolutely clamps them shut, clinging to the last shred of his control.

Otherwise, this confession would have ravaged out of him:

I’ve held onto this hunger for most of my life; it fuels me but also destroys me, and there is no cure for it. One day it will devour me whole, this monstrous, unrepentant hunger, and when that happens I want you to build a castle out of my leftover bones, call it your sanctuary, so that whenever the world hurts you, you will find solace in the intimacy of my devotion. And when you sleep, we will meet in dreams. I will offer my heart for you to take a bite of, and my flesh hand will wipe the blood into the crevice of your mouth. Protection is the savage passion of love, and you can use every atom that makes up what I am, because what I am is nothing if not for you.

Your fingers descend on his lips, tracing their outline until your fingerpads rest over the plumpest part in the middle. The harsh breath he exhales pierces through the thick silence, and Caleb watches you inhale the very air he released – and he savors that moment of indirect union.

Unbidden, he parts his mouth until the tips of your fingers fall inside, and he shapes his lips around them, your nails brushing against his teeth. You taste of salt and rain, his tongue darting out at the point between fingernail and skin.

Not this way, Caleb. Can’t you let me go? 

The fingers retreat, and Caleb swallows the arguments that formulate readily in his mind. Instead, he drags out, In what way then? 

In what way would you accept the gravity of him – all his hunger and pain and numbness and dreams and wants and needs – if at all?

But you shake your head, and disappointment lances at him. You have so many secrets now, you whisper, almost loathing in its sibilance. I want to trust you, but I don’t recognize you anymore. 

And that’s the crux of everything, isn’t it? Trust. Safety does not exist without trust. He cannot protect you if you do not trust him. Even without ever lying to you, Caleb supposes that he could still lose your trust – in so many other ways.

He knows a losing battle when he sees one, and this is one of them. In spite of the lacerating words – or maybe because of it – your expression collapses, and Caleb cannot endure the confrontation any longer, not with you threatening to break at any moment.

So with great reluctance he takes a step back, grants you all the time and space that you need, and isolates himself in his own room. His hunger still pulsates, but Caleb chains it until it subsides. Until it regresses into a background hum once again.

Some battles are easily won, others need tactics. A battle like this necessitates patience and care, short-term losses for long-term gains, and meticulous, meticulous strategy. This is not new to Caleb, so he will plan. Experience only requires recontextualization, but the foundation is still the same.

After all, there’s no point in stopping now.

IX.

He is intimate with hunger. A marked emptiness hollowing the core of his being, but now this hunger has mutated into a chthonic abyss that spares no one, not even the remains of him. It will gorge itself on everything that comes in its way, a savage journey that has no end in sight, no conclusion to this eternal terror.

And this unstoppable force is left to promise you one final thing:

If he can no longer protect you, then he will make it so that the world – no, the universe – can no longer harm you.

◘

Humans in love are terrible. You see them come hungering at one another like prehistoric wolves, you see something struggling for life in between them like a root or a soul and it flares for a moment, then they smash it. The difference between them smashes the bones out. So delicate the bones.

—Anne Carson

[aeyumicore]

can't help but ask bc you're being a hypocrite about it. do you support/like the pseudo incest trope? bc ur fics of caleb as tagged as that but on Twitter you said you don't like it, but at the same time you keep interacting with ppl who like the trope (even the more disgusting ppl who write ped* fics about caleb) so are you acting both ways to not get jumped on? either be brave or stop acting like your page is a safe place for normal fans

CONTENT WARNINGS: incest, pedophilia

okay let’s make this clear.

pseudo-orthopedics (伪骨科) is when two non blood related people, who are legally tied, share romantic relations. the legally tied part is important.

also i say pseudo-orthopedics because i feel like people see the word incest and have pre-conceived sentiments about it. understandably so.

