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em1i2a3 · 3 days ago

Text

Makes Me Want You

Pairing: The Sentry/Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Void x Enhanced!Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: After the incident with Walker, Sentry becomes your unofficial sparring partner during your training sessions. (Sequel to ‘Good Grief’)

Warnings 18+ Minors DNI! Smut and Fluff, Depictions of fighting, Sentry is being a little too overprotective, and Sentry volunteers to be your training dummy (cause he’s got a little crush), Sentry and the reader evidently have a bond, it’s evident (Bob doesn’t make an appearance, this is full Sentry)

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex, Body Worship, Overstimulation, Hair Pulling, Sentry is literally a god who kneels 🤷🏻‍♀️what can I say? Need I say more?, Shower Sex, Fingering, Biting (with intentions to mark and claim), Oral Sex (female receiving), Dirty Talk

Author’s Note: I had two different requests for Sentry smut and they were both fairly similar and they were both anon's...And on top of that they fit really well with this story! Fantastic for me, I just combined them! Thank you for reading and I hope y’all enjoy <3

Word Count:10,002

Sentry stood in the middle of the training room, unmoving, watching as you wrapped your hands with slow, distracted care. Not a word passed between the two of you, just silent glances from you to him. He didn’t shift, didn’t blink, didn’t so much as adjust the angle of his stance. He just stood there, solid and patient, like a monument forged from fire and waiting for someone who was brave enough to strike it.

His presence was gravity incarnate.

You could feel it coiling tight in the air, bending the atmosphere toward him like everything in the room was caught in a sort of orbit. He wasn’t glowing the way he sometimes did when adrenaline flared or when his power leaked through the cracks of Bob. There was no blinding light, or burning heat. But he radiated something much quieter. Heavier. It was the kind of silent energy that didn’t demand attention–it commanded it…Just like any God commanded their followers to go to war for them.

The fluorescents above him buzzed faintly, and then one flickered–twice–before dimming into a low, stuttering pulse. The light didn’t break entirely. It just hesitated, like even the electricity was aware of who stood beneath it. As if the current in the walls had paused to watch him too.

The air was warm–too warm for a room this size with the ventilation system running. There was a faint smell of ozone lingering beneath the cleaner’s citrus scent. Not sharp, not overwhelming, but present. You tasted it when you inhaled. It sat on the back of your tongue like a storm about to break.

He wore the simplest thing possible–grey sweatpants hanging low and loose on his hips, the drawstring frayed and untied, cuffs brushing the tops of his bare feet. His black t-shirt looked worn, lived-in, the hem slightly uneven and the sleeves clinging too well to the thick lines of his arms. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t tactical. It looked like something pulled from the top of his drawer that morning–and yet on him, it looked almost ceremonial.

Casual clothing on an apocalyptic being. The softness of the fabric clinging to muscle so dense it might as well have been marble. And still, he stood there like a temple waiting to be tested. Not arrogant. Not restless.

Just ready.

The mat beneath him didn’t creak. It didn’t shift. But you could feel the weight of him in your spine–like if he took a step, the sound would echo down into the foundation of the building.

You tightened the last loop of tape around your knuckles, pulse beginning to rise–not from effort, but from proximity. From the way his gaze held you. Not predatory. Not curious. Just fixed–like your movements were the only things keeping the world spinning, and if you stopped wrapping your hands, something ancient and dangerous might uncoil.

You exhaled slowly and finally looked up, catching his golden kissed eyes.

They didn’t waver.

“Is this seriously necessary?” You asked, voice rough with disbelief. “I didn’t get hurt, Sentry. I literally got the wind knocked out of me for a few minutes. You can’t just ban me from training with other people.”

Still, he didn’t move. His weight remained balanced, his stance loose, but every inch of him alert.

“I’m not banning you,” He said evenly. “I’m replacing them.”

You let out a quiet, incredulous breath and rose to your feet, stepping fully onto the mat. “Oh, that’s not the same thing at all,” You muttered sarcastically. “You’re not banning me, you’re just volunteering to be my sole sparring partner for the foreseeable future like that’s not completely–”

“I’m the safest option,” He interrupted, voice soft but unshakable. “You know that.” You scoffed under your breath, stepping farther onto the mat until your toes brushed the edge of the taped centerline.

“I’m sure you’re the safest option,” You said, stretching your shoulder in a lazy roll, “but I don’t normally spar with people in general. The whole Walker and Bucky thing was literally one time. A fluke…You know what that is right?” You asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

Sentry blinked once. Then–deadpan, voice laced with something dangerously close to sass–he replied, “Yes. I know what a fluke is.”

The corner of your mouth twitched.

Before you could speak again, he added, “But have you ever thought maybe…I want to see what you can do?”

That made you pause.

You took a slow step forward, then another–only closing half the distance between you, but it was enough to feel the tension in the air tighten, the warmth of him like a soft current against your skin.

“You already see what I can do,” You countered, gaze steady on his. “You watch me all the time. With Bob.”

He tilted his head slightly. The movement was subtle. Smooth.

“See, that’s not what I want though…” He murmured. “Maybe I want to feel it.”

You stopped walking.

One foot planted, one slightly lifted mid-step–like something in you had gone still in response. Your brow rose, arms slowly crossing over your chest, muscles shifting beneath the fabric of your tank top.

“Okay,” You said carefully. “I think you’re overestimating my strength. Because I’m pretty sure you won’t feel a single thing if I punch you.” You gestured broadly toward his chest, to the absurdly built wall of him standing there like a modern-day colossus in soft cotton. “If I threw an anvil at you, I don’t think you’d even blink. It’d be like… a gust of wind blew too hard in your direction. A mild inconvenience.”

That made him smirk. Not teasing. Not ego-driven. Just…Amused. Like you’d said something that charmed him in a way he didn’t quite know how to explain.

“Well,” He said, that golden glow flickering over his irises–pulsing like a heartbeat almost, “You haven’t tried doing anything to me, have you?”A slow breath. A beat of quiet. “So you wouldn’t know how I’d react.”

You stared at him for a moment longer than you meant to.

Then you exhaled and crossed your arms tighter. “Okay. Fine…Are you going to fight back at least?”

“No,” He replied quickly, “Of course not.”

“You’re not even going to put up a challenge?” His silence was answer enough, but you pushed anyway, gesturing toward the training dummies lined up along the far wall.

“Now that’s not realistic at all, Sentry. I would actually prefer to punch the dummy. At least it wobbles.”

He shook his head–just once–but the motion was full-bodied, slow and deliberate, like a parent too tired to keep arguing with a child who refused to listen.

“I’d end up accidentally putting you through a wall if I fought back,” he said, the words a little too dry to be dramatic and far too sincere to be a joke. “And no, I’m not exaggerating when I say that.” His golden eyes flicked over your face, unreadable but steady. “Can’t you just go with it? For the love of God?”

You groaned loudly, letting your head fall back for a beat, eyes rolling toward the ceiling as if the cracked tiles might have an opinion.

Then you stepped forward again.

And again.

Until you were within reach–close enough that the heat coming off him felt almost physical. Like a pulse. Like the sun was leaking out of him in slow, restrained breaths.

You didn’t touch him. Not yet.

But your chest was rising a little faster now. Your heart thudding louder than it had any business doing. Because up close, the scale of him was…Impossible. Even dressed down in soft cotton and loose sweatpants, he was still carved from something the universe had only built once.

“Fine,” You muttered, the word slipping out like a reluctant surrender. Your fists dropped loosely to your sides. “But if I break my hand on your chest, I’m making you carry me to medbay.”

He didn’t respond.

Didn’t smile. Didn’t tease.

He just stood there.

Still as stone.

Waiting.

You flexed your fingers once.

Then raised your fists.

You circled him–half a step, then another. Your bare feet were silent against the mat, but every motion sent a ripple through the silence like a blade carving through water. His head turned ever so slightly to follow your movement, but he didn’t tense. Didn’t shift.

He was perfectly relaxed.

You studied him.

His posture. His balance. The faint flicker of gold behind his eyes.

And then–without warning–you struck.

A clean, tight right hook. Not full-force, not your strongest. But fast. Sharp. Enough to feel.

Your fist slammed into his side–just below the ribs, right at the spot where a normal opponent might recoil.

And he didn’t even flinch.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

It was like hitting the surface of something just this side of indestructible.

The impact reverberated through your knuckles and into your forearm, a shock of resistance that felt almost mechanical. The kind of hit that should’ve yielded some reaction–but instead, it just…Landed.

And stayed there.

Like you’d punched the hull of a goddamn battleship.

You hissed through your teeth, shaking out your fingers slightly as your feet adjusted on the mat.

“Okay,” You muttered under your breath, eyeing him, “That was not a dummy.”

“Do it again,” Sentry said quietly, his voice low and steady like thunder just barely rumbling in the distance.

You looked at him for a moment, lips parted, then exhaled and rolled your shoulders back with a sigh. “You sure? I’m not exactly delivering haymakers here.”

“I’m sure.”

Another step forward. Your muscles adjusted on instinct, your stance falling into its natural rhythm. And then you swung again. And again.

Punch after punch landed against him with the same result: nothing. No shift. No stumble. Not even a ripple of tension in his frame. Just the steady, unflinching wall of him absorbing the strikes like they were wind brushing against a mountain.

But you kept going.

Because something about the way he stood there made you want to see if you could draw any sort of reaction. A grunt. A blink. A goddamn eyebrow raise. Anything.

The rhythm grew sharper. Your jaw set tighter. Sweat began to bead along your spine, down your temple. The sound of your fists hitting his chest echoed sharply across the training room–thud, thud, thud–like muffled war drums. Every strike reverberated back into your arm with bruising density, but you didn’t stop.

You were breathing harder now.

And Sentry was still just… watching you.

Not bored. Not blank. He was studying you–like a scholar with a sacred text. Like every move you made was worthy of reverence. There was a faint gleam of something pleased in his expression, golden irises flicking between the set of your shoulders and the tension in your clenched jaw, like he was cataloging every shift in your form with quiet admiration.

It wasn’t desire. Not lust. Just awe.

And then, finally, you stepped back. Your arms hung loose at your sides, wrists sore and shoulders flushed with exertion. You shook out your hands with a grunt, sucking in a slow breath.

“I have a question for you,” you said, voice uneven from the effort.

Sentry straightened a fraction. Cleared his throat softly, like he hadn’t spoken in a century.

“Go ahead.”

You stepped closer–again. The heat between your bodies was tangible now. You stopped just short of brushing his chest with yours, close enough that you could feel the hum of him buzzing beneath the thin layer of his cotton shirt.

“You and Bob…” you began slowly. “You share thoughts, right? Like… You can talk to him inside his head?”

Sentry nodded once. Calm. “Yes. Of course.”

He didn’t ask where the question was going–but there was a subtle flicker of curiosity behind his gaze. A glint of wariness.

You tilted your head slightly.

“So that means… You know what he thinks of me?”

That made something in his face change.

Not visibly–but internally. Like a shift in gravity.

His jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed, but not with anger. Just with the weight of knowing exactly what you meant.

“Yes,” He said finally. “Isn’t it obvious?”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling, but it didn’t quite work. A smirk tugged at the edge of your mouth anyway.

“Just wanted confirmation.”

He squinted at you suspiciously, head tilting. “I feel like you’re trying to set me up to say something that should be coming from Bob.”

“I’m not,” You said quickly, voice light. “I swear I’m not. I’m just…Curious. That’s all.”

You held his gaze for a beat, then let it slip for just a second–just long enough to flick down to his neck. He didn’t miss it.

And when your eyes darted back up to his, there was something different there. A spark. A glint of mischief. A subtle shift in the air that sent a new ripple of heat down your spine.

“Do you guys share similar…” You began slowly, teasingly, “Weaknesses?”

Sentry blinked. Cautious. Confused.

Then he huffed a quiet laugh, low and incredulous. “That is where we differ. I’m practically indestru–”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Because in one smooth movement, your fingers darted out and skated lightly up the side of his neck–just under his jaw, where the skin was most sensitive to both Bob…And him.

And the sound he made–

Was not godly.

It was sharp. Undignified. Somewhere between a yelp and a startled grunt, the kind of noise someone made when they’d been caught off guard in the worst way. His whole body jerked back half a step, and his knees bent as if something in his godlike frame just short-circuited.

“Jesus Christ,” Sentry hissed, glaring at you like you’d committed some sort of war crime.

You burst out laughing. Bent at the waist, arms braced on your thighs as the sound poured from you uncontrollably.

You couldn’t breathe. Could barely talk.

Between wheezes, you managed, “I didn’t expect you to react like that–but holy shit–it’s good to know that gods get ticklish sometimes too.”

He straightened slowly.

“Guess it’s one of the disadvantages,” He muttered, “Of being attached to Bob.”

You wiped your eyes, still grinning, as you leaned your weight back onto one foot.

“Damn,” You said breathlessly, “If the team ever finds out about this…”

“They won’t.”

You just smiled wider.

“Sure, Sentry. Whatever you say.” His eyes narrowed as he straightened fully, his arms slowly dropping from where they’d hovered in a mid-defensive reflex. His jaw clenched once, golden gaze burning hot beneath furrowed brows. There was no real danger in his posture–no spark of fury or divine wrath–but something shifted in his voice, something dry and faintly amused.

“It really seems like you’re trying to push me into fighting you.”

You raised your eyebrows, already taking a half-step backward with that same glint in your eye.

“What? Because I’m probably going to go tell the entire team that Sentry’s ticklish like Bob?” You teased, voice light and sing-songy as you began to edge toward the door. “Because I might casually bring it up at dinner next time Walker starts bragging about his bench press? ‘Oh yeah? Well, Sentry can bench the moon, but he also squeals like a kid if you touch his neck.’”

Sentry stared at you, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was fighting the urge to smile–or maybe grit his teeth.

You pointed a lazy finger at him as you backed up farther, heel tapping the edge of the mat.

“You know I’ll do it. I’ll tell Yelena. I’ll tell Alexei. And he’ll never let you live it down.”

His hands fell loosely to his sides, the veins in his forearms flexing subtly beneath the black sleeves as he took one slow step forward. The overhead lights buzzed again–just once–and then went completely still.

“Alright,” He said calmly, “You asked for it.” You barely had time to register the words before he moved. You blinked.

And then ran.

A breathless laugh tore from your throat as you pivoted hard and booked it toward the exit, bare feet silent across the mat. You knew he’d follow—but you weren’t expecting how fast. You barely made it five steps before the air shifted behind you.

He was there.

You didn’t even hear him move.

Strong arms slipped around your waist, lifting you clean off your feet like it was nothing. You shrieked—half indignation, half delighted surprise—and squirmed hard against him.

“Put me down!”

“Nope,” Sentry grunted, voice steady with amusement. “You opened this door.”

You twisted hard, elbow aiming for his ribs—not to hurt, just to annoy. He caught it easily, body flexing behind you as he adjusted his grip, lowering you just enough that your heels skimmed the mat. His chest was warm against your back, too warm, and you could feel the restrained strength in every inch of him. He wasn’t trying to hurt you. He was holding you like something sacred—delicately, even when your body writhed with every ounce of mischief you had left.

“I will scream,” You warned.

“I’m counting on it.”

You gasped-half laugh, half breathless–and hooked your ankle around his shin to try and trip him. He didn’t budge. Instead, his arm shifted, sliding up to wrap around your chest and pull you flush against him. You could feel the thunder of his pulse now–buried deep behind the quiet of him. That cosmic stillness. It made your own heart race faster, like it was trying to match something much older, much heavier.

“God, you’re obnoxious,” You huffed, yanking at his arm.

“You’re the one who threatened to tell Alexei I’m ticklish,” He countered.

“And I will!”

“Then I guess I’m justified.”

You twisted in his hold, managing to face him fully–and he let you. Didn’t resist when you grabbed his shirt in both fists and tugged like it would help.

You were panting now, flushed and laughing, but there was a fire behind it–something not quite amusement. Not anymore.

He stared at you for a moment, his eyes glowing softly, shimmering with the classic Sentry gold.

You were so close your noses nearly brushed. Your chest rose and fell in fast, shallow pulls, brushing against his. One of his hands was still resting low on your side, fingers spread wide–grounding you, maybe, or steadying himself.

You swallowed.

Your voice, when it came, was quieter. Rougher.

“…You don’t have to hold back this much.”

Sentry’s expression shifted. Not smug. Not surprised. Just sharp–with awareness.

“I do,” He said simply. “But it doesn’t mean I don’t want to see what you’re like… when you’re under pressure.”

You tilted your chin up, breath catching. “Why?”

A pause.

And then:

“Because I like how you burn when you’re pushed.” The air between you pulsed like something alive. Charged and hot and thrumming with everything neither of you had said. You didn’t know if it was Bob in that second, or Sentry, or both–but you burned too.

You stared at his mouth. Then his throat. Then back to his eyes.

And he saw it.

He saw all of it.

Something clicked behind his gaze–snapped, maybe–and suddenly his hand slid to the back of your neck, warm and sure and deliberate.

And then his mouth was on yours.

The kiss wasn’t tentative.

It was hungry.

It hit like a gravitational collapse–like the breathless moment between lightning and thunder, the second before a star goes supernova. His mouth claimed yours like he had waited centuries for this moment and wasn’t going to waste a second of it. There was no soft warm-up, no gentle build. Just the press of lips that had held back too long and a low, almost feral sound from his chest as you kissed him back with everything you had.

Your hands curled in the front of his shirt, tugging him closer. His body pressed into yours like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of you–like restraint was no longer an option.

Your back hit the nearest wall–not hard, just enough for him to anchor you there with the weight of him, arm braced beside your head. He broke the kiss only long enough to gasp against your mouth, voice shredded and low.

“You have no idea what you do to us.” You barely had time to breathe before he continued, his voice rasped and reverent, breaking on the edges like it hurt to hold the words in.

“When you ask questions that you know the answers to.” The heat in his eyes didn’t flicker. It burned steady. Fixed. Like he was looking at the only thing in existence that had ever managed to make him feel truly alive.

His hand was still cradling the back of your neck–thumb brushing slow arcs along your skin, grounding him as much as it grounded you. His other hand had settled at your waist again, fingers flexing, as though he didn’t trust himself to hold you tighter.

And still he spoke, each word barely more than a breath, like a confession pulled from the center of a god.

“When you look at me like you see me. Not what I am. Not what I can do. Just…Me.”

You swallowed, chest rising fast against his.

He dipped his head slightly, golden eyes flickering over your mouth again.

“When you touch us like we are yours…Even when we haven’t even claimed you as such…Yet.”

And then–

He kissed you again.

But this time, you leaned into it.

Your fingers slid up his chest, over the slope of his shoulder, until they reached the nape of his neck and tangled in the softness of his light brown hair. You pulled—gently, but enough. Enough to make him groan against your mouth, low and wrecked, like your hands on him were something he’d dreamed of and denied himself for too long.

The sound vibrated into your jaw, into your throat, and you kissed him harder in response. Hungrier. The kind of kiss that made your knees soften and your lungs burn and your body ache.

He shifted then–closer, impossibly closer–his hips brushing yours, his chest a wall of heat against your front. You were pinned between him and the wall now, not trapped, but held. Like he wanted to keep you there forever. Like you were a prayer he didn’t know how to say out loud yet, but couldn’t stop whispering beneath his skin.

Your hands fisted tighter in his hair, and he made that sound again, louder this time. His hand slid from your waist up your spine in a slow, aching drag that left you trembling, fingertips pressing between your shoulder blades like he needed to feel every part of you rising to meet him.

You gasped against his mouth, lips swollen and breathless, and he took that as an invitation to devour the sound, to kiss you deeper, and to drink from you.

And the truth was…

You both were starving.

For touch. For closeness. For something that didn’t end in fear or retreat or silence. Something that pulled instead of pushed.

And now, here he was–Sentry, Bob, both of them–finally holding you like you were the only thing in this world that had ever felt real.

And you didn’t want to waste this moment on overthinking.