i incorrectly tagged my first caleb fics that way (namely captive bird, which is the one i went back and edited to remove the tag a few weeks ago). but that was not pseudo (伪骨科), as caleb and mc are NOT ADOPTED in it. at the time, i thought pseudo was when you shared some sort of familial tie (found family OR legal) and that develops into something more. so i tagged the fic as such.

that’s why i removed the tag. because it was incorrectly tagged.

in my twitter bio, i put “all locs are welcome.” this means i welcome people who like the CN (or JP or KR) or EN localization. CN localization/trope is NOT synonymous for p*dophilic or incestuous tropes.

i also follow the chinese localization more. i’ve never hidden that. i’m american-chinese, i can understand a good amount of it, but not all. so when i play, i play with the chinese dub and english subs.

i have no problem with the pseudo-orthopedics (伪骨科) trope, now that i understand it better, if you use it correctly (canonically and tastefully). i do not support overtly sexualizing their previously-adoptive nature, both when they were kids (which is where the p*do part comes in) and when they’re adults. I AM NOT OKAY with the sexual exploration/writing of calebmc when they were teenagers/kids. i personally am not okay with adults writing sexual content about minors.

my take on calebmc is that they have FOUND FAMILY feelings towards each other, in addition to their romantic feelings. i believe they’ve always had a level of romantic feelings for each other, from before the adoption was dissolved.

the cornerstone of calebmc relationship, to me, is that they are everything to each other because they are all each other had in a very dark time. they did view each other as family, in the way you’d view a spouse or a very close friend as family. the forbidden aspect of their relationship, to me, comes from the societal expectations that were placed on them DUE to the fact that josephine adopted them. NOT because they actually felt like “you are my sibling” (which they don’t).

caleb and mc have had feelings for each other since they were young (as seen in the tender moments) that would mean they were still adopted and make it pseudo by definition. however i dont care for people specifically fetishizing this aspect of their relationship to push incestuous or p*do fantasies.

they have loved each other since they were kids. kids don’t have a concept of romantic love. so, to me, the did love each other more in a (found) familial way when they were too young to know more. as they grew, they could better recognize what their feelings actually were. but of course, josephine adopted them, which made it pseudo & forbidden.

i hate when people reduce calebmc to their time in a familial dynamic, ESPECIALLY in a sexual way. it oversimplifies and reduces their relationship which is so complicated and layered.

my tumblr and twitter is a safe space for people who enjoy the childhood friend trope, or the 伪骨科/pseudo-orthopedics trope. it’s NOT a safe space for people who push an incestuous or p*dophilic agenda onto calebmc.

if you find 伪骨科/pseudo-orthopedics to be synonymous with incest + p*dophilia then i don’t know what to say beyond what ive said already.

gege, oppa, nii-san/chan means much more than brother than in asian languages. it implies respect, safety, homely comfort—all aspects used culturally in china outside of actual brother-sibling dynamics. as well as in western/english speaking areas. we just don’t seem to have a fitting word for it.

it is fair to have a hard time mentally understanding a different culture, but not everything is as simple as black and white and that’s where calebmc sit.

[gladiatorcunt]

cw: 18+ mdni content, painal, blood, period sex, pseudo incest, extreme dubcon, degradation but also praise, typical rafe warnings, fem labels, dead dove: DO NOT EAT

thinking about bloody anal with stepbro!rafe bc you’re on your period! he has no problems fucking the shit out of your puffy pussy, but there’s just something irresitble abour stretching your ass out while watching your cunt bleed. he likes to stare at where the two of you connect, almost treating you more like a pocket pussy than his stepsister. he’s not gentle about it whatsoever, immediately thrusting his tip past your walls and spanking you.

“c’mon, mama, let me in.” he grits out, slapping a hand over your mouth to silence your whines.

on the rare chance that the two of you have the house to ourselves, he’d love to hear you yelp and howl for his dick. but it’s 7 am on a monday morning and he couldn’t wait to pounce on you as soon as he saw the pads in the trash can of your shared bathroom. rafe held a finger to his lips when you started waking up to the sound of your bedroom door lock being played with. he knelt on your pink bed and crawled over you, his pupils blown out and his arms tensing in anticipation.

you try to plead with rafe to at least wait until everyone else is asleep. but he doesn’t seem to care about the sounds of your blended family moving through the house and his dick barges in any way. all you can do is sob against his hand and let him split you open. rafe pretends he doesn’t feel you shake your little ass back on his length, you keep up the charade that you don’t love that this is hurting you.

“shh shh, good girl. keep swallowing this dick, alright?” he whispers against your temple, tightening his grip on your face and bullying more inches into your reddening ass.

“this’ll help with the cramps, i’m doin’ my little slut a favor, honey.”

he’s not letting you go so you can clean up for a reason.

he bottoms out with a silent groan, mouthing ‘FUCK!’ into your pillow. you squeal, too tired and overwhelmed to register anything but your stepbrother’s huge cock inside you. this wasn’t how you imagined fucking him again, though you’re ashamed to say you imagined it all. listening to the soft rain pelt your window as rafe caresses your ass, he’s at least giving you enough grace to get yourself together and adjust.

he bites his lip when some of your blood trickles down to touch where your ass is stretched around his dick. more blood follows suit as he starts at a rough pace, and the sight of your matted pubic hair combined with your wide teary eyes could make him cum in the spot.

“it’s okay, it’s okay. just be a good girl, your big brother’s already claimed this tight fucking ass hole. all you have to do is take it.” he says and tugs your face to his so he can spit on his hand, he can’t exactly take his hand off so he can spit in your mouth but he can imagine it. “just me and not that limp dick boy that’s been following you around.”

after thrusting for a bit, rafe looks down to see that your blood has frothed around his cock. mixing with your slick (because of course you’re so fucking wet) and the cum he left inside you last night to form a pink ring around the base.

“aw, look sweetie,” he coos, pushing your head down to gaze at his cock pistoning in and out of your soaked pussy. “it’s your favorite color!”

you whimper into his fingers and do your best to nod, wishing that you could reach down and rub your clit. but rafe’s got your wrists in his other hand behind your back, and he’s probably the type that would be all territorial about you touching yourself. you were both so drunk last night off whatever you could find in ward’s cabinet, it was your first time trying alcohol and you went a little overboard. but you both were too fucked up to put a name or expectations to what you have.

rafe surprises you and lets go of your wrists. he digs his now free digits into your clit, flicking the swollen bud in time with his thrusts in your ass. he unintentionally edges you because he keeps bring his hand up to his mouth so he suck the blood off of his fingers.

“hmm, you taste good, sis. sometimes i wish i could bite all over this slutty body and really leave my mark, but this’ll be enough for now, right?”

you don’t care about your family making their presence known downstairs, or about the bloody mess rafe is making of you anymore. you always wanted his attention and approval, so you lick the fingers covering your mouth and wiggle your ass back on his dick again. the earth shattering orgasm you later have around him was so intense that he’s almost sad that it wasn’t on camera.

the ridiculous hot pink heart shaped plug he shoves inside your abused hole makes for the perfect lockscreen on his phone though.

[arieswritez]

puppy love

puppy love | yandere!mark grayson x afab!reader | MULTI-CHAP: 1

cw; DARK CONTENT!!! MDNI!!! reader is neurodivergent, ableism, growing up is messy & adults suck, angst, niceguy™/slight incel mark, childhood friend/bully!mark, mark gets his powers sooner, teeny tiny implications of pseudo incest (blink and you'll miss it), violent rape, threats of violence, & canon typical violence, stalking, implied murder, gender & body dysphoria, mentions/implications of disordered eating, mark teases reader about their body once, overall asshole mark, implied grooming (mark handles it but he's a lil bitch about it later), so, victim blaming, misogyny, the inexplicable horrors of being afab, objectification, sexualization

about; snapshots of you and mark growing up together. neither of you make it to the other end of the spectrum - budding adulthood - unscathed . . . but at least you have each other. what is it they say? Sandbox love never dies.