You didn’t want to question it, to slow it down, to analyze the weight of his hand or the heat of his mouth or the way your body arched so desperately into his—because for once, it all made sense. This wasn’t strategy. This wasn’t timing. This was inevitable.

The kiss became sloppy fast.

It was still all teeth and tongue and soft, panting sounds that echoed between the cracks of restraint–but now your hands were dragging down the planes of his back, curling in the hem of that soft black shirt like you could pull him closer than physics allowed. He groaned into you again, louder this time–richer, rougher–like he hadn’t realized how much he needed this until he had it, and now he didn’t know how to stop.

Your legs shifted on instinct–widening just slightly for balance as you arched into him–and he responded immediately.

Sentry shifted.

The movement was fluid and almost too smooth for something that carried this much desperation, but you didn’t care. You barely even noticed the transition–your world had narrowed to the feel of him, the weight of his mouth, the stretch of your lungs trying to keep up.

You felt the moment his knees hit the mat.

The world tilted, and suddenly you were lower–his arms supporting you as your back hit the padded floor with a quiet, muffled thud.

And then he was over you.

Not crushing. Not smothering. Just there–braced on one arm, hovering above you with his chest heaving and his golden eyes wild, like he hadn’t expected to find himself here either, but now that he was, there was no chance he’d leave.

Your hands cupped his jaw, thumbs brushing the warmth of his cheeks, and he leaned back down like he couldn’t stay away–not even for a second.

His mouth found yours again. Hot. Messy. Open. His tongue brushed against yours and you whimpered, breath catching as your hips lifted just slightly into the space between his. You weren’t even thinking anymore. Not about the compound. Not about the team. Not about anything except him.

And then–without warning–he pulled back.

Only a few inches. But it was enough for the cold air to kiss your spit-slick lips. Enough to make your brows pinch with protest.

But Sentry was staring at you.

His eyes were wide. Dark with heat. Glowing with something that went beyond hunger.

He looked wrecked.

“Do you know,” He said softly, voice hoarse, “How many times I’ve wanted to do that?”

Your breath hitched.

He shook his head slightly, chest still rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon. His voice dropped even lower.

“I’ve imagined it in every damn room I’ve been in. The med bay, the kitchen, my room, your room, the living room…Fucking everywhere.” He let out a breathless laugh, pressed his forehead against yours. “I can barely breathe when you’re near me. I try to act normal, I try to just watch, like Bob does, like I’m supposed to–but it’s never enough.” You blinked, heart in your throat.

He leaned down again, brushing your jaw with his mouth.

“I think about your hands when you’re not here,” He murmured. “I think about the way you talk when you’re irritated. The way you look when you’re focused. How your voice sounds when you laugh. I remember every fucking sound you’ve ever made.”

His mouth kissed a line down the side of your throat–hot, reverent, barely restrained. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, body arching into his like gravity was conspiring with him.

He lifted his head again, gaze locked to yours, barely more than a breath away.

“I think about touching you every time I close my eyes,” He whispered, “I think about what it would mean. To be yours.” You stared up at him, chest heaving beneath the weight of everything he’d just said. Everything he’d confessed. There was no filter in him now. No veil. No divine wall of restraint.

Just truth.

Raw and devastating.

And yours.

Your hands slid up the sides of his face, thumbs grazing the delicate dip beneath his cheekbones, palms cupping the sharp angles of his jaw like you were trying to hold the entire sun between your fingers. He leaned into the touch–starved for it–and you surged forward.

You kissed him hard. Biting his bottom lip gently, tugging just enough to make his body jolt above yours, a sharp, shuddered groan escaping from deep in his chest.

Then, breathless, lips still brushing his, you whispered with a crooked smile:

“God, you really know how to make a girl feel wanted, huh?”

That made him laugh.

Low and stunned and wrecked, like the sound had been dragged out of somewhere deep in his ribcage. His forehead dropped to yours for a beat, and he let out a warm, shaky exhale.

Then he kissed you again–harder this time, deeper, the kind of kiss that tasted like a thank-you and a promise and a claim all at once. One hand slid down your side to hook beneath your thigh, adjusting his body above yours, fitting himself to you with a precision that felt nothing short of divine.

“I could go on forever,” He said, voice low and thunder-warm, “About how much I’ve wanted you.”

His eyes flicked over your face like you were scripture carved into flesh.

“I could tell you how many times I’ve had to hold Bob back from saying your name in his sleep, how he’ll flinch when someone says it in a hallway because his heart just–stops.”

He dipped his head, kissing the corner of your mouth like a prayer.

“I could tell you how he made me promise I’d always be near. Always listening. Just in case you needed something he couldn’t give fast enough.”

Another kiss–your jaw, your cheekbone, your temple.

“He tethered us to you.” His voice dropped into something reverent. Barely audible. Worshipful. “Not out of fear. Not duty. But because his love for you has become instinct.” You didn’t realize you were trembling until his hand was cupping your side, warm and grounding. Sentry felt it—felt the way your body vibrated with something between overload and surrender, the way your breath stuttered beneath his palm. He shifted just enough to look at you properly again, his thumb dragging softly across your ribcage.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, not with concern, but awe. Like your reaction was the most sacred thing he’d ever witnessed.

“I’m fine,” you whispered back, though your voice cracked at the edges.

He searched your face for a beat, then dipped his head, pressing a gentle kiss beneath your jaw. Slower now. Calmer. He lingered there, lips barely brushing your skin, just breathing you in like he needed it to steady himself.

But you didn’t want steady.

You wanted more.

And he could feel that too.

“…This floor isn’t exactly comfortable,” you said softly, your hands still buried in his hair, voice tinged with a breathless laugh. “And I’m pretty sure you’re leaking nuclear heat through your t-shirt.”

He huffed, and the sound vibrated against your throat.

“I’m trying not to melt you.”

“Too late,” you murmured.

His mouth curved into a crooked smile against your neck. “Come with me,” he said—quiet, but sure. “Before I forget how to be gentle.”

You didn’t ask where.

You didn’t need to.

He rose slowly, cradling your hips with one arm as he guided you upright with him. His other hand stayed on your lower back, grounding, reverent. You stood together for a beat, close and flushed and breathing each other in–your body barely keeping from leaning back into the mat out of sheer sensory overload.

But he kissed your forehead like a promise, and you followed when he took your hand.

The hallway was quiet.

He led you through it barefoot, fingers laced with yours, his other hand resting low on your spine to steady you whenever your steps faltered. The air felt cooler outside the training room–barely, but enough to raise a chill along your sweat-damp skin.

You didn’t realize where he was leading you until the scent of clean steam and citrus hit your nose.

The locker room.

He pushed the door open gently, the fluorescent lights humming above, diffused by the quiet fog curling in the air. You hadn’t even asked if anyone else was around–but somehow, you knew they weren’t. They wouldn’t be.

Not right now–especially this early in the morning.

Sentry released your hand just long enough to walk over to one of the shower stalls. You heard the soft hiss of water turning on–heard the shift in his breathing when he adjusted the temperature with pinpoint care.

By the time he turned back to you, the steam was rising in slow tendrils around him.

His shirt clung damp to his chest, darkening in the heat. You watched the golden flicker in his eyes catch the haze and hold it there, like light bending for him alone.

You stepped toward him slowly.

“You sure this isn’t just adrenaline talking?” He shook his head–slowly, reverently, steam curling around his jaw like a shroud.

“Please…” His voice was quiet. Unsteady in that way gods rarely allow themselves to be. “I think the admission of what we felt for you was long overdue. It’s not the adrenaline talking.”

He stepped closer. Just one pace, but it made your breath catch in your throat.

Then he reached for the hem of his shirt.

It was wet now–sticking to the hard lines of his torso–but he peeled it off in one fluid motion, revealing what you had only ever glimpsed in slivers beneath battle-torn fabric and half-buttoned uniforms. And even then, nothing had quite prepared you for this.

For him.

He looked like something carved out of devotion. Like a figure from myth brought to life in firelight and steam. Dense, sculpted muscle corded through his frame, every inch of him wrapped in strength that seemed impossible yet undeniable. Not exaggerated. Not grotesque. Just…Perfect in that terrifying, celestial way. His skin was flushed from the heat of the locker room, as steam caught along the slopes of his shoulders, trailing down the valley between his abs.

Your gaze traced the scars scattered across him—some faint and faded, some darker, older, deep with memory. Not many. But enough. Enough to know that even gods bled sometimes.

And then there was the light. The quiet flicker of gold beneath his skin, pulsing faintly at his sternum and branching like veins of starlight across his chest. Glowing. Alive. Like divinity itself was trying to escape through him.

He was beautiful in a way that defied logic.

And you stared.

You had always wondered—always imagined. The way his shirts clung when he lifted something, the way muscles shifted in his back when he moved too quickly. You’d dreamed of what was underneath, fantasized in quiet, guilty moments.

But now, there he was. Bared. Unashamed.

And he was looking at you.

Not demanding. Not expecting. Just…waiting.

You swallowed, the heat rising in your cheeks as your fingers found the hem of your own tank top and slowly pulled it upward, peeling it away from your flushed skin. It slipped over your head in one smooth motion—and you stood bare-chested before him, breasts exposed to the low locker room light, skin flushed with effort and anticipation.

Sentry’s breath hitched audibly. You saw his jaw flex. His eyes—already glowing faintly–went molten.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Just stared at you like you were some divine vision made flesh. Like you were something sacred he was afraid to reach for in case he ruined it.

Then his eyes dropped.

You saw the moment they landed on your breasts. Saw the subtle twitch in his mouth as he bit the inside of his lower lip–hard. A sharp, restrained motion that made the muscle in his cheek jump. He didn’t speak, but he exhaled roughly through his nose, like he was trying to calm a fire that had just started to roar.

Then, with one slow, fluid motion, he pushed his sweatpants and underwear down in a single breath.

And your brain short-circuited.

Because even semi-erect, he was…Big.

Thick. Heavy. Perfectly shaped. You could already tell that when he was fully hard, it would be something else entirely–something that bordered on surreal. And the way he carried it–no posturing, no arrogance, just naked truth–made your thighs clench so hard you nearly gasped. It was instinct. A raw, involuntary reaction that ran straight down your spine and pooled low in your gut.

He caught the movement.

His gaze flicked from your legs back to your face, golden eyes smoldering with understanding. Hunger. But he didn’t pounce. He didn’t move forward or press his advantage.

He just let you look.

And maybe that was what undid you the most.

That even now–even with your nipples tightening under the locker room air, with your mouth parted and breath shallow, with your eyes darting back down to the weight of him hanging between his legs–he waited. Like this wasn’t about lust or claim or need.

It was about offering.

“Tell me what you want,” He said, his voice low. Gravel rough. Unsteady in a way that told you he was holding himself back with every ounce of divine willpower he had.

“Because I’ll give it to you,” He added. “All of it. Anything. Just say the word.”

You stared at him–at the awe in his face, the restraint braided through every muscle in his body–and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe.

Not from nerves.

Not from fear.

But from knowing.

Knowing that whatever this was, whatever it became, you’d never feel anything like it again.

Your lips parted.

“I want you,” you whispered. “All of it. All of you.”

A beat. Your voice dipped lower, rougher, shy despite the heat rolling off your skin.

“But more than that… I want you to do what you want to me.”

Something cracked in him—visibly. A flicker of gold pulsed brighter across his chest, blooming in a stuttered vein of light over his collarbone like lightning caught beneath his skin.

And he breathed your name.

Once.

Just once.

Like it was a prayer too holy to say more than once without unraveling the world.

You took a small step back and hooked your thumbs in the waistband of your shorts, shimming them down your hips with quiet, fluid ease. They fell to the damp tile around your feet, and you stepped out of them with a soft exhale.

You were bare before him now.

No shields. No distance. No more questions.

Just you–and the way his eyes drank you in like he hadn’t believed you were real until now.

Sentry moved before the silence had a chance to grow heavy.

His hand reached out–strong, open, reverent–and he took yours like he was terrified you might change your mind if he moved too fast. His fingers curled around yours, warm and solid, grounding you even as he pulled you gently into the shower stall beside him.

And then the water hit.

Hot.

Steam curling instantly around your joined bodies.

And just like that–

His mouth was on yours.

Not rough. Not frenzied.

But urgent.

Like something eternal was unraveling behind his ribs and the only way to stop it was to feel your breath in his lungs. The kiss was full and deep, lips parting around each other with soaked, open-mouthed need as the water poured over both of you. His hands roamed–slowly, reverently–one skimming down the side of your waist, the other cradling the back of your head as he pressed you into him, skin to skin, heat to heat.

Your nipples brushed his chest and you whimpered against his mouth. His answering groan was low, ragged.

The kind of sound a man makes when devotion collides with desire.

He pulled back just far enough to look at you, his thumb brushing your cheek. Water ran down his face, catching the light stubble along his jaw and the ridges of his collarbone, tracing the light glowing faintly beneath his skin.

His voice was soft. Almost broken. “You don’t know what this means to me.”

“Then show me…” You whispered. The water cascaded over your skin in steady, rhythmic sheets, hot enough to sting faintly where tension still lived in your muscles. Steam coiled around both of you, clinging to every surface, wrapping your bodies in something sacred and unseen. And he kissed you like the storm had broken inside him.

There was no hesitation now.

His mouth moved against yours with growing heat–messy, wet, open, and needy. Every time your lips parted, he drank from you like he couldn’t get enough, like the taste of you was something he’d craved since the moment Bob first laid eyes on you. You moaned into him when his hand slid down your waist and cupped the curve of your ass, squeezing with a low, desperate growl against your mouth.

His hips pressed forward—slow, grinding, not to take, not yet, but to feel. To savor. His cock, heavy and flushed, dragged against your stomach as he kissed you deeper, your thighs trembling from the sheer tension rolling through your core.

And then—he broke the kiss.

Just barely.

Only enough to trail his lips along your jaw, then lower–down your neck, where the skin was flushed and damp, where your pulse pounded loud and hot. He kissed there once. Twice. Then again, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp and tilt your head back against the tile.

“That sound,” He whispered, his voice rasping low over your throat, “I want to hear it again.”

And he kissed lower.

Your breath caught.

His lips traced the arch of your collarbone, then down to the swell of your breasts–open-mouthed, reverent kisses that dragged over your skin with unbearable heat. When his mouth closed around one nipple, tongue flicking and lips sealing tight, you gasped–body jolting forward, one hand flying to the back of his neck, the other bracing against the wall behind you.

“Sentry–” You whimpered.

He moaned softly against your skin, the sound vibrating through your chest as he suckled just hard enough to make your knees tremble. Then he shifted to the other breast, lavishing the same wet, aching worship there, tongue teasing, lips tugging.

Your body arched against him, chasing every touch.

Every kiss.

And still–he moved lower.

Slow. Deliberate. Like he was reading you through his mouth, tasting every inch of what was his now, what he’d been denied for too long. He kissed down the slope of your stomach, tongue dipping to trace the curve of your navel, his hands anchoring you in place as your thighs trembled under the water’s steady heat.

Then he knelt.

Slow. Controlled.

God-like.

The moment his knees hit the tile, it felt like worship. Like he was built to kneel here. For you.

The sight of him looking up from between your legs–hair plastered to his forehead, steam curling around his cheeks, eyes glowing gold beneath thick lashes–made your lungs seize. One of his hands slid behind your thigh, lifting it gently, reverently, until your foot braced on the small edge of the bench beside you. He coaxed your leg up over his shoulder, eyes never leaving your face.

“I’ll hold you,” he murmured, voice low and grounded. His palm pressed firm and warm to your hip, the other bracing your opposite thigh against the wall. “I’ve got you.”

And then he leaned in.

You cried out softly the moment his mouth found the inside of your thigh—kissing there first. Not rushing. Just dragging his lips across the tender flesh like he wanted to memorize the texture of your skin.

He nibbled gently, the scrape of his teeth just enough to make your hips twitch.

Then lower.

A breath against your folds.

Then–his mouth.

The first brush of his tongue made your whole body tense, spine pressing against the wall like it was the only thing keeping you upright. His lips parted around you and he groaned—loud and low and so deeply aroused it sounded like it had been pulled from his chest by gravity.

“You taste…” He didn’t finish the thought. Just moaned again and buried his mouth between your legs like he was starving.

You gasped, one hand flying to his hair, tangling in the soaked strands as your hips jerked forward.

His tongue moved slow–dragging through your folds with a precision that made your thighs clamp instinctively around his head. He didn’t stop. Didn’t falter. He just groaned into you, hands tightening their hold to keep you in place, and he began to work you open with steady, fluid movements. Licking. Tasting. Worshiping.

Every pass of his tongue was devastating.

Soft, then firm. A flick, then a slow, sucking kiss. He circled your clit with unbearable care–taking his time, mapping you, learning you. And when he finally sealed his mouth around it and sucked—

You moaned.

Loud.

High-pitched and wrecked, echoing off the tile, lost in the steam.

“F–Fuck–” You gasped, your head hitting the wall behind you.

Sentry grunted at the sound, tongue flicking faster now, more precise. One of his hands left your hip and slid between your thighs, two fingers parting you gently, spreading you open as he devoured you. His mouth moved in time with his hand, tongue teasing, lips sealing, fingers slipping lower–coaxing you closer and closer to the edge with every devastating pass.

You couldn’t think.

Couldn’t breathe.

The world had narrowed to the heat of his mouth, the slip of his fingers, the weight of your leg trembling over his shoulder as he dragged moan after moan from your throat.

Your hips rolled on instinct.

Your fingers tightened in his hair.

And Sentry groaned against you–louder this time–like your pleasure was fueling him. Like your moans were what he needed to keep breathing.

He pulled back just far enough to look up at you, lips soaked, eyes wild.

“Let go for me,” He whispered hoarsely. “I want to feel it.”

Then he buried his face in you again–tongue flicking against your clit in quick strokes, fingers curling, hitting just the right spots, and his entirety finding a rhythm so perfect it felt otherworldly.

And you shattered.

Your release hit hard–sharp, hot, trembling. Your cry echoed off the shower walls as your body seized, thighs trembling, hands gripping his hair like you might fall into the heat of him and never crawl back out. He held you through it–mouth never breaking contact, swallowing every moan, every quake of your body, drinking your pleasure like holy water.

Only when the aftershocks made your hips twitch did he finally ease back to look up at you. His mouth lingered just above your inner thigh, lips parted, breath hot against your trembling skin. You could still feel the aftershocks pulsing through your body, each one fainter than the last, but no less devastating. And Sentry–this god of heat and reverence–was still kneeling between your legs, steady as stone, as though worshiping you wasn’t something he wanted to do.

It was something he was made to do.

His fingers were still inside you, thrusting slow and deep, curling just right, coaxing soft, wrecked little gasps from your throat that you couldn’t have swallowed even if you tried.

He kissed your hipbone, tender and warm.

Then he whispered, voice husky and low:

“Give me another.”

Your chest hitched. Your hand was still tangled in his soaked hair, your hips twitching each time his fingers pressed into that unbearable spot. You were so close to the edge already, but his voice—that voice—it broke something in you.

“I want to watch you fall apart again,” He murmured, teeth grazing the hollow where your thigh met your pelvis. “I want to feel you break for me. To taste it. To swallow it down like it was made for me alone.”

You whimpered.

And he didn’t stop.

“I’m not asking for much,” He rasped, lips moving like a hymn across your skin. “Just one more. One more time, and I’ll make it so good for you… you’ll forget there was ever a world outside this.”

Your voice cracked. “Y-Yes…Okay–God, yes–please.”

That was all he needed.

His eyes burned gold–molten and bright–and then he adjusted.

Slow, precise strength carried your other leg up over his other shoulder. He adjusted with you like it was effortless, like your weight was nothing to him–just something sacred he got to carry. The wall steadied your back. He steadied everything else. You were open to him now, bare and flushed, your thighs trembling over his broad shoulders, your hands braced in his hair like you might fall to pieces if you let go.

And then he devoured you.

There was no teasing this time.

No hesitation.

Just need.

He pulled his fingers out of you, and replaced the emptiness with his mouth. His tongue plunged deep in you before dragging up in a slow, sinful flick that made your entire spine arch. You cried out, head falling back with a sharp thud against the tile, but he didn’t stop. He held you there–hands firm under your ass, keeping your hips tilted up, off the ground, pinned to the wall by nothing but his mouth and the carved weight of his divine strength.

He moaned into you, loudly, the sound vibrating straight through your core. Then his tongue found your clit again–slick and swollen and already aching from your last orgasm–and he wrapped his lips around it and sucked.

You screamed.

Your hands flew from the wall back into his hair, yanking hard, grinding forward instinctively, trying to press yourself deeper against his face. And he let you.

No–he welcomed it.

He groaned like it fed him, like your hips grinding into his mouth were the prayer he’d been waiting centuries to receive.

His tongue worked faster now, flicking and circling, relentless, worshipful, and when you moaned his name he made a sound you’d never heard from him before.

Unholy. Wrecked. Like he’d just been blessed.

He slipped his fingers back inside you again–curling, thrusting, fucking into that perfect spot while his tongue ravaged your clit, every motion synced like a symphony of sin and praise.

You were crying, now.

Not in pain.

In pure, trembling pleasure.

Your thighs clenched around his head, your body lifting against the wall, barely tethered to earth by the strength of his grip and the heat of his mouth. His teeth grazed your clit and you shattered with a sob.

Your orgasm hit like a wave breaking over a cliff–hard, hot, unstoppable.

You screamed his name. Your hips jerked, bucked. You held his head to you like it was life or death, grinding against his mouth as your body convulsed through a release so sharp it made your vision white out.

And Sentry?

He groaned into your core like it was his reward. He kept his mouth on you through every twitch, every moan, every desperate grind. His fingers stayed buried, stroking you through the aftershocks until your cries softened into gasping whimpers and your thighs shook uncontrollably around his ears.

And only then–only then–did he slowly pull back.

He let your legs slide gently from his shoulders, your body trembling as your feet found the tile again, barely standing. But you didn’t have time to breathe before you saw him—

Lips slick. Face soaked in you. Gold eyes burning like wildfire as he slowly pulled his fingers out of your body.

And then–

He licked them clean.

One at a time.

Tongue dragging up each finger, slow and deliberate, moaning like you were ambrosia poured straight from the heavens.

“That,” He rasped, licking the last drop from the web between his fingers, “was the most divine fucking thing I’ve ever tasted.”

You stared.

You couldn’t speak.

You could barely stand.

But your body was vibrating with heat and want and disbelief–because no one had ever touched you like that. No one had looked at you like that. Like you were something sacred. Like your pleasure was a commandment.

Sentry rose to his full height, golden eyes flickering with restrained need as he looked down at you–soaked, flushed, trembling, and utterly undone beneath the weight of his devotion.

His breath was ragged. Controlled, but only just.

And then, voice low and rough, he whispered:

“Taste yourself.”

He leaned in–slowly, reverently–and kissed you.

His mouth was slick, drenched with the echoes of your pleasure, and when your lips parted to meet his, you tasted it. The sweetness. The salt. The heat. You moaned softly into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound with a low, aching groan that rumbled against your chest like thunder curling behind the clouds.

He deepened the kiss, tongue sweeping into your mouth with deliberate, hungry care, like he was giving you everything he had—everything you’d poured into him—now returning it in full.

His hand rose to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing gently across your cheek, and the kiss turned hot, messy, intoxicating. You were gasping now, hands pressing against his chest, your body aching with the overwhelming desire to be filled, to be claimed. To be his in every way.

You broke the kiss with a soft gasp, panting against his lips.

Your voice trembled, desperate and sure.

“Sentry, please…Please take me.”

His breath caught.

“Mark me. Claim me. Make it so I’m officially yours. I want to walk around and make sure people know who I belong to.”

The sound he made was something between a groan and a laugh–a stunned, reverent huff that left his chest trembling.

He looked at you like he was seeing a miracle. Like the universe had answered every prayer he didn’t know he’d made.

“ I will carve my name into the marrow of your soul with every stroke, every breath, every cry of mine that fills you.” His hands slid beneath your thighs, and with effortless, godlike strength, he lifted you. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, your arms clinging to his shoulders as your back pressed gently against the slick tile behind you. He held you there like you weighed nothing–like you were made to be in his arms, always.

“You want the world to know who you belong to?” He rasped against your throat, voice molten. “Then I’ll make sure they never question it again.”

His cock, thick and heavy, slid against your slick core–hot and pulsing between your thighs. The sensation made your breath hitch, your hips rolling forward on instinct, chasing the contact.

“Sentry–”

“I’ve got you,” He whispered, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your mouth. “I’ll always have you.”

And then–slow, devastating, divine–he pushed inside you.

You cried out, head falling back with a soft, strangled moan as your body stretched to take him. He was massive, thick and perfect, and the way he filled you made stars burst behind your eyes.

He stilled once he was buried deep, forehead pressed to yours, breathing heavy. Your nails dug into his back, thighs trembling where they wrapped around his hips. You whimpered, rolling your hips. “Move–please, just–fuck, move–”

And he did.

He pulled out slow, just enough to make you clench, and then drove back in with a low, guttural moan that sent a tremor through your spine. His thrusts were deep. Measured. Devastating. Each one stole the air from your lungs, each one carved his presence deeper into your body like a brand.

The sound of your bodies meeting was wet, sinful–echoing in the steamy air with every hard grind of his hips.

“You’re mine,” He growled into your neck, biting gently where your pulse pounded. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” You gasped, clinging to him like a lifeline. “I’ve always been yours.”

His pace quickened–thrusts growing hungrier, sharper, your back braced against the tile as he fucked into you with divine rhythm, every stroke hitting so deep it made your eyes roll back.

“You take me so fucking well,” He groaned, his voice breaking, “So perfect, so tight-God, you were made for me–”

Your cries filled the room–his name a mantra on your lips, every gasp an offering, every moan a confession.

You felt your climax building again–fast, furious, overwhelming. Your walls clenched tight around him and he let out a broken moan, his thrusts turning erratic. Each one punched a gasp from your lungs as he slammed up into you, the full weight of his strength braced into your hips, your back pressed tight to the slick tile. You clung to him like gravity had forgotten you existed—your fingers buried in his soaked hair, tugging hard with every roll of your hips to meet his.

And he loved it.

“Fuck—yes,” he groaned, his voice breaking against your throat. “Pull harder—don’t stop—God, I need—”

The sound of your slick heat swallowing him over and over again echoed off the steamy walls, and you could’ve sworn—

You heard it.

A soft sizzle in the air.

Not from the water.

From him.

From the radiant heat pouring off his skin–golden veins pulsing beneath his shoulders, sweat and steam beading off his spine, chest glowing like a furnace that had reached the edge of combustion. It rolled off him in waves. The kind of heat that seared. That warned. That branded.

And then–

He bit you.

His mouth opened wide over the curve of your shoulder, and his teeth sank deep into the tender flesh there–not teasing, not playful, but primal. Claiming.

You screamed.

Not from pain.

From devastation.

Your body seized violently against his, a sob torn from your throat as your climax ripped through you, sharp and fast and absolute. The pain and pleasure twisted together, blooming like fire through your blood. Your muscles locked, your walls clenching down so hard on him that he choked on a groan, arms trembling where he held you.

You could feel it.

His teeth.

Breaking skin.

Not deep enough to destroy–but deep enough to mark. Permanently.

To scar…To mark.

”You’re all mine.” He grunted against your skin, voice shredded with need. You were already shaking, still riding the aftermath of your orgasm when he growled into your throat:

“I’m gonna fill you up.”

A savage thrust.

“I want it dripping down your thighs.”

Another.

Harder.

Deeper.

You moaned so loud your voice cracked, hips bucking helplessly as he thrust into you again, again, again–

And then he buried himself to the hilt, grinding hard against your hips, and his forehead dropped to your burning shoulder–right over the mark he’d made–as he let out a long, broken moan.

His body shuddered, muscles locking, cock throbbing deep inside you as he spilled into you with everything he had.

It was endless.

Hot. Heavy. Worshipful.

You could feel him–his release pulsing inside you in thick waves, his breath stuttering against your skin, his hands shaking where they clutched your thighs like he didn’t trust himself not to fall apart completely.

And he was falling apart.

You felt it in every twitch of his hips. Every tremble in his chest. Every wrecked, holy sound that escaped his throat as he stayed locked inside you, trembling from the force of his own climax.

“You’re…Fuck–You’re everything,” He rasped, voice barely a whisper. “I don’t care if I burn for this. I’d burn again. A thousand times. Just to feel you like this.”

You clung to him, panting, overwhelmed, every nerve still humming.

And when his arms finally loosened and he kissed the wound he’d left on your shoulder–soft, gentle, as though to apologize even while owning it–your breath caught all over again.

Because this wasn’t just sex.

This was immolation.

706 notes · View notes

hy6erion · 4 months ago

Text

𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐒𝐮𝐛𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧

𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐭𝐲𝐩𝐞 𝐕𝐢𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

⇢ 𝐟𝐞𝐦! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭, 𝐦𝐝𝐧𝐢, 𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐦𝐛𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐬𝐢𝐳𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤, 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐦, 𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐛 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲 (??), 𝐨𝐛𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐬𝐞𝐱, 𝐥𝐚𝐛 𝐬𝐞𝐱, 𝐜𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞

𝐚/𝐧: 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 (𝐢'𝐦 𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫), 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐧. 𝐀𝐧𝐲𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲!!

The laboratory smelled of scorched metal and ozone, the air thick with the hum of something unnatural. Hextech pulsed faintly in the dimness, the glow of unstable energy illuminating the sprawl of unfinished blueprints, half-formed constructs, and tools scattered across the workspace. The place was Viktor’s mind made manifest—chaotic, brilliant, dangerous.

And you had walked straight into it.

You should have turned back the moment the reinforced door slid shut behind you, sealing you inside with him. But curiosity had always been your weakness. That, and something deeper—something you weren’t quite ready to name.

Viktor hadn’t looked up immediately. He was hunched over his latest project, fingers deftly adjusting a glowing green component embedded in what looked like a modified prosthetic. The energy arced sharply as he worked, momentarily illuminating the sharp planes of his face, the mess of dark hair that curled over the edge of his golden ocular implants.

It wasn’t until you took another step forward that he finally acknowledged your presence.

“Curious, are we?”

His voice slid through the dimness like a blade, smooth and sharp. He still hadn’t turned, but you knew he had been aware of you the moment you entered. The way his shoulders tensed slightly, the way his fingers stilled for half a second before continuing their work—it was enough.

You swallowed, trying to ignore the way his presence made the air feel heavier. “I was looking for you.”

That earned a reaction. His head tilted, just slightly. A pause. Then, finally, he turned.

His gaze was impossible to hold. The glow of his mechanical eye cast eerie reflections across his face, half in shadow, half illuminated by something unnatural. His real eye was unreadable, dark and gleaming beneath the mess of his hair.

“And now you have found me.”

There was something wrong with the way he said it. Like you had fallen into a carefully laid trap and only now realized the bars had locked behind you.

You tried not to react as he stepped closer.

Viktor never moved without purpose. Every shift of his weight, every subtle tilt of his head—it was all calculated, measured. And now, with the way his gaze dragged over you, slow and dissecting, you felt like a specimen under a magnifying glass.

His voice was almost amused when he spoke again. “You are trembling.”

You hadn’t noticed until now. The realization made your stomach tighten, shame curling in the back of your throat. You weren’t afraid of him. At least, you didn’t think you were. And yet—

His gloved fingers reached out, brushing the side of your throat. A light touch. Testing.

You gasped.

He smiled.

“Fascinating.”

The word sent a shiver down your spine. Because Viktor did not waste time on things that were not useful to him. If he was fascinated, it was because he was studying you.

You took a step back. A mistake. His expression didn’t change, but you felt the shift in the air, the way something unseen coiled tighter between you.

“You flinch,” he murmured, tilting his head. “Yet you do not leave. Why?”

The words shouldn’t have had weight. But coming from him—razor-sharp, peeling you apart layer by layer—they made something in you falter.

“I—” He was in front of you before you could finish “Shhh.”

The command was soft. Almost gentle. His fingers tilted your chin up, forcing your eyes to meet his. The glow of his lenses pulsed slightly, shifting as he cataloged your reaction, as he watched your breath hitch.

“I have been patient,” he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly against your lower lip. “So very patient.”

Something dark flickered behind his eyes. The kind of hunger that wasn’t born overnight.

“Tell me” he breathed, his voice a slow, curling heat against your skin, “how long do you intend to test my restraint?”

Your stomach dropped.

The moment stretched, taut and fragile. His grip on your chin wasn’t tight, but it was unrelenting. Unyielding.

And you—gods help you—you didn’t move away.

That was all the permission he needed.

The next breath you took was stolen from your lungs as he moved—fast. One moment, you were standing. The next, your back hit the cool metal of the nearest worktable, sending scattered blueprints fluttering to the ground.

His hand was at your throat now—not squeezing, not yet. Just resting. Feeling the frantic pulse beneath his fingers.

“I wonder,” he mused, his voice maddeningly calm as he leaned in, his lips barely grazing the shell of your ear, “do you truly not understand the danger you are in?”

You sucked in a breath, but it was shallow. Not enough. He was too close. The scent of metal and oil and something darker surrounded you, wrapped around your senses like a vice.

“Or…” He tilted his head, dragging his nose along the curve of your jaw, inhaling slowly. “Is it that you do?”

You whimpered. The sound was humiliatingly soft, but it didn’t escape him.

He smiled against your skin. “Ah. That is it, isn’t it?”

His hand moved, gliding lower, over the curve of your waist, the dip of your hip. Testing. Mapping. The way his fingers dragged over your clothes felt obscene, a slow unraveling of something inevitable.

“You wish to play human games,” he murmured, dragging his lips down, just over the curve of your throat, “but you forget—I am no longer a man who plays by such rules.”

Heat pooled between your thighs, unwelcome and delicious. You tried to squeeze them together, but his leg slotted between yours before you could, pinning you against the table. The pressure sent a sharp jolt of sensation through you, your breath hitching as he pressed just slightly—just enough to feel what he was doing to you.

He chuckled. Low. Dark.

“So soft,” he murmured, his grip tightening on your waist. “So eager.”

He rocked against you, slow and purposeful. The sensation sent a shock of pleasure through your core, a gasp ripping from your throat before you could stop it.

“Look at you.” His voice was almost reverent, his lips ghosting against the corner of your mouth. “So willing to be ruined.”

Your head was spinning. You knew you should stop this. You knew. And yet— You turned your head. Just slightly. Just enough.

And Viktor took exactly what you offered.

His lips crashed against yours.

Not a kiss—a claim.

You moaned, and that was all it took for him to deepen it, devouring every sound you made. His metal hand gripped your hip, fingers digging in as he rocked against you again, harder this time, pressing himself between your legs with slow, maddening precision.

“You are mine now,” he rasped against your lips. “And I do not intend to let you go.”

His words barely had time to settle before Viktor moved.

You barely registered the sharp scrape of metal against the edge of the table before you were hauled up, your thighs spreading around his waist as he slotted himself between them. The rough press of his uniform scraped against your inner thighs, and the realization hit—you were caged now, caught in the unforgiving grip of a man who had long since abandoned human restraint.

“You feel it, don’t you?” Viktor rasped, his voice a dark whisper against your lips. His hips rolled—slow, deliberate. The thick press of his cock, still confined by layers of fabric, ground against your cunt with enough pressure to have your head falling back against the table.

“Yes,” he breathed, watching you. Cataloging.

His metal fingers dug into your thigh, spreading you obscenely wide, while his gloved hand slid beneath your chin, tilting your face up until your breath hitched.

“I have waited,” he murmured, dragging his nose along your cheek. “I have suffered in silence—”

The next grind of his hips against your aching cunt made you writhe, the friction bordering on unbearable. Your breath broke into a gasp, hands flying to clutch at his shoulders, his neck—anything to ground yourself.

His hand snapped to your wrist, pinning it back against the metal surface with unforgiving force.

“But I suffer no longer.”

Your stomach tightened at the raw hunger in his voice. His lenses flickered, scanning your flushed skin, your parted lips, the way your chest rose and fell in shallow, desperate breaths.

He wanted to consume you. And he would.

“This—” His metal fingers tore at the fabric of your clothes, ripping away the layers with impatient efficiency. The air hit your exposed skin, a sharp contrast to the heat pooling between your legs ”—is mine.”

Your head fell back with a cry as his hand found you, his fingers dragging over your slick folds with slow, taunting precision.

“So eager,” he murmured, pressing a gloved finger inside without warning.

Your body arched, your legs attempting to close around his waist, but he would not allow it. His metal grip tightened, forcing you to remain open—to be seen.

“Do you think I have not noticed?” His voice was calm, but there was a sharp edge beneath it—a controlled fury. “The way you watch me? The way your breath catches whenever I draw near?”

He withdrew his finger, only to drag it achingly slow against your throbbing clit, coating you in the evidence of your own betrayal.

“You pretend you fear me.”

His cock pressed against your entrance now, still shielded by fabric, but so dangerously close.

“But this?” He rocked against you, the thick pressure of his length gliding over your cunt, making you shudder beneath him.

“This tells me the truth.”

You wanted him.

And Viktor had never been a man to deny himself what he was owed.

“This?” Viktor’s voice was velvet-wrapped steel, his accent thickened by hunger. His cock dragged against your drenched slit, separated only by the thin barrier of his uniform. The friction sent a delicious, maddening shock through your core. Your fingers clenched against the table’s edge, your body betraying you with a whimpering shudder.

Viktor chuckled—low, dark, victorious.

“You shiver beneath me, yet pretend resistance.”

His metal hand traced the inside of your thigh, a cold contrast to the burning heat pooling between them.

“Perhaps you need further convincing?”

The next grind of his hips sent wetness spilling onto the coarse fabric of his pants. He growled, feeling it—evidence of your surrender smearing against his clothed length.

“I feel you” he breathed, his voice dripping with dark amusement. “Soaking me like a little whore, yet still you tremble?”

Your breath caught as his gloved fingers found your clit again, this time with no patience, no teasing—just ruthless, practiced intent. He pressed firm circles against the swollen bud, his gaze locked onto yours, drinking in every twitch, every sharp inhale, every helpless little jerk of your hips.

“Such a delicate thing,” Viktor mused. “So easily unraveled.”

You tried to close your legs against the intensity, but his metal grip shot out, forcing you apart again.

“No,” he snapped, voice sharp. “You will take everything I give.”

Your thighs trembled in his hold.

“Yes,” he purred, drinking in your helplessness. “That’s it. Good girl.”

The praise was nearly mocking, but your body reacted anyway, a fresh wave of slick dripping down your folds.

“Ahh—look at this mess.” Viktor’s gloved hand slipped lower, his fingers spreading you open. Inspecting. “Do you see? Your body betrays you. It begs me to ruin you.”

Your walls clenched around nothing, desperate and aching.

“Hnn—Viktor—”

A sharp slap against your clit made you yelp, the sting sharp and deliciously cruel.

“Try again.” His voice was soft, but the command beneath it was undeniable.

“Please,” you gasped, back arching, hips rolling against his fingers.

Viktor hummed in approval, his metal hand moving to grip your jaw, forcing your gaze onto him.

“Good girl.”

Then—he moved.

Your world tilted as he flipped you onto your stomach in one motion, your chest pressing against the cold metal of his worktable. His hand pushed down on your back, arching you, forcing you to present yourself.

“Look at you,” he rasped, pulling his belt slowly, the leather hissing through the loops. The sound made your breath stutter—anticipation spiking through your veins.

“Do you know how long I have waited for this?”

A sharp tug and his pants dropped just enough to free his cock, the thick length pressing against your soaked entrance.

Your nails scraped against the table, your body tensing in anticipation.

“Do you know,” Viktor continued, his tip teasing, rubbing against your swollen folds, “how many nights I have imagined you like this? Bent over, begging for me?”

The desperation clawed at your throat.