a/n: alt title [vignettes of a life: growing pains]. here's something to make you wish you were never born xx. this came out wayy longer than i expected & i figured the only way to properly digest it was by breaking it up into chapters. this one’s pretty intense so please heed the warnings. they'll be included in every chapter forward. enjoy! ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

1 .

you still remember the fog of childhood innocence.

the fluffy pajamas that were both comfy and scratchy all at once. the stickers on your bedroom wall, on your wooden headboard. plastic restaurant playground mazes, fishing out toys from greasy boxes. the feeling of chalk staining your fingers and gravel digging into your soft knees: chubby legs soon to be scarred.

and amidst the fog, you remember mark. the sporty, hyperactive kid who’d run across the school yard with a sweater wrapped around his neck like a cape, arms spread wide pretending he could fly.

you remember him.

vibrant, loving, quick witted.

it was glaringly obvious all the kids in your grade wanted to be friends with mark grayson. he had a posse: his very own group of 'superheroes', as the teachers used to call it. and before you learned to multiply, something inside you brewed like a poison. you wanted to be like him but you weren't, and so, your stubborn, little kid mind decided you didn't like him.

you hated him, actually. you hated the way he knew all the right answers in class. you hated his laugh. you hated how he was the fastest during sports. you hated how he was fun and smart and good at everything you weren't.

but dislike or not, that didn't stop your fixation. you continued to watch him from afar. and in your journals - to the best of your ability - you drew yourself striding across the playground with a sweater tied around your neck.

you kept to yourself. painfully shy and practically non-verbal: despite your daydreams of someday being a 'normal' kid like mark. your teachers held conferences with your parents about your struggles. despite the fog that blanketed the memories of your childhood: the feeling of dread settling deep in your tummy during the meetings is something that makes you wince to this day.

while you traced patterns into the table in front of you, they'd talk about you as if you weren't in the same room. your teacher did most of the talking. . and, like most of the time, your brain blocked out the sound of her droning voice. instead, your parent's voice was who you heard. and despite struggling to keep up with the onslaught of information, too, all your parent offered was a hushed, “I don't know what's wrong with them.”

you couldn't pay attention. you didn't talk to the other kids. you clung onto your teacher while in class. . and onto your parent during drop-off.

you were different.

intelligent.

but different.

the former a more pressing concern than the latter.

after countless tedious meetings, you soon associated being different with being singled out. being different meant spending an hour sitting in a boring office, listening to teachers repeat the same information - over and over and over again.

a mention about a doctor your parent(s) always refused.

regardless of the calming - sympathetic? - smile of your teacher, it always felt like you were in trouble. even if you couldn't quite put your finger on what you were doing wrong.

on the way home, your parent(s) would eye you through the rearview mirror. you pulled at the loose strings from your sweater and pretended not to notice.

the front door of your childhood home would creak open. your parent(s) would sit at the dinner table, silent, immobile, and - quiet as always - you'd go to your room until you were certain they were asleep to sneak either dinner or a midnight snack.

you were in trouble.

you just didn't know how to stop getting into it.

your teachers grew evermore desperate.

when suggestions of socializing would cause you to clam up: they decided to bite the bullet and break you in by force, hoping your behavior was caused by childhood timidity. one you’d soon outgrow instead of. . something else.

they’d grouped you with myriad of students in hopes you'd socialize or at least participate in something that wasn't independent school work. soon, your tears of frustration when you couldn't communicate correctly no longer held it's child-like charm. your teary, red eyed protests were ignored.

or met with indignation.

until finally - as a last ditch effort you assume - they sat you next to mark grayson.

you protested. not because he made you nervous - which he did - but because you wanted to dislike him. because being in the proximity of everything you wanted to be would be too much to bare. because mark would only make you look even weirder in comparison. but none of it mattered because as soon as the two of you met everything just. . fell into place.

much to your pleasure, he did most of the talking and didn't seem weirded out by your social skills - or lack thereof.