“Viktor—please—”

His metal hand snapped up, gripping your throat, arching you back against his chest.

“Shhh.” He kissed the corner of your jaw, his cockhead pressing just against your fluttering entrance.

“Do not rush me.”

And then—he pushed in.

Your breath broke into a strangled cry as Viktor pushed inside, his cock splitting you open with an unrelenting, slow precision. The stretch was intense, bordering on unbearable—your walls clenched instinctively, trying to accommodate him, but he was thick, every inch of him sinking into you with a maddening patience.

“Aww” he cooed, his metal hand tightening around your throat. His lips dragged against the shell of your ear, his breath hot, teasing. “You can take it. I know you can.”

Your fingers scrabbled against the table, seeking purchase, something to ground yourself against the overwhelming intrusion. He was so deep, pressing against something achingly tender, and he wasn’t even fully inside yet.

“You are squeezing me so tight..” Viktor groaned, his free hand spreading your ass, watching the way your pretty cunt struggled to take him. His hips rolled, shallow thrusts, forcing you to stretch little by little.

“V-Viktor—” You whimpered, your body trembling, torn between pleasure and torment.

“Hnn, yes—say my name,” he murmured, his tongue flicking against your sweat-damp skin. His hand slid down, pressing against your lower belly, feeling the way his cock bulged inside you.

“So small,” he mused, a dark chuckle vibrating through his chest. “So tight around me.”

His hips drew back, and for a brief, blissful second, you thought he might ease up—

But then, he slammed forward.

The force sent a sharp shockwave through your body, your mouth falling open in a silent scream as he buried himself to the hilt.

“Ahhh—!”

“There it is,” Viktor growled, his fingers gripping your waist, holding you in place as he pulled back and drove in again.

Again.

A gain.

“You take me so well,” he purred, his voice thick with praise and possession. “Like you were made for this—made for me.”

His pace quickened, brutal and merciless, his cock dragging against your g-spot with every deep thrust. Your toes curled, your back arching, the wet slap of skin against skin echoing through the dimly lit workshop.

“So desperate,” Viktor mused, his metal hand gripping your hair, yanking your head back just enough for his teeth to scrape against your exposed throat.

“Your body begs me to ruin it.”

You cried out, your fingers curling, your walls clenching down around him too hard—

“Ah” Viktor hissed, his grip tightening as he slammed into you harder, rougher. “You think I will let you come so easily?”

His fingers abandoned your throat, slipping down to your aching clit, circling, taunting.

“Tell me,” he rasped. “Tell me who owns you.”

Your mind spun, every nerve in your body on fire. The pressure built, coiling so tight, so intense, you thought you might break apart—

“Say it.”

“Y-you—Viktor—!”

His pace faltered, just for a moment—like the words had satisfied something dark inside him.

Then—he fucked into you harder.

“Good girl,” he gritted out, his breath coming in ragged groans. His movements grew sloppy, more desperate, his fingers still tormenting your clit.

“Now—come for me.”

The command sent you spiraling.

Your body locked up, your vision going white as the orgasm crashed into you, waves of blinding, raw pleasure tearing through every inch of you. Your walls spasmed, milking his cock, your cries broken, breathless.

“Yes—yes, that’s it,” Viktor groaned, his own rhythm stuttering, faltering—

And then—he buried himself deep, his hips jerking as he spilled inside you.

A low, guttural moan tore from his throat, his body shuddering against yours as he filled you with hot, thick ropes of cum.

His grip eased, his breathing heavy against your skin. For a moment, neither of you moved, the only sound in the workshop the erratic pounding of your hearts.

Then—Viktor let out a low chuckle, his hands trailing over your trembling body.

“I knew you would break for me,” he murmured.

His cock twitched, still half-hard inside you.

“But I am not done yet.”

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villainsoftheweek · 10 days ago

Text

the devil can't have you.

chapter one.

explicit. 18+ only. - 4.3k+ - Alastor x f!reader

content: rivalry: Lucifer vs. Alastor, possessive behavior, obsession, jealousy, smut, blood, voyeurism / implied eavesdropping, marking / claiming, non-ACE Alastor

you laughed at the Morningstar’s joke — and Alastor made sure you screamed his name loud enough for all of Hell to hear.

The ballroom glittered like the throat of a dying star—opulent, suffocating, gilded in corruption. Every inch of Lucifer’s palace was polished decadence, from the stained-glass chandeliers dripping with ruby light to the polished obsidian floors that mirrored a thousand wicked smiles. The air smelled of perfumed sin and sweet rot, heavy with incense and the faintest burn of ozone, as if even the architecture held its breath in reverence or restraint.

Tonight’s gala was no mere display of infernal wealth. It pulsed with tension—something theatrical, electric, and cruel. There was music, yes: a haunting string quartet playing in minor thirds, the notes winding like serpents between whispered conversation and brittle laughter. But beneath it all thrummed something darker. The walls seemed to lean in. The candles danced too high. This wasn’t celebration. It was spectacle.

It was amusement.

You stood near the edge of the marble dais, your posture poised, the stem of your wineglass cool and delicate between your fingers. The liquid inside swirled like blood caught in a spell, darker than crimson, deeper than ruby. Your dress clung to you like shadow and flame — midnight velvet with glimmers of ember thread, its low back baring you to the flickering light and every covetous gaze it drew. You were made to be watched, and tonight, you were on full display.

Alastor was beside you, tall and composed, one gloved hand resting lightly — possessively — on the small of your back. His grin gleamed like a razor, his eyes narrow slits of broadcast gleam. Every inch of him radiated static elegance, the illusion of effortless charm sharpened into something dangerous. He murmured small barbs and flatteries to passing guests with his usual cordial sadism, but never once did his hand leave your body. Not for a second. Not until you sweely requested he fill your drink again — and even then it was full of reluctance.

And yet, across the room, Lucifer watched you with the patience of a god denied tribute.

He stood elevated on his own dais, surrounded by sycophants in gold-threaded attire and velvet cloaks. And still, his gaze never wavered from you. It bored through satin and skin and bone, so warm it was cold. He looked at you not like prey, nor prize — but as if he were the one holding your leash, and Alastor had dared to borrow it.

When he approached, the crowd parted without question. His presence rolled forward like a tide, calm and inevitable, drowning all conversation in his wake. He smiled as he reached you — slow, radiant, too white.

“Tell me, darling,” he purred, voice silk stretched over a blade, “how does one enchant a man like him?”

You blinked, not because you didn’t understand, but because your brain refused to answer fast enough.

“Pardon?”

Lucifer’s laugh was soft and lilting, like the final chord of a church hymn as it echoes off ancient stone — too beautiful to be trusted. “Alastor,” he said, as though tasting the name. “He’s been circling you like a predator since the moment you arrived. Unusual, for him. I was beginning to think his appetites had gone entirely stale.”

The thought of his appetites going stale pulled a soft giggle from you, the crinkles at the edges of your eyes that Alastor had grown so fond of kissing forming briefly. He, unfortunately, took it as an invitation to press his luck.

His gaze dropped to your wrist, where his fingers brushed lightly, as though testing the pulse. The touch burned, not hot but divine — an echo of Heaven still lingering in the devil's skin. His thumb stroked once, just enough to make your breath catch.

“Do you even know the power you hold?”

It wasn’t a compliment. It was a warning. A mirror held up too close. A reflection through him you didn’t want to see.

Before you could shape a reply, the atmosphere shifted like a radio dial snapping to a new frequency. Alastor reappeared, his shadow preceding him in sharp angles. His smile didn’t change, but the air around him did — cooler, crackling faintly, as if the entire ballroom had drifted into a broadcast lull.

“Ah, Lucifer,” he said sweetly, his voice honey-glazed static, a dangerous edge threatening beneath the cracks. “Always the charmer. But let’s not flatter my dear too much — she might begin to think she belongs to someone else!”

He tilted his head just slightly toward you, his grin tightening at the edges.

Lucifer’s grin widened in turn, all teeth and sacrilege.

“Oh?” he asked, gaze flickering lazily between the two of you. “Tell me — do you love her, or do you simply hate the idea that I could?”

Alastor’s fingers, still nestled against your spine, pressed in harder. Not enough to hurt, but enough to speak. Mine. He didn’t feel it necessary to answer a question with such an obvious answer.

The moment hung there like a held breath, thick with the scent of ancient rivalry and something far more primal. Lucifer’s eyes gleamed. Alastor’s grip flexed. And you — caught between divinity and distortion — felt your own blood begin to sing.

Lucifer took one slow step back, the smirk never leaving his lips. His gaze flicked lazily from Alastor’s clawed hand at your spine to your parted lips, your breath caught like prey between them.

Then he chuckled — low, intimate, the sound of stained-glass cracking under pressure.

“Careful, Alastor. Keep clutching her like that, and someone might think you’re afraid she’ll stray.”

His eyes slid back to yours, warm and unhurried.

“You do wear danger beautifully, little one,” he murmured, voice curling around you like smoke. “Try not to let him smother the shine.”

And with that, Lucifer turned — not retreating, but receding, like the tide before a storm — and vanished into the gala’s gilded gloom.

Your lips parted to speak again, but Alastor was already circling. Not like a man — like something older, coiling. The air grew tight with invisible threads, radio static weaving into the edges of your hearing. A thousand distant voices whispered nonsense beneath it all, like channels caught between stations.

“Funny, isn’t it?” he murmured behind you, his breath ghosting your ear. “He always did enjoy watching the stars burn out. There’s something exquisite about the moment right before collapse. So bright. So final.”

One gloved hand slid around your waist, fingers splaying possessively over your stomach. The other crept higher — up your spine, between your shoulder blades, guiding you subtly back against his chest.

“I’ve seen it,” he continued, voice low and rich with static. “He did it to kings. To angels. Even to his own daughter.”

You stiffened.

He smiled against your neck, lips not quite touching. His grip tightened — subtly, not painfully, but with intent. Anchoring. Binding.

“But tonight…tonight he didn’t watch them.” His mouth brushed your temple, your cheek. “He watched you.”

His hand at your waist slid downward, palm flattening against your hip, holding you still.

“Not just a glance. Not just curiosity.” His voice dipped lower, static wrapping the words like barbed wire in velvet. “He watched you the way a man watches a feast he’s been fasting for. The way a hunter watches a wounded fawn stumble.”

You turned your head slightly, but his grip didn't allow escape — he followed, pressing in.

“And you glowed for him,” Alastor hissed, his grin faltering at the edges. “He made you shine. You laughed, and the sound caught in his throat like a hook.”

His hand moved again, this time gliding up your chest, fingers brushing the base of your throat.

“Do you know what it’s like to hear that?” he whispered. “To feel it — on every station, across every thread of static — your laugh lighting up for him?”

He leaned in closer, cheek to cheek, his smile now a trembling thing, stretched too wide.

“I should cut his ears off for listening.”

You inhaled sharply.

Alastor laughed, soft and terrible. “But I won’t. No…no, he deserves to hear what comes next.”

He bent, lips grazing the skin below your jaw.

“Because you’re mine,” he purred, tongue flicking against your pulse like a metronome. “And I’m going to make sure he never forgets what that sounds like.”

His voice was dipped in that awful sweetness again — like sugared poison. He took a step closer. Then another. Until the hem of his coat brushed your knees and the air between you crackled like a live wire.

You swallowed, every nerve on edge.

“…Are you angry?” you asked at last, voice small beneath the weight of him.

Alastor stilled.

Then: a low, velvet laugh.

“No, no, my dear. Anger is so uncouth,” he cooed, almost lovingly. “This?” His fingers slid higher, curling just under your chin, tilting your face toward him. “This is inspiration.”

His grin returned, terrible and sharp.

“I’ve never been so motivated to compose.”

“Why does it matter then?” you asked, quieter than you meant. “You said you weren’t angry.”

“I’m not,” he cooed, tilting his head. “I’m simply jealous.”

He leaned in then, almost nose to nose, his smile feral. “Because I know exactly what he saw in you. And I know he wants to take it for himself.”

His gloved fingers finally touched your chin — gentle, guiding, lifting.

“But he won’t,” Alastor murmured. “Because I saw it first. I tuned into your frequency before he even knew you existed.”

A flash of something darker flared behind his eyes. “You’re already mine, sweetheart. The dial’s been set.”

His thumb brushed your lower lip.

“And I’d rather ruin you than share.”

You didn’t move at first. Neither did he.

Alastor’s fingers lingered at your chin, still poised like a conductor holding the final note of a symphony. His grin had not faltered, but it no longer reached his eyes — it hung there, brittle and bloodless, as though carved from porcelain.

For a moment, the room felt like a coffin. Velvet-lined. Airless.

Then, just as suddenly as the pressure had risen, it fell away.

He stepped back.

Composed himself.

Adjusted his cuffs.

And offered you his arm like nothing had happened.

“Shall we?”

You hesitated. But your hand slid into the crook of his elbow nonetheless.

The hall outside was quieter than it should have been. Even the shadows along the walls seemed to draw back, afraid of proximity. Alastor hummed a pleasant tune softly as you descended the grand staircase — an old jazz refrain about heartbreak and hellfire, off-key in places, like he was letting it rot on purpose.

No one dared look at you.

No one dared stop him.

You felt the weight of it trailing behind you, not your dress, not your heels, but the gaze of a devil you hadn’t known you’d tempted.

You didn’t speak much on the way home.

Alastor was all old-world elegance: arm hooked through yours, his gait measured, his smile serene, a quiet hum trailing from his lips like a lullaby soaked in formaldehyde. He offered pleasantries to passersby, nodded to the shadows that bowed at his presence. But something about him felt too precise — too measured. Every movement laced with tension so tightly wound it became indistinguishable from grace. Like a ballroom dancer spun too many times, the mask barely clinging.

Like a marionette waiting for the strings to snap.

The cold outside clung to your skin even as you entered the Hazbin Hotel, the warmth inside doing little to ease the chill crawling up your spine. Red velvet and flickering neon cast the familiar halls in their usual infernal glow, but it felt different now — uncomfortably close. Like the walls had heard something they shouldn’t.

He said nothing as you climbed the stairs.

When you reached your suite and pushed the door open, he followed without being asked. Still humming that same, saccharine tune — something old, something half-forgotten, a warbled relic from a phonograph long broken. The notes trailed him like fog.

He didn’t speak. Not even when the door clicked shut behind you.

Then came the lock.

Then the seal.

The faint, ghostly whisper of enchanted wards slithered over the frame. Sigils shimmered on the wood for a breath before vanishing, replaced by a low hum, like a radio tuned just slightly off-station. The air turned viscous. The corners of the room dimmed. A single bulb flickered once, then stilled.

Your back straightened. Instinctively. Your fingers tightened around the hem of your dress.

“Alastor— ”

“Do you know,” he interrupted, voice level and unblinking, “how many frequencies he listens to?”

His silhouette stretched across the floor in the dim light, casting his grin longer than his body. He took a step forward, still smiling.

“How many walls his voice passes through? How many rooms it reaches — even when he isn't there?”

You turned to face him fully now, your heart climbing its way up your throat. “Alastor, it was just —”

“He heard you laugh.” His tone remained calm, almost conversational. But his eyes gleamed with something serrated beneath the static. “He saw your eyes shine for him. For Lucifer.”

His name hung in the air like sulfur. Like a challenge.

You opened your mouth, breath catching on the rise of protest, but Alastor was already moving. Not quickly. Slowly. Casually. Like the inevitable walk of a storm toward your doorstep.

“Alastor, I didn’t —”

“Oh, darling.” The word curdled sweet in his mouth. His grin split wider, crueler, almost joyous in its blade-edge clarity. “I insist that I’m not angry.”

Another step.

“I’m inspired.”

His shadow swallowed the distance between you. One gloved hand reached up — not to strike, not to grab — but to gently brush a strand of hair from your cheek. Tender. Reverent. Terrifying.

“You let him see the shine in you,” Alastor murmured, his voice a velvet snarl. “But let me show you what it reflects when it’s truly mine.”

The room buzzed louder. The hum was inside your teeth now.

And the strings — those invisible, buried strings — tightened.

The air was thick with tension, and magic, and something darker still — possessive hunger coiled just beneath the surface of civility. The hum in the room wasn’t just static anymore. It was a low, electric throb, like a tuning fork buried in your bones, responding to the fury behind Alastor’s calm.

He stepped closer. One step. Then another. Until your spine met the wall with a soft thud, and you realized — too late — that the exit was no longer an option.

Not that you’d ever exit his stage.

He leaned in, not with menace, but with dreadful control. His hand rose, slow as smoke curling through a cathedral, and brushed another lock of hair from your face. The motion was gentle — loving, almost. But his fingers lingered too long. Pressed too deliberately behind your ear, like he could tune you if he tried.

“You laughed for him,” he said again, voice like syrup left too long on the burner.

“I laughed at a joke —”

“You touched his arm.”

“He reached out first —”

“You let him look at you.”

That silenced you.

Because he was right.

You hadn’t stopped Lucifer. Hadn’t looked away.

Alastor’s smile cooled like a dead flame, all polish, no warmth. Calculated. Cutting.

“That’s the thing about being mine,” he murmured, tilting his head just enough to let the light catch the sharp edge of his grin. “It’s not spoken — it’s proven.”

And then his mouth was on yours.

He didn’t wait for permission. He never did.

The kiss was a strike — not soft, not coaxing, but claiming. His lips crashed into yours, all sharp edges and static. You tasted iron and ozone and something sweeter beneath, like rot soaked in red wine. His teeth scraped your lower lip — not by accident. It was a warning. A mark.

His hands, gloved and sure, clamped at your waist, dragging you forward into him until there was no space left at all. Your body sparked under his touch, nerves alight, trembling. The hum of his power wrapped around you like radio cords, unseen but unmistakably there.

Then he turned you — suddenly, dizzyingly. The room spun. The world shifted.

You hit the bed, silk sheets hissing beneath your body like water on a hot pan. Before you could rise or even breathe, he was over you — on you — climbing your form like smoke, like wrath given form. His legs bracketed yours. His presence swallowed the light.

“Let’s make sure he hears everything,” Alastor said, and his voice had changed — lower, more primal, deliciously cruel. “Since he clearly so adores listening to you.”

Your breath hitched. “What?”

He smiled down at you like a showman stepping into the spotlight. Too wide. Too bright. Wrong.

“Oh, he’s listening,” he purred, gesturing toward the door. “I made sure of it.”

He leaned in close, his mouth at your ear. “Every moan. Every scream. Every time you beg for me instead of him.”

Your mouth opened, words faltering on the edge of protest or surrender — only to choke off into a gasp as he shoved your thighs apart, one knee slotting between them with sudden, merciless force. His hands gripped your flesh with bruising intent, not to hurt but to brand.

The look in his eyes was pure theatre — rapturous, commanding, entertained.

But the way his hands trembled just faintly said more: jealousy wasn't the root of this — it was the spark. Obsession was the fire.

And tonight, he was going to burn you down for the world to hear.

Clothes vanished in flashes of red and sound, torn away with the wild abandon of a storm breaking free. There was no ceremony here — no delicate unbuttoning or slow slide of fabric. His claws raked at the delicate weave of your dress, ripping straps and shredding silk until it hung in ragged shards, barely clinging to your skin. The remnants fell away like dying embers, pooling silently on the floor beneath you.

He left you bare. Vulnerable. Breathless.

The cold air kissed your exposed flesh, but it was nothing compared to the heat radiating from him — the quiet storm of desire crackling in every measured breath, every tense muscle.

Alastor knelt between your thighs, the world narrowing to the curve of your hips and the sharp edges of his presence. For once, that maddening grin softened — dimmed — not from restraint or denial, but from a hunger so deep it was almost worship.

His pupils dilated, black and shimmering like twin voids pulling you in. His lips parted slightly, a breath caught between adoration and appetite.

“I’ll make you sing,” he whispered, voice low and rough as static sliding over wire. His tongue traced a deliberate path, slow and reverent, from the hollow just inside your knee, crawling upward over silken skin, inching toward the secret warmth of your inner thigh.

Every nerve in your body ignited.

His mouth descended next — a soft, searing touch that silenced all thought. The world ceased to exist beyond the exquisite, burning pressure of him against you.

The way his lips moved, slow and precise, was a language older than sin itself. He mapped you with whispered promises and silent commands, each kiss a note in a song only he could compose. His hands gripped your hips, holding you steady even as your breath hitched and your heart hammered a wild tattoo against your ribs.

You moaned for him — such a pretty sound.

“Do you hear that?” he murmured between kisses, voice trembling with a fierce, beautiful madness. “That’s the sound of your surrender. And I will broadcast it — far and wide.”

Your body trembled beneath his worship, every touch a spark setting fire to long-dormant shadows inside you. You were caught in the tempest of his obsession — both captive and willing participant, lost to the primal, reverberating chorus of need and possession.

His tongue was ruthless — deliberate, skilled, cruel in its worship. Every flick, every press of flesh against flesh was a vow, a claim, a promise to unravel you piece by piece. He traced the most sensitive contours of your skin with the precision of a maestro conducting a symphony of ruin. Warm, wet, commanding, he explored you with a hunger that felt ancient, insatiable, as if he were tasting your very soul.

Your back arched involuntarily, spine bowing beneath the weight of his attention. Fingers clenched in his thick, unruly hair, tugging at the strands like lifelines. Every moan that ripped from your throat was a raw, ragged note — each one coaxed out of you by his expert ministrations, each one echoing in the charged silence around you.

The heat pooling deep inside you built faster than you could contain it, swelling until the edges blurred and your breath came in shallow gasps.

But he didn’t let you fall. Not yet.

His mouth pulled away just before the breaking point — leaving you suspended on the edge of madness, trembling, desperate. His grin was sharp and merciless, an artist pleased with his masterpiece unfinished.

“What’s the matter?” he purred, voice thick with amusement and something darker, possessive. “You don’t want to finish before our guest gets to the good part, do you?”

You barely had time to catch your breath before he flipped you onto your stomach, his movements fluid and forceful all at once. Your body hit the mattress with a soft thud, sheets sliding beneath you.

One hand pressed firmly to the small of your back, anchoring you. The other gripped your hip hard enough to bruise — pain and pleasure mingling into an intoxicating elixir. His fingers left a trail of fire where they pressed, marking you.

Then he thrust into you — deep, rough, primal.

The sudden fullness shattered your restraint. Your scream tore free, raw and ragged.

“Louder,” he snarled, voice warping with static, distorted and beautiful. “Let him hear how I fuck you.”

He drove into you with brutal rhythm, a relentless percussion of skin against skin that sent shockwaves through every nerve. Your muscles clenched around him, trembling with overstimulation and desperate need.

Alastor bit down on your shoulder — hard enough to draw blood. The sharp sting was quickly replaced by the slick warmth of his tongue, licking the wound clean with savage care. His grin was feral, a beast exulting in its prey.

“You’re mine,” he growled low in your ear, teeth grazing your skin. “Mine to break, mine to praise, mine to ruin.”

He shifted you again, dragging you up and turning you until you straddled his lap. The sudden change in angle sent new waves of fire through your core. His hands gripped your hips like iron handles on a machine, steadying you even as he thrust up to meet your movements, forcing you to ride him with fevered intensity.

Your mind unraveled — thoughts shattered, replaced by raw sensation. Breath came in ragged bursts, your body pushed beyond any limit you’d known before.

“Say my name,” he commanded, voice a velvet whip.

You obeyed. Again. And again.

“Alastor.”

“Louder.”

“Alastor!”

“Again!”

“Alastor!”

He claimed your mouth with a kiss then — deep, wild, a desperate worship that left you gasping for air. Again he shifted until he was atop you, driving into you with a renewed force you’d experienced before — he never lasted much longer like this. His hands tangled in your hair, holding you captive with fierce adoration in his violence.

He drove you to climax after shattering climax, holding you at the precipice of sensation until your sobs spilled freely, tears mingling with sweat and the sting of his teeth.

And then, finally, he came — moaning low and guttural, voice shuddering with release as his fingers bruised your skin in a final, possessive grasp. The room thrummed with his power, shadows twitching and pulsing like living things caught in the wake of his storm.

He collapsed on top of you, breath ragged, heat radiating in waves.

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice soft now, almost tender. “Good, good girl.”

You shuddered beneath him, wrapped in his arms, coated in sweat and bite marks and the magic that lingered like a third skin.

In the quiet that followed, his lips brushed against your ear.

“I’ll send him a recording tomorrow.”

You almost laughed. Almost cried.

But instead, you whispered his name again. Just once.

He smiled.

And outside the suite, the faintest crackle of power flickered — like a wire gone hot, humming with dark intent.

Lucifer sat upon his throne — a monolith carved from shadow and regret, towering above the cavernous expanse of his palace. The crimson velvet beneath him was untouched, save for the faintest imprint where the glass of wine had sat, now cold and forgotten. His fingers curled around the armrests with a quiet intensity, knuckles blanching beneath the weight of unseen fury.

The vast hall was deathly silent, yet beneath the surface, something pulsed — a distant, persistent echo woven into the very stones. It was a tapestry of sound: screams strangled into whispers, gasps caught between fear and longing, murmurs heavy with devotion and pain. Among the chorus, one voice threaded through with uncanny clarity — Alastor’s, weaving like a dark melody, and yours, trembling, raw, fragmented.

Lucifer’s eyes closed, lashes brushing against pale skin as he breathed in the reverberations. The echo clawed at something deep within him — a spark of ancient hunger, twisted affection, and burning jealousy.

“Oh, Alastor,” he murmured into the empty hall, voice low, laced with something dangerously close to admiration and warning. “You are afraid.”

There was no smile in his words, no softness in his tone. Only a cold, deliberate edge — like the sharp blade of a blade just drawn.

Yet beneath that stillness, his fingers clenched tighter on the armrests, white and trembling. Behind his closed lids, the flames in his eyes flickered — alive, sentient, and cruel. They danced with shadows older than sin itself, reflecting a darkness that had long ago learned to wait, to watch, and to strike.

“Good.”

The single word hung in the silence like a promise. A threat.

A reckoning waiting to ignite.

MASTERLIST.

#alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel smut #hazbin hotel fanfiction #alastor x reader #alastor fanfiction #alastor smut

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materialtestinglab · 7 months ago

Text

#ozone testing #material testing lab

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smutmind · 1 month ago

Text

Retroactive pt.1 ft. IRENE

The lab smelled like copper and ozone.

You were the last one in, as usual. While the others packed up, you lingered at your workstation, eyes glued to the microscope like it might finally show you something worth talking about. You didn’t see the spider until it was already on your wrist. Small, black, shiny like ink. It shimmered slightly under the fluorescent lights.

You stared at it for a second too long.

Then it bit.

You yelped and flinched, flicking it off. The thing vanished beneath the counter, but the damage was done. No pain, not exactly. Just a soft prick and a strange warmth that licked up your forearm like liquid heat. It wasn’t venomous—you were almost sure of that—but something about the sensation lodged deep in your chest. A tightness. A hum.

You didn’t mention it. You never mentioned much. You were the quiet guy, the awkward guy who sat in the back and took notes no one asked for. You avoided eye contact, kept your hoodie up even when it was hot. Social camouflage. It worked.

But later that night, everything changed.

You tossed and turned in bed. Your skin itched with energy. You jerked off once. Then again. It didn’t help. Your whole body pulsed. Dreams came hot and sticky: bodies writhing, gasps echoing, thighs squeezing, teeth sinking into skin. You woke up panting, hard enough to hurt, soaked in sweat.

The morning light hit different.

You looked in the mirror. Your eyes were sharper. Your jaw looked more defined. You smiled. It looked dangerous.

And then you walked into class like you owned the place.

Dr. Irene Voss noticed.

"You're late," she said, arching a brow. She was tall, severe, always in tight skirts and tighter buns. Her voice usually had that whipcrack edge. But today, it curled. Testing you.

You shrugged. "Had a dream worth staying in."

A flicker of something dark moved through her gaze. Interest.

Throughout the lecture, her eyes kept drifting. To your arms. Your lips. The way you sprawled back in your seat like you didn’t give a damn who was watching. When class ended, she called you over.

You leaned too close. She didn’t lean away.

"You ever wonder what makes some spiders retroactive?" she asked, fingers dancing along the edge of a petri dish.

"Only if they bite," you said.

She smiled. Slow. Dangerous.

"Come to my office. I want to show you something."

The door clicked shut behind you. The room smelled like ethanol and expensive perfume. She locked the door. Her heels clicked as she approached.

"What do you think you’re doing to me?" she asked.

You tilted your head. "Teaching you something new."

Her mouth was on yours before the sentence finished. She kissed like she graded—hard, relentless, expecting performance. Her blouse came off in a single shrug. You reached behind, unhooking her bra with a single flick.

She gasped. You took it as permission.

"Show me something publishable," she whispered.

You knelt.

Your hands slid up her thighs, coaxing them apart. The scent of her, rich and wet, filled your head. You dragged your tongue along the inside of her leg, slow and hot, until she shivered.

"God, you're slow..." she muttered, voice breathless.

"You want fast? Tell me."

Her fingers threaded into your hair. "Shut up and eat me."

You dove in. Her pussy was slick and swollen, lips parting for your tongue like an invitation. You licked her clit in deep, swirling motions, drawing moans that bounced off the sterile tile. She tasted sweet and musky, a heady mix that made your cock throb in your pants.

"Fuck—right there," she gasped, grinding on your face. "Suck my clit, just like that. Harder."

You sucked her clit between your lips, flicking it with your tongue. Her thighs clamped tight around your ears. She pulled your hair. Her legs trembled.

She came hard, gasping your name, her voice cracking as her body seized in waves. Her arousal coated your chin.

You rose.

She was still panting when you turned her around and bent her over the desk. Notes scattered, pens rolled to the floor. She arched her back and spread her legs wide.

"You gonna fill me up or just admire the view?"

You undid your pants, dragged the tip of your cock through her folds, spreading slick over her lips. Then you slid in. Inch by inch. Deep.

"Oh fuck," she moaned, knuckles white on the desk. "You're big. Goddamn."

You grabbed her hips and slammed into her. She cried out.

"That's it," you growled. "Take it. Say you want it."

"I want it! I want that cock, fuck me—harder!"

You drove into her, over and over, pace relentless. The slap of skin echoed off the walls. Her ass bounced back into your thrusts. She was loud, cursing, begging.

"Fuck, you're wrecking me," she cried.

"Good. You're gonna cum again, aren't you?"

"Y-yes, yes, oh fuck, don't stop!"

Her orgasm hit with a scream. She clenched around you so tight it triggered yours. You came deep, pulsing inside her, groaning low as your grip bruised her hips.

She collapsed over the desk, a mess of sweat and hair.

You tucked yourself away and straightened up. She didn’t move.

"You’re a goddamn menace," she whispered.

You smirked.

Then walked out without looking back.

Something inside you purred.

----- to be continued.

#irene smut #red velvet smut #spiderman parody #female idol smut #girl group smut #kpop smut #male reader smut #smut #kpop idol smut

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cloudedangels · 22 days ago

Text

A TEST OF CONTROL ☆ PT 3 (18+)

Part 3/? ▪︎ 5,225 words. (still not for minors! go away!)

Part 1 -> here ~ Part 2 -> here •

After three weeks of silence, Caleb shows up unannounced with stubble, longer hair, and a desperate need to know if she still wants him. What begins as tension and emotional reconnection quickly spirals into steam, sweat, and surrender. She peels the Colonel off of him piece by piece—until there’s nothing left between them but truth, skin, and a promise not to hold back this time. cw and tags: f!mc/reader, established relationship, light dom/sub dynamics, emotional smut, makeup sex sorta, orgasm delay/denial, colonel!caleb, oral sex (f receiving), shower, pretty slow burn, soft dominance, worship kink, begging, light angst, overstimulation, smut with feelings, praise kink, fingering, emotional vulnerability, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, edging, piv, caleb is pent up and assertive but still soft for mc, creampie, big dick caleb >:), stupid sl*ts say anything but i love u, dirty talk, stretching

an: i cannot express how long and how much this took to write. but i love this n them so so much u have no idea. it's filthy but also very sweet and intimate. could be read w/out pts 1 + 2 but i reccomend reading them for context! they're a good bit shorter.

enjoy bb apples hope u like! :3 i'm off to finish my fluff fic now. (　＾ω＾)>>♡

She smells him before she sees him, that woody citrus cologne he wears, mixed with the smell of leather and machine oil, ozone.

As MC enters her apartment, late from work, she’s sweaty from fighting wanderers, tired enough to almost hear her bed calling her name. She turns her key and opens the door. The scent of him hits her before anything else. Her breath stutters in her throat and she’s stopped in her tracks. She hasn’t caught the smell of him in weeks, she almost thinks she’s imagined it. She shuts the door and locks it, barely getting her hand over the dish when she notices a second set of keys inside of it. Then boots. Tall, black and untied. Then the small duffel beside them. the hat on top of the duffel. Then… him.

Caleb is sitting upright, asleep on her couch with his uniform still on. He’s leaned back, legs spread, head lolled back against the backrest. ‘His hair never gets this long’ she thinks. It’s too long to still meet protocol, tousled and slightly damp at the ends, brushing the back of his neck and the side of his face in a way she’s never seen before. He has one glove off, the left one, held in his other, still gloved, hand. The vein in his neck pulses visibly, his jaw, dusted with stubble, is tight, eyebrows knitted together. He doesn’t look peaceful in any way. Even though he’s asleep, he looks like he’s still held at attention.

She’s slow to approach him, taking off her shoes and padding over to him in her socks. She doesn’t want to wake him—this version of him is so rare that it’s something she wants to savour selfishly. She sits next to him and he doesn’t wake. The rise and fall of his chest is deceptively calm, considering the rest of him is so tightly wound. He looks like he showed up, sat down, and passed out without his own consent.

After watching him sleep, she laces her fingers into his left hand squeezing it gently. His hand twitches before it grips her back instinctively, before relaxing again.

“Caleb.” she whispers his name softly.

Nothing. She squeezes his hand tighter a couple times, trying again.

“Hey. Caleb. Wake up, it’s me.”

He jerks slightly, his eyes flashing open, wide with sudden fear, pupils shrunken. He looks around with brief terror before he recognizes her hand in his.

“Caleb.” she practically whispers, wondering what he could have dreamt about to make him so afraid when he woke up. “It’s okay. You’re okay… You’re here with me.”

“Pipsqueak?”

He looks down at her hand but not her face yet.

“Mhmm, the one and only. You look tired.”

He exhales and steadies, his body relaxing if only a little.

“I’m sorry, pips, I didn’t mean to scare you, I don’t even know how I fell asleep… I–”

She squeezes his hand once again, a hand on his face, nudging him to face her.

“It’s okay, I wasn’t scared, just surprised,” her voice is eggshell careful as she makes eye contact with him, continuing. “Is everything okay? Why are you here?”

He breaks eye contact by looking off to the side. He looks like a puppy confessing that it did a bad thing.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you, pips,” his voice is quiet, hoarse, “I needed to know if you still were m–” He shakes his head. “...if you still wanted me. I didn’t want to assume but… I couldn’t keep giving you space.”

Their eyes meet again Caleb smiling weakly, hopeful.

“I have a week-long leave. Told them it was an emergency. Flew straight here from Skyhaven after debrief. Used the key you gave me. I didn’t even sleep on the flight. Didn’t have time to change.”

She exhales. “You came straight from the fleet?”

He nods.

“That’s why you’re still dressed like a regulation nightmare.”

He huffs a short, guilty laugh. “Didn’t even change. I was scared I’d lose my nerve if I stopped moving. I guess I could've shaved. Or cut my hair.”

Silence again. Tight as a drawn string.

Finally she asks, “Why didn’t you call?”

His hand lifts slowly, touches her cheek with the back of his glove. His right hand. The colder one. “You didn’t either.”

She closes her eyes and leans into the touch. “I thought I was too harsh last time.”

“You weren’t.”

“I was trying to be… dominant,” she says, whisper-soft. “But I didn’t want to hurt you. After… you left before I woke up.”

He flinches, as if slapped by her softness.

“I was scared,” he admits. “Scared I’d ruined it. Or looked pathetic. I just…” he looks up at her, eyes dark and full. “I wanted to serve you. I liked it. I loved it. I’ve never wanted to be good for anyone like I do for you. Making you feel like that made me feel on top of the world. More of a man than this uniform ever will.”

Her hand is still in his. He rubs a thumb along her palm and then lifts it to his lips. Kisses the center.

“You’ve still got the key to me,” he murmurs. “You say the word. Say anything. I’ll kneel or I’ll command. I’ll beg or I’ll hold you down. Strong or weak. Whatever you need. I want to be what you need.”

“…Then let me take care of you for once.”

He freezes. Blinks.

She places her hands on his chest, running them gently over the sharp lines of the jacket. The thick fabric. The polished belt. She kisses him, with hesitation first then all in. He kisses her back with both his hands on either side of her face. She pulls away, their eyes heavy, breath too.

“This thing looks stuffy.” patting his chest.

“Yeah.”

“Can I help you take it off?”

He nods, a slow blink his only reply at first. “Yeah. Please.”

She starts with running her fingers through his hair, working out knots. His hair is softer than she expected. Slightly damp still, disobedient waves resting over his forehead and ears. She touches his ears as she brushes the hair behind them.

“You’re not supposed to let it get this long.”

“I know.”

She swallows.

Next is the jacket. She unclasps the polished chest pin, fingers brushing along the rope chain detail that stretches from his shoulder across the lapel. The stiffness of the regulation fabric resists her at first, but she peels it back. His eyes never leave her.

“You still smell like metal, oil and the tunnels,” she whispers.

“Sorry.”

“No.” Her voice softens. “I missed it.”

She pulls the sleeves down slowly, his body shifting forward as he shrugs them off. He’s heavy from exhaustion. His white shirt underneath is wrinkled, the top button still tight at his throat. She’s gentle undoing it. Her fingers brush his skin, and she feels him inhale.

“I can do the belt,” he offers, lifting his gloved hand.

“No,” she says. “Let me.”

She takes off his remaining glove. Then, her fingers work through the weighty belt at his waist, undoing the metal catch, the fabric relaxing under her hands. She slides it out in one motion and sets it beside the hat. Her eyes fall to his boots.

“You want those off too?”

“Yeah.” A pause. “They hurt.”

She kneels on the floor, sliding her fingers over the laces. They’re loose, mostly untied from when he passed out, and one tug lets the first boot fall away. He doesn’t watch her. His head has tilted back again, eyes closed. Not in sleep, just in rest. Just letting her take him apart.

She works the second boot looser and gently pulls it off, setting it aside. He’s only in his undershirt and slacks now, his body caving slightly, hands resting slack beside him.

When she stands again, he reaches for her.

Pulls her into his lap. “Thank you, pips. I don't like being the Colonel around you.” He's kissing her face, arms strong wrapped all the way around her waist.

She feels him beneath her, his body solid, warm, grounding. Even now, wrapped in slouch and softness, rooted and wanting, he's impossibly strong. His thighs are tense under hers, arms locked behind her back like he’s never letting go again. Their mouths part and meet in slow, drugging kisses, lips brushing, tongues barely touching.

He smells like fleet metal, ozone, and the kind of sweat that only comes from long flights and longer tension. She presses her nose into the crook of his neck, breathes deep.

“I like you like this,” she murmurs, her hand finding the back of his head, fingers threading through the longer waves. “You should keep your hair like this.”

He laughs under his breath, voice husky. “Might have to take the court martial just so you can grab it like that again.”

“You serious?” she asks, brushing it back so she can see more of his face.

“I was already close to getting written up,” he admits with a small, almost shy smirk. “Told them I had an emergency going on. Softened the blow. Swore I’d cut it before leave ended.”

“Let me guess,” she whispers against his ear, “You wanted me to see it first.”

He hums, nods faintly. “I had a lot I wanted you to see.”