you found your tummy didn't hurt when he spoke to you and he didn't ask you something along the lines of why are you this way? why aren't you like the rest of us?

for the first time while in school, you were comfortable. the overwhelming pressure of having to perform was nonexistent in mark's company.

he'd ask you about your favorite cartoons and movies, and books, and “oh! do you read any comics?!”, and ranted on how unfair it was that the two of you would soon be forced to read books without pictures in them.

his excitement barely let you get a word in. his energy was contagious, all consuming, and the attention he gave you felt like the praise you'd hardly ever receive. you forgot all about your dumb vendetta, wondering why you had one in the first place. and you morphed into a mini version of him.

the two of you were attached by the hip by the end of the week. much to the dismay of your teachers, who you were sure began to rethink their decision when the two of you wouldn't behave in class.

and, perhaps, it was a mistake. they wouldn't want you to potentially stunt mark’s growth - what if it was contagious?

unbeknownst to you, your teachers did think about separating the two of you. but the risk of you reverting to your old ways and the possibility of invoking debbie grayson’s wrath must've been far too high for their liking.

ultimately, a unanimous decision was made to grit their teeth and bare it.

in the meantime, his posse reluctantly welcomed you in. mark even gave you your very own superhero name! and you tried your hardest to keep up with him. for his sake. for your own.

god knows you tried.

but you were never good at performing.

you weren't as fast or as agile as him. you couldn't jump high enough and your sound effects were nowhere near as good. and in an attempt to overcompensate, you overestimated yourself, took a leap you knew you couldn't make, and scraped your knee.

and like a true hero, mark was the first to come to your aid. he'd sat you down on the plastic playset of the playground while you sniveled - part due to embarrassment instead of the stinging, throbbing pain of a scraped knee. he'd dabbed at your injury with crumbled tissue and placed a colorful seance dog band-aid over your cut.

when you finished rubbing your eye with your tiny fist, you didn't see beading blood and irritated flesh, instead, you were met with big, dark brown eyes that glimmered as they stared into yours.

he was close enough to count his eyelashes.

“see?” he patted a chubby hand against your knee gently. “all better!”

and, yeah - heat spread across your cheeks with newfound emotion - it was all better. all evidence of injury, the throbbing pain and blood, was long gone save for the aid he’d given you.

he’d patched you up. he'd made you better. in more ways than one. and what remained was a fuzzy feeling inside your chest.

he’d grinned at you with missing front teeth.

and you found yourself grinning back.

CHAPTER 2

[jayceweek]

Excited for #JayceWeek2025? ☀️🌺

Here are the prompts and rules to help you prepare for the week-long brithday festival from July 6-12, 2025.

Fanfiction, fanart, edits, comics, gifsets are welcome!

Let your creativity loose and let us come together to celebrate everyone's beloved golden boy, Jayce Talis!

Welcome to Jayce Week! What is Jayce Week?

Jayce Week is a celebration of a particular character, Jayce Talis, from the Netflix series Arcane! We devote an entire week to encourage people to create new fanwork for Jayce Talis, interact with the community, and maybe help someone discover a new reason to love the character! The focus of our week is Jayce Talis—this means it is exclusively on his character only.

How can I participate?

Save the date July 6-12th and show up to the party! Fanworks come in many forms and mediums, here’s a few ideas: fanfic, fanart, fanmix, edits (gifs, fancams/fanvids, etc), cosplay photos, whatever Jayce Talis has inspired you to create!

For each day, we will provide you with carefully selected Prompts, follow them as closely or as loosely as you want—be creative! Combine the prompts or interpret them as you wish. Feel free to DM us if you’d like clarification of what a prompt means.

There’s no minimum requirement—fill as many or as few prompts as you can. Participation is also showing love and appreciation, we encourage people to repost, leave comments, and kudos on the fanworks that you enjoy.

Rules & Guidelines

All work must prominently feature the character Jayce Talis from the Netflix show, Arcane: League of Legends. Content featuring Jayce Giopara is permitted.