Her breath catches. She always misses him, always. That fact stays quiet between them, even when it hums through her fingertips.

She’s still in her hunter pants, still in the sweat and grime of the day, but Caleb doesn’t seem to care. If anything, it winds him tighter. His hands are slow but possessive, one on her waist, the other tracing up her spine beneath her shirt. She kisses him again, lets her hips shift, unintentionally grinding against the hardness pressing up between his legs.

He groans against her mouth, forehead against hers. “Pipsqueak…”

“What?”

“You feel that?”

“Mhm,” she hums with mischief, tilting her hips again.

He grips her tighter, exhales through his teeth. “That’s your fault. You come home smelling like sweat and gunfire in those pants, put your hands on me like that… Tell me, pips, what’d you expect to happen?”

She grins into his neck. “Guess I’ll have to clean us both up.”

His voice is a low murmur. “Say the word and I’ll follow.”

“I want to shower with you,” she says. “I want to wash the Colonel off of you.”

He stares at her, like he’s about to kiss her again but wants to say something first. Then he just nods and lifts her off his lap.

They make their way to the bedroom first. She undresses him like he’s a gift she’s waited too long to open. Her fingers trail from the hem of his undershirt to the waistband of his slacks. He lets her do it all. Silent. Patient. The tent in his briefs is undeniable now, straining and obvious, but neither of them says a word about it. It’s a fact. She kisses his thigh as she lowers herself to take the briefs off of him.

He undresses her too, with the same careful devotion. Her clothes peel off slowly, sweat sticking cotton to skin, her breath uneven. She feels shy for the first time in a long time.

Then they’re in the bathroom, bare, soft-lit, the shower starting behind glass. Steam begins to cloud the room, trailing down the mirror, wrapping them in a haze.

He reaches out and pulls her in with him, arms around her waist. They’re both warm and slick from the water almost instantly. His hair clings to his face, his chest rises and falls fast.

“I missed you so much,” he murmurs.

“I missed you more.”

He brushes her wet hair behind her ear. “Let me clean you off.”

“Not yet.” She lifts a bottle of soap, pours it into her hands, begins rubbing it into his chest. “My turn first.”

He groans quietly but allows it.

Her hands are gentle, but she doesn’t waste time. She runs her palms over the hard muscle of his chest, down his abs, watching the bubbles cling to the hair on his arms. She massages him, soapy and slow, standing close enough that her breasts slide against him with every stroke. Her fingers slip down his sides, curl around his back, working the tension out of his shoulder blades.

He’s hard and she can feel it pressing into her thigh, twitching every time she drags her hands lower. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t act.

“You’re so tense,” she whispers.

“I’m trying to behave.”

She turns him gently, hands on his waist, starting on his back. Her fingers dig into the knots of his lower back, the long slope of his spine. “Relax for me.”

“I’m trying, pips. I swear.”

She’s too nervous to look at his face, glad he's turned away from her. She focuses on the way his muscles shift beneath her hands. The wide expanse of his back, the smooth skin marred with old scars, the way water curves around his waist.

Eventually, she turns him back to face her. “You’re clean now.”

He smiles down at her, soaked and flushed. “My turn.”

He doesn’t wait for permission. He turns her with careful but undeniable force, bringing her back to his chest. His arms wrap around her waist, and his lips find her shoulder. His hard cock rubs against her from behind. She whimpers a little without meaning to.

“I missed this,” he whispers, kissing her skin between words. “Missed your body. Missed touching you.”

His hands are all over her now. Shoulders, arms, chest, hips. He spreads his hands over her breasts, brushing over them again and again with wet fingers. He’s gentle but focused, teasing and precise.

“You’re already wet,” he says, tone dark and teasing, slipping his hand lower to her belly.

“That’s because you’re touching me,” she breathes.

She trembles in his arms, hands reaching up to hold his wrists, but he doesn’t let her guide them. Not yet.

He hums low in his throat. “Mm… no, no no, I have to return the favor, pips. Gotta get you clean first.”

He kisses her neck, then her collarbone, then the back of her shoulder again. Every kiss is wetter than the last, half water, half mouth. Her legs are already shaking.

“Caleb,” she whimpers as he drags a palm slowly down her thigh, cupping her ass.

“What?”

“You’re being mean.”

He chuckles into her skin, low and warm. “I’m being thorough.”

He keeps washing her, now with soap sudsing over her. His hands are moving with slow, full strokes that slide over her belly, between her thighs, around her hips. Her nipples are stiff, her stomach tight, her thighs involuntarily parting as his touch glides across every inch of her. He doesn’t go too low, but it’s a tease now. A claim on control.

Her back arches into him when he brushes under her breast again. “You’re making me crazy…”

“I know,” he whispers, voice low and full of promise, “and I’ve only just started.”

He lifts her by the armpits and puts her under the water to rinse, stepping out to dry off.

“Hey… where are you going?” She calls after him.

He peaks around the door of the shower. Towel around his neck another in his hands. “Shower's done, come on. Lemme dry you off. There are more ways to help me relax. I'm not going to until I get everything I need.”

Caleb stands just outside the shower door, towel wrapped loose around his hips. He watches her step out, steam trailing behind her like a second skin. Her eyes find him. Naked and flushed and damp. and for a moment, she forgets how to move. He holds the towel out for her like he’s offering her something sacred.

She lets him wrap it around her shoulders, his hands slow and gentle, attentive. He doesn’t speak, just presses a kiss to her temple, then to her cheek. His lips trail downward, wet warmth brushing her collarbone.

“I need you,” he says, finally, quietly.

Her breath hitches. He’s looking at her like he did the first time she gave him an order. Like he’s ready to obey again, if she asked.

“Bedroom,” she whispers.

He lifts her without a word. She clings to him, legs wrapping around his waist, arms over his shoulders. Their mouths never part as he carries her there. The towels fall. She doesn’t remember them being dropped, just remembers the feeling of his skin against hers, the weight of his body above her as he lays her down on the bed like she’s a prayer he’s about to answer.

He kisses her again. This time deeper. Slower. There’s urgency in the tremble of his hands, but not in his mouth. His tongue is languid. Exploring. Tasting. She moans softly, curling her fingers through his still-damp hair, pulling him closer.

When she parts her legs for him, he’s already between them. Thick and hard, brushing against her folds with aching deliberation.

She gasps. Her hips jerk. “Caleb…”

He groans, low and tight, forehead pressed against hers. “You feel that?” he whispers.

“Yes…”

“You’re so wet. That all for me?”

She nods, dazed. Her voice catches when he rocks against her again, not pushing in yet, just coating himself with her slick.

“I’ve thought about this every night since I left,” he says, voice cracked and warm. “Thought about what it would feel like. Being inside you. Watching you fall apart for me.”

“Then do it,” she breathes. “I want it too.”

He groans again, kissing her lips, her jaw, her throat. His hand trails down between her legs and when he touches her, they both inhale sharply. His fingers stroke her slowly, teasing her open, gathering slick.

“I’m gonna get you ready for me first,” he murmurs, sliding one finger inside. “You’re tight, pips. So fucking tight.”

She whimpers and lifts her hips to meet his hand. “Please…”

He doesn’t answer, just kisses her again. Adds a second finger. Works them in slow and careful. Curling them. Finding that spot inside her that makes her hips buck.

She moans, legs falling wider open. “Caleb. Caleb… Oh my god…”

“I know, baby. I know. Gotta stretch you out.”

His fingers move in a slow, lazy rhythm. He watches her face the entire time, memorizing how her eyes roll back, how her lips part, the way she gasps when his thumb finds her clit. He fucks her with just those two fingers until her thighs are trembling. Then he pauses, pulls them out, and she whines.

“Don’t stop…”

He kisses her stomach, then lower. “Not stopping.”

She feels the press of his mouth between her legs and her whole body jerks. He groans against her, hands on her thighs, spreading her wider. He licks her slow, lazy, like he’s got all night. His tongue moves with the same rhythm his fingers did. And then those fingers return. Two, then three.

She cries out.

“Shh,” he murmurs, kissing her clit before licking again. “Let me take care of you.”

His fingers curve just right. His mouth never stops. Her hips twitch and her breath breaks, pleasure crackling like fire up her spine.

He doesn’t stop even when she’s shaking. She clutches at his hair, moaning his name. When she finally tries to close her legs around his head, he holds her open and pushes his fingers deeper, tongue pressing harder.

“Please… Caleb… I…”

He pulls his mouth away just enough to speak, his voice wet and thick. “Yes, you can. Give it to me.”

And she does.

She breaks with a cry, hips jerking under him, mouth slack and gasping. He keeps going until she’s pushing at his shoulders, too sensitive.

He rises up over her, his mouth shining, eyes glassy with hunger.

“I’m not done,” he says, kissing her again, letting her taste herself on his tongue. “I need more.”

He positions himself between her thighs, stroking himself once before pressing the head against her entrance.

Her breath catches. She feels the blunt, hot press. He’s huge. Thicker than she imagined. He pushes in just barely, and her whole body clenches.

“Oh god….”

He groans, teeth grit, pulling back. “Fuck… You’re too tight still.”

“Don’t stop,” she whispers.

“I’ll hurt you.”

“No. You won’t. I want it. I want all of you.”

He kisses her again, then moves lower, kissing her thighs, her hips. He slips a finger inside her again, then two. Works her open more. She’s soaking wet. Her walls flutter around his fingers.

“You’re getting there,” he says. “You’re perfect.”

When he slides back into position, he lines himself up again and pushes in slowly. Just the tip. She gasps.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says.

“It’s not. Don’t stop.”

He goes deeper. Just an inch. Then another. Then pulls back.

She moans, arms reaching up around his shoulders, holding on tight. Her nails dig into his skin.

“You’re killing me,” he breathes, holding himself back with shaking arms.

“You feel so good,” she says, voice broken. “You’re so big. I want it. I want all of you.”

He groans and sinks deeper. Halfway now. She cries out, legs tightening around his waist.

“Almost there,” he pants. “Almost… you’re taking me so good.”

He kisses her again, breathless and needy. When he finally bottoms out, they both freeze. His cock twitches inside her. She can feel every inch of him, stretching her full.

“You okay?” he whispers.

She nods, tears in her eyes from how full she feels. “Don’t move yet. I just want to feel it.”

He kisses her forehead, cheeks, lips. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

And when she’s ready, she rocks her hips. Just a little. And he starts to move.

Slow. Deep. Steady.

It’s not enough. But it’s too much.

She’s panting, begging, crying. “More. Caleb. Please.”

He groans and starts to fuck her in earnest. Every thrust is deliberate, firm, but held back. He’s pacing himself. Holding on by a thread.

He pulls out when he gets too close. Lets himself cool off. Then slides back in. She whines every time he leaves her empty.

“Why do you keep stopping?”

“Because I’m not done with you yet. I want to feel you cum again.”

He rubs her clit as he thrusts, murmuring in her ear. “You’re mine. All mine. You make me lose my mind, pips.”

She grabs his face, kisses him hard, rocking against him. “Then lose it. I want to see.”

He moans into her mouth, thrusts deeper, harder.

Still, he doesn’t finish.

She can feel him leaking inside her, warm and steady, his cock twitching with need. But he holds on. Like she’s the thing anchoring him to earth. Like she’s the only thing keeping him from flying apart.

And she adores him for it.

Loves the way he worships her body with every motion. The way he waits. The way he edges himself to give her everything.

And she’s not done adoring him yet.

She clutches him tighter, voice high and broken. “Caleb, God, don’t stop, please don’t stop…”

“I won’t,” he whispers, but it’s a promise he’s afraid of breaking. His arms shake. His thrusts stutter. Every time he sinks into her now, it’s with a groan like it hurts to hold back. Like he’s begging his own body to listen.

She moans louder, biting his shoulder, pulling at his hair. Her thighs twitch around him. Her hips lift greedily to meet every thrust.

“You feel too good. Too good… Shit, I can’t–” she cries, voice splintering.

His breath is ragged in her ear. “Yes you can. One more. Just one more for me.”

“I already… So much…” She tries to protest, but he’s already shifting his angle. Pulling her legs up, knees to her chest, cock so deep now it knocks the breath from her lungs.

She gasps. “Oh fuck! Caleb?”

He grits his teeth, eyes glassy. “I know, I know, it’s too much. I’m sorry, pips” He’s not sorry.

Her hands scramble for his arms, his back, anything to hold onto as he grinds deeper. His pelvis presses tight against her clit with every thrust, and it’s unbearable, blinding, exquisite.

“I can’t take it,” she sobs, voice caught in her throat, tears on her cheeks now. “You’re, oh my God…. you’re…”

“Caleb,” she sputters his name again.

He presses his forehead to hers. His body is slick with sweat. “Yes you can. You’re so close, I can feel it. You’re squeezing me so tight. Fuck, I need you to cum for me again, pretty girl. Please.”

She whimpers, body arching. “It’s too much! I’m gonna… Caleb… Caleb—”

Her voice shatters like glass as her body seizes, clenching hard around him. Her second orgasm rips through her with no warning, more violent than the first. She thrashes beneath him, sobbing, nails digging into his shoulders. Her mouth opens but no sound comes out—just pure feeling. Raw, overwhelming, wet.

He moans a deep, guttural groan, as she tightens around him. “That’s it, baby. That’s it. Good girl. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”

He doesn’t slow down.

She trembles under him, overstimulated and gasping, her thighs shaking as he keeps grinding into her, each thrust deliberate, controlled—but trembling at the edges.

Her words fall apart. “I-it’s too much… I can’t…”

He kisses her mouth, her cheeks, the corners of her eyes. “Shh. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Just let it happen.”

She shakes her head but clings to him tighter. “You’re still so hard. Fuck, Caleb, how the hell are you still—?”

His eyes flutter shut. “I don’t know. I-I can’t finish until I know you’re done. Until I know you’ve had enough of me.”

“I have,” she whispers, voice raw and cracked. “I have.”

He lets out a broken sound. His pace slows, finally, just barely—deep, dragging strokes that make her twitch and sob into his neck.

She’s sensitive everywhere. Every thrust now is fire and sugar and pleasure and too much. And still, she doesn’t want him to stop.

“Say it again,” he begs against her ear.

“What?”

“Say you’ve had enough of me.”

She whimpers. “I haven’t. I never will.”

He groans like she’s just hit him. His hips falter. His jaw clenches.

“Fuck.”

“Please,” she breathes, eyes wet, “You can cum. I want you to. Please, Caleb. Cum inside me.”

“No,” he says, voice tight and hoarse, like he’s holding himself back from the edge of a cliff. “Not yet. Not till you say you’re mine.”

She gasps, body tensing. “I’m yours. You know I’m yours. You know that.”

He kisses her fiercely, like he’s drowning in her mouth. His thrusts speed up again, but still don’t lose control. He’s teetering. On the verge.

But he’s still hers. Still in control.

Just barely.

“Say the word,” Caleb breathes, voice low and strained against her cheek. “If you want me to stop, I will. I’ll pull out right now.”

She shakes her head, breath catching in her throat. “No. Don’t. I don’t want you anywhere else.”

His hips slow, just slightly. His forehead presses to hers. “You sure?”

“I’ve been sure,” she says, voice trembling. “I’ve thought about it for three weeks. Every night. Every morning. I want it. I want you to finish inside me.”

Caleb lets out a sound that isn’t quite a groan, something rawer. Like the last bit of his restraint just cracked in the middle.

“You’re killing me,” he whispers.

“Then let go,” she replies. “Let me feel it.”

He starts moving again. Slow, deep thrusts that drag along her walls. She gasps, trembling beneath him, body overstimulated, nerves fraying. But she doesn’t stop him. She never wants to.

“I’ll take off work,” she adds, voice breaking in a breathless laugh. “Fuck it. I’ll stay in this bed all week. You’ve got seven days, Caleb. Seven days to fuck me inside out. You can’t forget.”

He swears under his breath, mouth falling open. “Jesus.”

“I mean it. It’s safe. I’m on the pill. You don’t have to hold back anymore.”

He groans, thrusting deeper, rougher now. His control is still intact, but barely. Like he’s holding it in his teeth.

“I don’t know if I can cum again,” she admits, voice small, hoarse. “I really don’t. I feel… used up. In a good way. I feel so wrecked.”

But then his cock hits that spot again, and her body betrays her. It's arching, clenching. Another orgasm building low and hot in her gut, despite everything.

He watches her crumble. “There it is,” he murmurs. “You’re gonna give me one more, aren’t you?”

She moans, high and needy, cock-drunk. “Caleb…. C-Caleb…”

“I know, baby. I’ve got you.”

She grabs at him, his hips, shoulders, anything she can reach. Her fingers curl tight around his waist and pull. Hard. Dragging him in deeper, faster.

“Don’t stop. I need it. Please,” she gasps, breathily. “Please, I need all of it.”

His voice is soft again, with adoration and lust, a bit raspy. “You’re perfect. You’re taking me so well. I’m close, pips. I can’t keep this up much longer.”

She doesn’t let him slow. “Good. I want it. I want it so bad.”

He thrusts harder, faster, deeper, like her words set his rhythm on fire. Sweat drips from his chest onto hers, his arms trembling on either side of her face.

“I’m not sorry,” he growls, voice shaking. “I’m not gonna apologize for this. I’ve waited too fucking long.”

She whines, begging without words now, just sounds, soft and lewd, broken and full of him.

He slams into her again, all the way to the base, and stays there a second, cock pulsing.

“You want me to cum inside you?” he asks, voice wrecked.

She nods frantically, nails dragging down his back. “Please… yes please, Caleb, I need it. I’ve never had anyone else. I’ve never wanted anyone else.”

He moans, deep and shuddering. “Fuck. You don’t know what you do to me.”

“I do,” she whispers. “I feel it. Every time you move. I want you to ruin me.”

And he does.

His thrusts lose rhythm, grow erratic, brutal, beautiful. He chokes on a gasp, and then he’s slamming into her hard and fast, panting against her mouth.

“I’m gonna fill you,” he growls. “So deep you won’t remember what empty feels like.”

She cries out, pulling him deeper, wrapping her legs around him like she never wants to let him go.

“I need it. I need all of it. Please, Caleb, please. I want every drop…”

And then she cums. Again.

Impossible. Devastating.

Her whole body shatters around him, wrung out and crying, and the way she clenches, wet and trembling, breaks him open.

He groans, loud and wild, as he thrusts deep and stays there. His cock pulses, and she feels it: his cum spilling inside her in waves, hot and thick.

She moans like she’s being blessed.

He stays buried, panting against her shoulder, kissing whatever skin he can reach. Her cheek. Her jaw. Her throat.

Neither of them speak for a long time. They just breathe. Seven more days.

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https-bobreynolds · 15 days ago

Text

six strings to save a god

pairing: robert ‘bob’ reynolds x enchantress! reader

summary: bob nearly blew his cover in an undercover mission where you both absolutely cannot use your powers at, so you save him with metallica instead.

author’s note: rewatched stranger things and got inspired by THE eddie munson, you will be missed💔

UNDERGROUND CLUB BELOW THE VIENNA STATE OPERA HOUSE, WESTERN EUROPE - 11:32 PM

private auction night

the air tastes like ozone and old bourbon. velvet curtains cover cracked plaster. there’s an antique chandelier above the bar flickering with blood-red LED bulbs, casting shadows like broken glass across the crowd.

somewhere in the crowd: mercs, arms dealers, hydra defectors, and warlords who don’t technically exist.

and at a table just beneath the second mezzanine, is robert ‘bob’ reynolds, looking perfect in a slim-cut black suit, nerves unraveling by the second.

you sit beside him, swirling untouched whiskey, watching him come apart thread by golden thread.

“he’s looking at me,” bob murmurs, too quiet for anyone else to hear. “he knows. the madripoor guy in the corner, he keeps- he’s not blinking.”

you glance up.

the man in question tilts his head, one brow raised. hands drifting way too slowly toward the holster under his coat.

bob’s about to snap. you can feel it under your skin like the low thrum of the void stirring.

“we got what we need, we have to leave this place now.” you whispered, giving him a look.

you didn’t say anything more, but he understood quickly, giving a nod.

“under any circumstances, do NOT engage and do NOT use any of your powers.” you remember bucky say, right before the mission.

you cannot let sentry, void or enchantress lose it here.

this is not the place for sun gods or eldritch abominations, so you do the only thing that makes sense in a room like this.

you stand, smooth as static, and quickly vanish into the shadows behind the stage, where a two-piece synthwave duo just finished their eerie, looping set.

and waiting backstage, among broken amps and stolen crates, you see it:

a scratched jackson king v custom.

you pick it up. test the weight. check the strings.

you walk out slow.

the crowd goes quiet for a beat. spotlights flicker to follow.

you nod at the DJ, who knows not to mess with it.

then, you slam into the intro to “master of puppets.”

the distortion screams.

the riff punches through the smoke like a fist. dirty. loud. real.

people down on the floor cheer, some boo, some start laughing in disbelief.

the suits look confused. a few start pulling out phones.

one of the auction security guards near bob’s table mutters, “what the hell-“

bob exhales like he’s been underwater for five minutes, he slinks out with the crowd’s attention squarely on you.

and you?

you shred.

“end of passion play, crumbling away

i’m your source of self-destruction…”

you sing like it’s prophecy, like the world’s about to burn and you’re the one lighting the match.

heads are banging, drinks are spilled, the tech auction upstairs is forgotten.

that guy from madripoor? he’s now two whiskeys deep and head-nodding like you’re doing a private concert just for him.

your fingers blaze through the solo like they were built for this. the guitar’s raw, snarling. just perfect.

and in the dark corner of the second tier, where no one’s watching anymore?

bob slips through a side door. free and clear.

you hammer the final riff with one last scream of strings.

“MASTER! MASTER!”

silence crashes like a wave behind it. the crowd roars, half of them think you’re just the best part of the party, the other half are too dazed to care.

you bow low, tossing the guitar off-stage like a mic drop.

and walk out like you own the world, panting as you slam the door behind you.

“you-” he starts, breathless. “you just-”

“i shredded,” you say, breathless and smug. “and saved your ass.”

he huffs a laugh, still dazed.

“i was gonna blow it,” he admits. “i could feel it coming… like the whole thing was about to fall apart.”

“well,” you smirk, brushing your hair back. “good thing i know how to play the hits.”

he looks at you, really looks at you.

the city glows behind you, the music still ringing faintly from the club.

and he says, “you’re kind of unreal, you know that?”

you shrug. “takes one to know one, sunshine.”

you look at each other for a second too long.

and somewhere in the club behind you, the next DJ starts spinning, but nothing could top what you just did.

tag list:

@lovetoalll

#bob reynolds #bob reynolds x reader #bob thunderbolts #lewis pullman x reader #thunderbolts #fanfic #lewis pullman #x reader #thunderbolts reader insert #the void x you #the void #sentry #sentry x you #metallica

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l1v-jzn · 8 days ago

Text

˚₊ ꒰ა 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 & 𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐜 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ — 𝐆𝐞𝐮𝐦 𝐒𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐉𝐞

˚₊ ꒰ა 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ : 𝐠𝐞𝐮𝐦 𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐣𝐞 𝐱 𝐜𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

˚₊ ꒰ა 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ : 𝐜𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝 𝐚𝐮, 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐲, & 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟

˚₊ ꒰ა 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ : 𝐘/𝐧 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐦: 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰, 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐢𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐦𝐚. 𝐄𝐚𝐬𝐲, 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭?

𝐔𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐨𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐚 𝐥𝐚𝐛 𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭, 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲. 𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐬𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐛𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧, 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐥𝐲 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡 𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐉𝐞, 𝐚 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐫𝐤 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐱𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐜 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐭? 𝐇𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐭.

𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠-𝐬𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬, 𝐘/𝐍 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐬.

𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞… 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐟𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟?

˚₊ ꒰ა 𝗡𝗼𝘄 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴: "𝐂𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝 - 𝐅𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐲 𝐅𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐲" ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

𝟎𝟏:𝟓𝟕 ───────●─── 𝟎𝟐:𝟓𝟓

◁ㅤ ❚❚ ㅤ▷ ㅤ↻ ❤️

˚₊ ꒰ა 𝐌𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The hallway glows gold. Not metaphorically—like, it’s actually glowing. Warm light spills from the high vaulted ceiling in golden ripples, dancing across polished marble floors like sunbeams poured from the gods’ own teacup. The air smells faintly of roses and ozone, that electrifying scent that always signals Big Magic is in play. Wisps of cloud cling to your boots as you walk, soft and curling around your ankles like affectionate cats. You’ve been here before, of course training missions, mock assignments but today? Today is different.

Your wings twitch behind your shoulders, nervously folded, the feathers too pristine, too obvious. The white of them catches every shimmer of the light, like they know they’re being watched. You swear they’re sweating. Your heart drums a frantic beat in your chest, like it’s trying to take flight on its own. Because today is The Day. Your Final Field Exam. The last test before you earn your full Agent status with the Department of Matchmaking Magic.

You try to breathe. It comes out shaky.

As you round a towering marble pillar, carved with runes of fate and really unsubtle cherub motifs—you’re greeted by a glowing crystal screen pulsing with your name in delicate cursive. The calligraphy sparkles with a soft lavender hue, but the formal tone of it might as well scream: NO PRESSURE, RIGHT?

Hovering in the air beside it is a painfully pink folder. It levitates just at eye level, flipping lazily in the air like it’s bored. Then like it’s finally acknowledging your presence it zips forward and plops itself into your hands with a theatrical flourish. The corners curl slightly, as if the folder itself is judging you.

You swallow hard. Inside: the target file.

Subject: Final Assignment – Match 143-B

Status: Mortal Realm, Earth Sector #0312

Difficulty: Advanced (Emotionally Complicated)

Tools Provided:

• 1x Standard-Issue Bow

• 3x Heart Arrows (Use sparingly)

• 1x Identity Charm (Single-use disguise)

Goal: Complete a Perfect Match.

Restrictions: Do not interfere with mortal emotion.

Critical Warning: Do NOT fall in love.

Your eyes pause. That last part is underlined twice. A chill tiptoes down your spine, cold despite the golden glow.

You flip the page and freeze. The name on the assignment file flashes up like a punch to the stomach: Geum Seong Je.

You blink. No fucking way. It couldn’t be. Him? Of all people?

Your pulse goes from flutter to full-on bongo drum solo. Every nerve sparks alive. You remember that name. You remember the eyes, those glasses he wears, the way he said your fake Earth name like it mattered. You remember the trouble it nearly caused during Match 45-Z, when you maybe lingered a little too long, maybe watched him punch dudes on the corner of some aesthetic café more than strictly necessary.

Just as you're spiraling into an emotional black hole, a scribbled note catches your attention, inked in sparkly red and underlined in glitter like a warning in lipstick:

“Try not to get distracted by him this time. You do remember what happened with Match 45-Z, right?”

— Sincerely, Aphrodite 💋

Rude.

You bite your lip, trying not to smile. Classic Aphrodite. Dramatic as ever, but annoyingly right.

You close the folder and look down the rest of the hallway. At the end, a gilded archway gleams, already humming with portal magic. You can see the hazy outline of Earth beyond it—gray cityscapes, amber sunrises, and the flicker of candlelight in what might be a corner bookstore.

Your fingers tighten around the folder. Your wings ruffle once, as if bracing themselves. Your mission is simple: find the soul match, aim true, and don’t let your feelings get in the way.

But your gut is already telling you… this match? This one might break all the rules.

The portal chamber hums with ancient magic, a mix of soft harp music and the crackle of raw cosmic power. Golden rings spin overhead, like halos on espresso shots. Cupids-in-training mill around with jittery wings and last-minute pep talks. The air smells like rosewater and nerves.

Min wings you in the shoulder with a heart-shaped pillow, her expression somewhere between smug and motherly. “Girl, an all-girls school on Earth? You’re gonna combust the second someone offers you iced coffee and drama.”

You roll your eyes so hard it’s practically a flight maneuver, but a smile sneaks out anyway. There’s warmth here—deep, unshakeable warmth. The kind forged in glitter-drenched battle drills and wing-mending circles, in whispered gossip under celestial covers and synchronized eye-rolls at mandatory harp solos. These are your people. Your chaos cohort.

Hyeri sidles up, eyes serious, voice low. “Be careful, okay? Mortals don’t play fair.”

You tilt your chin, heroic and maybe a bit dramatic. You're playing it cool, like you're not already internally spiraling about the Geum Seong Je thing. “Please. I’ve read every mortal romance novel twice. I’m invincible.”

Min snorts like a disbelieving goddess. “That’s exactly what Match 77 said before she caught feelings for a barista who gave her oat milk unprompted.”

Okay, that’s fair.

But before you can lob back a snarky comeback or, y'know, beg to switch missions, the magic flares.

The scroll in your hand glows hot. The Identity Charm snaps into action. There's a rush of light, a cool blue and white color and your wings dissolve into nothing, feather by feather, like snowflakes on a summer sidewalk. The folder seals itself and disappears in a puff of glitter that smells like cotton candy and impending doom.

You barely have time to breathe.

The marble floor beneath your feet gives out like someone pulled a trapdoor in reality. The world tips. You're falling.

It’s not like a mortal fall—this is cleaner, sharper, like being sliced from one realm to another. Time and space whirl into a tunnel of color and stars and ancient lyrics you can’t quite remember. Your heartbeat tries to match the rhythm but fails. You clutch the charm against your chest like it might anchor you to something real.

Landing in the mortal realm isn’t exactly smooth.

You crash into Earth’s atmosphere with a sparkly thud, like a meteor that shops at glitter boutiques. There’s a rush of wind, a whoosh of ancient magic, and then darkness.

When you wake up, you’re sprawled on a twin mattress in a room roughly the size of a celestial storage closet. The overhead light flickers like it’s afraid of you. Your back is sore, your wings are gone, and you’re in a plaid skirt and an itchy mortal sweater vest that smells aggressively like static cling and someone else's lavender dryer sheets.

The school is just as chaotic in its elegance.

An all-girls private academy tucked into the misty mountains just outside Seoul. The buildings are old, like really old—stone corridors, arched windows, and whispers in the walls. It smells like freshly sharpened pencils, perfume that costs more than your wingspan, and centuries of untold tea just begging to be spilled.

This school might just be its own kind of battlefield.

You spend the first few days blending in like a socially awkward chameleon with your made up name “Park Yu Na”. You study how the girls talk—half gossip, half poetry. They say things like, “He liked my post but didn’t comment, which means he’s either emotionally repressed or already dating Soojin.” You take notes. You practice in the mirror. You get really good at pretending to be confused by physics and pretending to be way too interested in cafeteria menu changes.

The other students accept you. Mostly because you keep your head down, laugh at the right times, and fake being terminally obsessed with the school’s unofficial boy ranking list (you’re sorry, but "Hotness Olympics" shouldn’t have its own spreadsheet).

But deep down? You’re bored. Bored like only an undercover divine being who hasn’t shot a heart arrow in five days can be.

Because where is your target?

Where is Geum Seong Je?

You check the scroll every night in the bathroom stall with the best Wi-Fi signal. The little golden map still blinks. Still shows he’s nearby. But no name, no photo, no beacon. Just a pulsing dot that refuses to move past “You’re close. Wait.”

You consider launching an arrow at random, just to see what happens. But Aphrodite's “DO NOT FALL IN LOVE” warning plays on loop in your brain like a cursed ringtone.

It’s not until Friday afternoon, halfway through a rainy music class, that the air finally shifts.

Your hands grip the rusted rooftop railing, metal biting into your palms. The clouds overhead twist like they're holding their breath. And below you, chaos dances.

Seong Je stands in the middle of the alley like he owns it, blood on his knuckles, defiance in his spine. The kind of boy mortals write poetry about and then immediately regret dating. His shirt’s half-untucked, his lip split and already healing with the stubborn pride of someone who’s been through worse and decided to smile anyway like he is enjoying it.

The two guys flanking him—also in uniform, also bloodied—look like they just realized this isn’t going to end well for them.

And they're right. Because Seong Je doesn’t hesitate. He swings.

It’s fast, brutal, controlled. His fists speak their own language—one of warning, maybe history, or don’t touch what’s mine kinda. You recognize it. Not because you’ve seen it in your training, but because something deep and ancient in you responds to it.

He moves like a storm.

And yet when he looks up after he finishes beating up the two men, when his eyes land on you, everything stops. Like the world hit pause just for him to breathe in your presence. He freezes, for a second.

Then the corner of his mouth quirks up in a slow, knowing smirk. The kind that says trouble recognizes trouble.

“Who are you?” he calls out, voice edged like a switchblade and smooth like honey-drenched sin. A cigarette dangles from his fingers, half-lit. His uniform blazer draped like a cape, and one side of his lip is bruised. He is the very image of “do not engage.”

Your scroll lied. This is not a soul match. This is a slow-motion disaster.

Because Seong Je isn't some innocent mortal with tragic eyes and a soft heart. He’s not waiting for love. He’s the top dog of Ganghak High. Part of the Union—a syndicate of student delinquents with iron knuckles and loyalty tattoos. The kind of group that writes their homework in blood and uses lockers like coffins.

“You spying?” he asks, tone amused, but there’s something sharp under it. “Or just lost, angel?”

You flinch, not physically. Just internally. He said angel. A coincidence, probably. A joke. Right? It is.. I guess.

You force yourself to speak. “I-I’m not spying. I just.. needed some air.”

“On a rooftop. With eyes that look like they’ve seen gods.”

He blows out smoke. It coils upward, brushing the invisible string between you.

Your heart is not beating fast because of him. It’s the altitude. The weather. Definitely not the way his voice wraps around your name like he already owns it.

You should leave. You have to leave. This is not what Cupid agents do. This is not how you pass a field exam. This is exactly how Match 77 ended up crying on a Vespa in Milan.

But you don’t move. Because something in your chest has clicked out of place.

Just down below, Seong Je doesn’t look away. Maybe he remembers you too.

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The sky is bruised with clouds and insomnia. It’s just past midnight when you sneak out of your dorm.

You slip out of the dormitory around 12:15 a.m., hoodie over your head and anxiety practically bouncing off your sneakers. The scroll won’t stop pulsing. The identity charm is hot against your chest. You haven’t slept in two nights and your celestial brain is short-circuiting over this stupid, emotionally-complicated mortal.

You need food. Sugar. Instant noodles. Maybe something deep-fried and emotionally supportive.

So you make your way to the neighborhood convenience store—the kind that hums under flickering fluorescent lights and smells like squid chips and low-stakes rebellion.

The 24-hour convenience store glows like a portal at the end of the empty street. It buzzes softly, like it’s trying to stay awake with you. Seoul’s night air is cool, humming with traffic in the distance and the quiet loneliness that only creeps in during mortal after-hours.

You push open the glass door. The bell above the frame jingles. Just like that. There he is.

Leaning against the counter like the universe owes him a favor. Messy hair, his back half-turned, the cold light painting shadows on his face. He's dressed in black, again. Hoodie, jacket, a silver chain just barely peeking out from under his collar. He’s holding a pack of cigarettes in one hand and glaring at the clerk like the guy just insulted his ancestors.

He hasn’t seen you yet. Well you could back out and go to another convenience store, or you could pretend you’re here for tampons and run, or just teleport. No, wait. You’re mortal. Too late. He turns around to face you.

You froze at the spot. His eyes lock on yours and he recognizes you immediately.

“You stalking me?” He says it flatly, like it’s a fact. Not a question. While pocketing the cigarettes like he's daring you to say something about it.

You force a laugh, totally casual, definitely not panicking and definitely gonna pretend you don’t recognize him. Even though your stomach just did a backflip. “...No?” You wince at how unconvincing that sounds. You walk past him to grab the honey butter chips on the shelf.

He doesn't smile, but he doesn’t look away either. He leans a little against the counter like he has all the time in the world and nowhere better to be. The clerk behind the register is so tense you think he might actually burst into confetti.

He cocks an eyebrow. You hate how good he looks under this cursed lighting. “So it’s just a coincidence you’re here. Alone. At 12:17 A.M. In the exact same store I’m in.”

“I just wanted honey butter chips.” You hold up a bag like it’s holy proof of your innocence. Your hand is literally shaking. Not because you’re scared. Just match jitters. Totally normal.

He narrows his eyes. Then smirks. “Park Yu Na, right? Transfer girl from the fancy dead-girl school up the hill.”

Your mouth goes dry. How does he know your name? You haven’t told anyone. “You know my name?”

“You’re loud.” He shrugs, already walking past you, brushing your shoulder with a heat that makes your skin buzz. “And you stare. A lot.”

You spin to protest, but he’s already at the drink fridge. Grabs a coke with casual aggression. “You always walk around alone this late?” he says over his shoulder, tone unreadable. “This street is not exactly safe after midnight. Even for angels in hoodie.”

That word again. Angel. Is it a joke? Does he know? Is the veil slipping or is he just... uncannily observant and unfairly hot?

You clear your throat. “Are you always this dramatic in front of carbonated drinks?”

He snorts. For the first time, it feels like his guard lowers a millimeter. Just enough to see something flicker in those storm-colored eyes.

He pays in cash, doesn’t wait for change. As he passes—the scent of tobacco and danger trailing behind him, he pauses at the door. “See you around, transfer girl.” then he glances back over his shoulder, “Try not to get caught staring next time.”

The bell jingles. He’s gone. And you’re standing in the snack aisle with a bag of honey butter chips, a cursed scroll vibrating in your pocket, and a heart that’s beating like it just failed an ethics test.

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

It’s the next day. Seoul’s sun is doing her most, all golden and dramatic like she knows something’s about to happen.

You’ve tracked Seong Je halfway across the city using a very not-suspicious divine scroll hidden in your mortal physics textbook.

He’s walking through a narrow side street, earbuds in, head down, looking like he’s halfway between ditching class and starting a turf war.

And beside him was your opportunity: a girl from his school. She’s walking his way. She’s cute, definitely crushable, and technically a match-compatible soul. This is your chance.

You duck behind a vending machine. The divine bow shimmers into your hand, cloaked from mortal eyes. You notch one of your three heart arrows. This time, you’re focused. Calm and unshakable.

This is it. The shot. Cupid's gonna be proud. You’re gonna make the match, pass the exam, and forget about that smirk he gave you at 12:17 A.M.

You draw back the bowstring and just as you release the string, The girl sidesteps. Right at the last second.

And you realize, with the slow-mo horror of a Greek tragedy, you just fired an enchanted love arrow directly at Seong Je’s hoodie. And the universe, because she’s petty, makes him turn around.

Your arrow whizzes past his cheek like a divine mosquito.

He catches a flicker of pink light. His eyes narrow.

You dive behind a recycling bin like a gremlin with poor decision-making skills. The bow vanishes just as he stalks toward the alley where you definitely are not hiding.

Too late. He turns the corner and stops. Arms crossed. Eyebrows raised. Confusion and suspicion battling on his stupidly handsome face. “You,” he says. “You’re literally following me again.”

You blink up at him like a raccoon caught with a cursed glowstick. “What? No. I-I was just… checking on the structural integrity of this recycling bin.”

“With jazz hands?” he continued.

You look down. Yep. Your fingers are still twitching from the leftover spellcast. Glittery.

You clear your throat and try again. “You’ve got a very punchable aura, okay? I needed to make sure you weren’t going to ruin the vibe of this alley.”

He blinks. Then he chuckles. Actually chuckles. Like, deep and low and unfair. Like someone just whispered a secret to his ribcage. “You’re the weirdest girl I’ve ever met.”

You scramble to stand, heart thumping like a drumline inside your ribs. “You haven’t met enough girls.”

His smile—fucking hell. It’s half amused, and entirely illegal under celestial law.

The sun hits him just right. You hate it. You love it. His whole face glows like a problem you want to write essays about.

For a second, he just looks at you. “Park Yu Na…” he says slowly, like he’s tasting it. “Whatever planet you’re from, stay on it. It’s entertaining.”