Post your own original work. The use of AI is strictly prohibited. Do not post another creator’s work and claim it as your own.

Ship content is allowed, but must be tagged accordingly. It is to help people better curate their feeds. Please mute or block at your discretion.

Post your work and tag us #JayceWeek2025 on Twitter, Bluesky, Tumblr for us to repost your work. Don’t forget to add your fics to our AO3 collection.

This fanweek is strictly SFW. Any fanwork with triggering materials, i.e. blood, should be clearly labeled as such along with any appropriate warnings. Additionally, refrain from sensitive materials such as; vore, rape, incest/pseudo incest, etc.

We plan to showcase all fanworks so please make sure to tag us, we will not repost any works that do not conform to our rules.

If you have any questions, please DM us on Twitter, Bluesky or Tumblr!

Jayce Week Prompts General

Day 1: Superhero Day 2: Reunion Day 3: Promise Day 4: Farewell Day 5: Secret Day 6: Universe Day 7: Lost & Found

Themed

Day 1: Chasm Day 2: Gadget Day 3: Tinker Day 4: Dream Day 5: Equation Day 6: Note Day 7: Tomorrow

Wildcards

Tea Sketch Bright Sacrifice

[aethermoose]

Kinktober 2024

Hi there! Moose here to share my Kinktober for this year! It's been a hell of a month working on this thing and I am so excited to have the full 53k word project to share with you today! Start from the beginning here or look below to find specific prompts/pairings! Each chapter comes with any additional tags as well as content warnings (should the chapter need them!)!

Day 1. Impact Play & Edging/Orgasm Denial & Bloodplay & CBT - Poolverine

Day 2. Sensory Deprivation & Cockwarming - Slade Wilson/Dick Grayson

Day 3. Tender Sex & Pseudo Incest - JayTim

Day 4. A/B/O & Group Sex - Poly!141

Day 5. Boot Worship & Branding - Poolverine

Day 6. Stripper & RarePair - Slade Wilson/Dick Grayson

Day 7. Daddy & Voice Kink - SpideyPool

Day 8. Bath/Shower/Water Sex & Piercings - Ghost/Soap

Day 9. Size Difference & Nipple Play - Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes

Day 10. Fealty Kink & Dirty Talk - Price/Gaz

Day 11. Knife/Sword/Gun Play & Hand/Glove Kink - Poolverine

Day 12. Authority Kink/Power Imbalance & Throne Sex - Slade Wilson/Dick Grayson (Fantasy AU)

Day 13. Rimming & Crossdressing - Ghost/Soap

Day 14. Body Worship & Feminization - Price/Gaz

Day 15. Predator/Prey & Hate Fucking - Slade Wilson/Dick Grayson

Day 16. Wet Dream & Mind Control - SuperBat

Day 17. Virginity Kink/Purity Kink & Roleplay/CNC - Slade Wilson/Dick Grayson

Day 18. Glory Hole & Breath Play - Ghost/Soap

Day 19. Electrostimualtion & Toys - Poolverine

Day 20. Voyeurism & Cuckholding - Steve Rogers/Tony Stark/Bucky Barnes

Day 21. Somnophilia & Oral - SuperBat

Day 22. Clothed Sex & Masturbation - Poolverine (Maid Outfit!Wade)

Day 23. Mistaken Identity/Anonymous Sex - SuperBat

Day 24. Feather Play & Torture - Poolverine

Day 25. Lingerie & Praise Kink - SpideyPool

Day 26. NonCon/Blackmail & Dacryphilia - SpideyPool -

Day 27. Humiliation/Degradation & Bondage/Shibari/Suspension - Poolverine

Day 28. Getting Caught & Fingering - Ghost/Soap/Roach

Day 29. Knotting & Aphrodisiacs - Price/Gaz

Day 30. Pet Play & Breeding Kink - SpideyPool

Day 31. Incubi & Oviposition - Ghost/Soap