He turns and walks away, hands in his pockets, leaving you standing there with one less arrow and a matchless mission.

You have two shots left and also maybe a problem.

Because your heart? Well It’s probably not listening to the scroll anymore.

You return to school like nothing happened. No bow. No arrow. No rooftop flashbacks or inconveniently attractive gang leaders in your dreams.

Just you, “Park Yu Na,” the totally average, definitely-not-a-divine-being student from Class 2-B, sipping banana milk and trying not to panic.

You slip into the last class of the day, but it’s too late. Ms. Hwang, your history teacher (and mortal stress monster), pauses mid-lecture and narrows her eyes.

A chill runs down your spine like someone just cursed your GPA.

After class, she calls you over. Her tone? Ice. Her vibe? Well, betrayed middle-aged warrior queen.

“Miss Park,” she says, voice low and stern. “I checked the attendance log. You’ve missed four periods today. Without a pass. Without explanation.”

You try to improvise. “I-uh-got lost…in my thoughts?”

Well she does not laugh. Instead, she hands you a slip of shame-colored paper with nine bold letters at the top: D-E-T-E-N-T-I-O-N.

“You’ll be cleaning the gymnasium. Alone. After class.”

“Maybe while you’re scrubbing the floor, you’ll remember how to stay in school.”

You nod solemnly, clutching the paper like it personally offended your ancestors.

As you walk away, a single thought runs through your head: “Cupids, give me strength.”

After school, the hallways empty out like the soul of a group project. Laughter echoes from outside where normal students are escaping into freedom, phones out, uniforms unbuttoned, homework forgotten.

But not you.

Nope.

You push open the creaking gymnasium doors, and the smell of floor polish and faint embarrassment hits you like a divine slap.

The gym is big and echoey—high ceilings with faded championship banners drooping like tired ghosts. Dust motes spin in the slanted rays of golden hour sunlight. The silence is so loud, your footsteps sound like drumbeats.

You grab a mop from the corner, roll up your sleeves, and start scrubbing the floor like it’s responsible for your emotional damage. The echo of your own footsteps is your only company. Well—your footsteps, and the squeaky wheels of the mop bucket that is definitely not enchanted but you desperately wish it was so you could clean this place in one divine snap.

There’s something weirdly therapeutic about it. The repetitive motion. The squeak of rubber shoes. The way the sun slowly drips down the walls, turning everything a soft amber.

You curse the teacher who noticed your disappearance. Curse the scroll. Curse Seong Je and his stupidly dodgeable presence. You’re half-convinced the gods are watching this like a telenovela.

“Clean the gym,” they said.

“No powers,” they insisted.

“Reflect on your actions,” they scolded.

You're reflecting, alright. You’re reflecting on how incredibly not smooth you looked eating floor after that arrow fumble.

You’re halfway through grumbling about Seong Je ruining your life when you hear it. A sound that is barely there. The door creaking open.

You straighten your posture, heart skipping. “Sorry, gym’s closed,” you call out, not looking.

“Didn’t ask,” a voice replies. It was low, unbothered, a little amused and a little TOO familiar.

You spin around, mop still in hand. And there he is, Geum Seong Je. In your school gym. Like some delinquent prince who got lost on his way to a street fight and decided to visit your personal hell instead.

He's wearing that same loose uniform jacket, slouched over one shoulder like the laws of gravity don’t apply to him. His hands are in his pockets. His hair's messy, like he either just woke up or just won a fight.

Your throat goes dry. “What are you doing here?” you hiss, trying to look casual while holding a mop like a confused magical girl.

He shrugs, walking in like he owns the place. His eyes flick lazily across the gym, then settle on you. “Was in the neighborhood.”

“The neighborhood?” you echo. “This is a private girls’ school. You’re not even allowed on the sidewalk.”

“Guess I’m breaking more than just hearts now.”

You nearly drop the mop on the floor. He smirks. Like he knows. Like he’s teasing you. Like this is a game and you’re already losing—dang it, he is right.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” you say again, but quieter now. The gym feels smaller with him in it. Warmer. Unbearably so.

He takes another step forward. His boots squeak softly on the waxed floor. There’s something unreadable in his gaze now—no smirk, no jokes. Just this quiet, curious look.

“You looked pissed earlier,” he says. “Didn’t like seeing you that mad. Figured I’d check on you.”

Your brain short-circuits. Because Geum Seong Je—Ganghak’s top dog, Mr. I smoke under streetlights and fear nothing—is here. In your school. After hours. Because of you.

“So you stalked me this time,” you say, desperate to deflect the panic in your chest.

“Maybe,” he says. “But at least I didn’t bring a bow.”

Your face heats up. You want to crawl into a locker and never return. “I wasn’t trying to shoot you,” you mutter, returning to the floor like it’s safer to mop than to feel things.

There’s silence. Then a soft footsteps. He walks closer. Closer still. Until you feel him behind you—close enough that your heartbeat does the Macarena.

“You’re weird,” he says again, voice quieter this time. “But you’re not boring.”

And then, just like that he’s gone. Like the smoke from his cigarettes. Like the ghost of a rooftop stare.

You’re left in the gym, mop in hand, floor half-cleaned, heart absolutely losing its damn freaking mind. And outside, the sun finally sets.

Later That Evening. The gym smells like sweat and lemon disinfectant, and your limbs feel like noodles left too long in boiling water. You mop through the final square foot of parquet flooring like a war veteran scrubbing trauma into the floorboards.

As the last light fades behind the bleachers, you drag yourself toward the hallway—sore, hungry, and still trying to figure out what just happened. Did Seong Je really show up? Did he say he was worried? Nah, there’s no way he will be worried about you. Your thoughts are full of ONE incredibly illegal boy with sinfully good looking face who definitely should not have shown up today, but somehow did. You try to shake it off. You’re a celestial agent. A divine intern. A professional. You are here for one reason, and that reason is not the slow curve of Seong Je’s grin.

So why is your heart doing pirouettes?

You make your way to the third-floor corridor where the dorm lockers are—dimly lit, quiet, that weird echo of sneakers and whispers long gone. Your school bag’s right where you left it, tucked neatly inside Locker #413. You yank open the creaky metal door and then you see it.

Something’s there. Sitting right on top of your books, perfectly centered, like it’s meant to be noticed.

It’s not flashy. No glitter, no love note, no magical sparkle. Just a single bottle of banana milk. Your favorite brand. Chilled. Still sweating from the cold. With a folded scrap of paper taped to the side, messily ripped from a math workbook.

Your heart stutters. Your breath catches. Your fingers feel too clumsy as you peel it off and unfold it, revealing just three short words in jagged, all-caps handwriting:

“EAT SOMETHING, WEIRDO.”

— SJ

Because the handwriting is sharp and angular—like someone who doesn’t write things down unless it’s detention-worthy.

Because he watched you mop a gym for an hour and said nothing, then vanished. Because you know. You just know. Your fingers tighten around the note.

The banana milk feels like it’s pulsing with meaning. Like this silly, stupid can is the heaviest thing in the world.

You glance around the hallway—but it’s empty. Silent. Like the world is holding its breath.

Somewhere outside, the wind picks up. A door creaks. The universe winks and for a moment, you’re not a Cupid on assignment.

You’re not “Park Yu Na.” You’re just a girl in a hallway with a fluttering chest and the tiniest, quietest smile. You tuck the note into your skirt pocket.

Hold the banana milk like it’s sacred. And walk back to your dorm room in a daze, head full of nothing but echoes of a smirk, a voice like honey and knives, and three handwritten words that shouldn’t mean anything but somehow already do. You’re supposed to be making a match. Instead, it feels like you’re the one being hunted, by a boy who doesn’t believe in rules. A boy with a lighter in his pocket and danger in his smile. A boy who just left a piece of your heart in your locker.

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The Next Morning. You wake up still clutching the banana milk like it’s your emotional support potion. The note’s under your pillow. Your dreams were a weird montage of gym floors, smirking gang leaders, and mop handles turning into bows.

You try to play it cool at breakfast. Try not to replay the moment he looked at you like you were a puzzle wrapped in glitter and defiance. Try not to think about the way the note still smells faintly like cigarette smoke and bubblegum.

Try not to feel anything. You successfully failed in it.

By the time second period rolls around, you’re fully zoning out, doodling tiny bows in the margins of your literature notebook when Sun Hee (your mortal friend) slides into the seat beside you like she’s carrying government secrets.

She leans in, eyes wide. “You will not BELIEVE what I just heard.”

You blink, brain definitely already malfunctioning. “Is it about me? Wait, is it about Seong Je? Wait—no. Don’t tell me.” You told yourself.

She tells you anyway. Because best friends are built for betrayal. “So apparently one of the girls from Class 3-A saw this dude sneak into the school yesterday after class. Tall. Wearing a glasses. Definitely not regulation uniform. She said he climbed over the west wall and bribed the janitor with a carton of Marlboros and a packet of Choco Pies.” You drop your pen on your desk after Sun Hee stopped talking.

Sun Hee’s eyes narrow. “Why do you look like someone just slapped you with destiny?”

You stare at your desk, brain buffering.

Because of course. Of course Seong Je didn’t walk through the front gates like a normal person. Of course he scaled a wall like a delinquent Spider-Man and bribed the janitor like it was nothing.

Your mind flashes back to last night: the casual way he leaned in the doorway. The perfect timing. He didn’t stumble across you.

He planned it. He knew where to find you.

That’s when it hits you—harder than any arrow you’ve ever fired, he asked around. He probably knew exactly what room you’d be cleaning. Probably watched the sunset from some rooftop just waiting for everyone else to leave. Probably dropped the banana milk into your locker after you went to shower.

And now? Now your heart is a war zone and your face is 90% blush.

Sun Hee pokes your cheek. “Are you okay? You look like you're having a slow-motion anime realization.”

You shove your notebook into your bag, whispering under your breath, “I think I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

Because this was supposed to be an assignment. A mission. No interference. No EMOTIONS.

And yet somewhere in between missed shots and banana milk, Seong Je has gone from target to threat level swoon.

And worst of all? You only have two arrows left and you can’t waste those two for now. You can’t fail.

Classes had just ended, and while some students headed back to their dorms, others left campus to take a walk or do their own thing. You gave a wave to Sun Hee and Mi Rae as they made their way to their dormitory, while you stepped off campus, planning to visit that bookstore you had discovered during a stroll through the neighborhood.

A few minutes ago, it started to rain when you got out of the book store. Not the gentle, romantic kind either—the full-blown "sky had a breakdown" kind. Sheets of water hammer the pavement as thunder rolls low, like the heavens are warning you that you're about to do something very stupid.

Which checks out. You duck into the nearest open place: a tiny, grimy convenience store with flickering lights and a faint smell of wet cardboard and boiled egg.

You're soaked, shivering, and very, very aware of the fact that your divine assignment is still very unfinished.

That’s when you see him, sitting at the back ramen bar, hood down, hair damp from the rain, sleeves pushed up. He’s slouched like the chair offended him, one knee bouncing. The steam from his instant noodles curls around him like smoke around a dragon.

You freeze in the aisle, half-hidden behind a rack of seaweed snacks. But it’s too late. He sees you.

His lips pull into a lazy smirk. “Sit. I don’t bite.”

You arch a brow. Your hair drips onto your collar. “Liar.”

Still, your legs betray you. You sit. Across from him. Because there are no other open seats.

He eyes your soaked sweater vest and plaid skirt like it’s some kind of comedy show. “Do you always show up looking like a drowned honor student?”

You look down at your soggy uniform, then deadpan, “Only on days when fate curses me with your presence.”

He laughs through his nose, takes another bite. then slurps the noodles.

You fold your arms, cold and snarky. He’s warm and smirking. It’s unfair.

“Why do you always glare like that?” he asks, mouth half-full. “You look like you’re about to report me to the principal.”

You rest your chin on your palm. “Only if the principal takes bribes in cigarette packs and misplaced rage.”

That does it. He chokes. Mid-slurp. Noodles halfway to his mouth. He coughs, actually startled, and you blink, watching him hack up his pride as he slams his chopsticks down and wheezes out, “You–what?”

You blink innocently. “Sorry, too much truth?”

And then he laughs, really laughs. Loud, full-body, real laugh. Not the smug chuckle. Not the polite scoff.

This one? This is real. Teeth. That gummy smile he has. Head tilting back slightly, like your words genuinely tripped him up.

And your heart? Your divine, professionally detached, this-is-just-an-assignment heart? Yeah, that bitch goes: oh no.

Because in that one laugh, you can see the boy behind the title. Not “Top Dog of Ganghak.” Not “Target 143-B.” Just a guy. Eating instant noodles at 11 P.M in a convenience store that smells like despair and bad life choices.

And the way he’s looking at you now? Like you caught him off guard.

He taps his chopsticks on the table, leaning forward just a bit. “Park Yu Na, huh? You’re not as soft as you look.”

You smirk, mimicking his posture. “And you’re not as scary as you act.”

He hums at that. His foot bumps yours under the table—definitely not by accident.

Lightning cracks outside.

But inside? There’s a strange kind of truce.

Steam rising between you. Warmth spreading slowly and beneath it all, that one last arrow still burns quietly against your spine—like it’s waiting. Like it knows: You’re in trouble.

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

It’s a lazy Sunday, and the city is humming like a half-sung lullaby. Neon lights haven’t fully flickered on yet, and the sky is a soft, pale gray—clouds hanging low like the world’s keeping a secret.

You didn’t mean to run into him.

You were just grabbing mandu from that tiny shop by Hongdae Station with your friend Sun Hee, the one that smells like heaven and deep-fried regret.

Just walking. Minding your own divine business. Hoodie up, earphones in. Mortal camouflage at full power. That’s when you spotted him.

He’s dressed in that casual, slouchy way that still somehow screams danger—black cargo pants, black hoodie, chain peeking out. The kind of boy your mother would tell you to avoid but your heart writes poetry about anyway.

He’s not alone. A few other boys hover nearby—also in black, shoulders heavy with Union swagger. One’s laughing. Another’s passing a soda can. Someone’s talking to him. Every single one of them radiates that “we-run-this-side-of-Seoul” energy.

And yet—he stands out, out of all men in this country. Even when he’s silent. Even when he’s doing nothing at all.

Leaning against a railing like it’s a throne. Cigarette in one hand, loose and forgotten. Expression unreadable. Hair ruffled—ahh fuck. Eyes sharp beneath those glasses.

You panic. Not because you’re scared. But because something in your stomach flips the second you see him. So you do what any undercover magical agent would do: You pretend not to see him. Head down. Hoodie up.

You cross the street like he’s just any random boy, you would stumble upon to. Just anyone. Like your heart didn’t do the cha-cha the last time he called you “weird.”

You’re walking through an alley shortcut behind a fried chicken place when Sun Hee stops to check her phone. You didn't even look up to take a glance at him, just kept your head down.

But he’s not listening on the others. Because his eyes are on you. The second you look up, he sees you and for a breathless, shattering second, the whole street slows.

When Sun Hee stops checking her phone, she drags you along with her. Your feet keep walking—barely. You force your expression to stay blank. Pretend you don’t see him. Pretend your heart didn’t just short-circuit. Pretend you didn’t replay that banana milk note seventeen times last night.

Just turns his head slowly and tracks your steps like he’s memorizing your path. Like you’re the only thing in his line of sight. Like everything else around him—the noise, the gang, the world—has gone fuzzy. And even though you’re not looking straight at him, you feel it.

The weight of his gaze. The invisible string pulling taut between you in that crowded street.

The fluorescent lights above the little shop buzz faintly, casting a sleepy warmth on the steaming trays of odeng and the rows of bottled drinks lined up like soldiers.

You and Sun Hee squeeze into the corner booth with barely enough space for your trays and elbows. She’s halfway through a sweet potato hotdog and mid-rant about your group project partners being “criminally unserious.”

You mostly nod, trying to focus, but your mind’s already drifting again—thinking about arrows and assignments and a certain boy with bed eyes—help and that annoying smirk that lingers in your thoughts way too long.

Sun Hee finally leans back with a sigh, tapping her chopsticks against her empty bowl. “You sure you’ll be okay getting home by yourself?”

“It’s fine,” you say with a weak smile. “Just need to catch a cab. I’ll text you when I’m back.”

She zips up her pink hoodie and gives you one last suspicious squint, then pulls you into a hug that smells like tteokbokki and vanilla shampoo. “You’ve been acting weird lately. Like… staring into space, sighing dramatically, blinking slow.”

“I blink at a totally normal speed.”

“Liar.”

“Text me, or I’m calling the cops. I mean it.”

You laugh, squeezing her tighter before she jogs off into the crowd, waving with both hands like you’re shipping off to war. Her voice echoes faintly, “BYE, YUNA!! DON’T GET KIDNAPPED!!”

The shop quiets after she’s gone. The crowd thins. The warmth fades.

You step out into the street, pulling your jacket tighter around you. The night has turned cold, the rain thinning into mist. Your phone refuses to load the taxi app.

You’re standing alone beneath a flickering streetlamp, phone held high like it’s a prayer to the cab gods. But it’s late, and the Seoul sky is dark and sulky. Every car zooms past without slowing. The cold has started to creep under your cardigan, and your patience is two seconds from cracking.

You sigh, stepping closer to the curb. That’s when the growl of an engine pulls up beside you. Your breath catches before you even see him.

And there he is. Seong Je, in a black windbreaker and helmet slung on his wrist. His eyes meet yours beneath the glow of the streetlight, unreadable—but curious. Annoyed. Maybe a little amused. “What, you just gonna stand here ‘til sunrise?”

You stiffen, trying for dignity despite the shivers in your knees. “I’m waiting for a cab.”

He glances up the street. Empty. Predictable. “No cabs come here this late. You’ll freeze your wings off.”

Your stomach tightens at wings. You almost ask if he knows—but his tone is still casual. Teasing. “Romantic,” you say, voice dry. “I was hoping a rich vampire would adopt me.”

He swings a leg off the bike, kicks the stand down.

He jerks his chin toward the alley. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride.”

You have self-respect, training, immortality, and standards. “You’re insane if you think I’m getting on that death trap.”

He shrugs like the universe bores him. “Then walk.”

And he’s already straddling the bike again like he knows you’re going to fold. He starts strapping on his helmet like this is already decided. Like he’s giving you a choice that isn’t one. Like he already won.

You look at the empty road stretching behind you. Then at him. The way his hair curls slightly at his temple. The glint of mischief in his eyes. The open space on the bike.

You curse your dignity and climb on. The leather of the seat is cool beneath you. Your legs tremble as you swing them over—either from the cold or the fact that you’re now effectively hugging a delinquent with a smile that ruins lives.

You don’t look at him when he holds out the spare helmet, and he doesn’t comment when your hands hover—just slightly—before they land on his waist.

You hesitated at first. His voice, low and unbothered, “You’ll fall off if you don’t hold on.”

You grumble under your breath. “Cocky much?” Still, your arms move. Wrap slowly around his waist, and that’s when your heart decides to do parkour. Full flips. Vaulting emotional hurdles.

Landing in full chaos mode.

Because his back is warm. His breath visible in the cold night. And with this closeness, you can feel his laughter when he mutters, “Thought so.”

His windbreaker is warm. His body is even warmer. “This is a mistake.” You think. But your fingers curl around him anyway.

The engine growls to life like a living thing, loud and unapologetic, and your heart immediately launches into a parkour routine you did not authorize.

Wind screams past your ears. Your hair lashes wildly, and the city becomes a blur of neon and shadows. You hold tighter. You have to. For safety.

The city streaks by in blurs of gold and blue. Your hands fist in the fabric of his jacket.

For a moment you forgot just for a second, that you’re a Cupid with rules. With boundaries. With two last arrows that absolutely should not end up in your own ribcage.

Because right now, you're just a girl on a bike, heart loud in her ribs, flying through a night that feels like the beginning of something you were never meant to have.

And maybe that’s why it feels so good.

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Just two nights later, you were just trying to clear your head.

The mission’s falling apart. Your bow’s been glitching and the feelings you’re not supposed to have? Yeah, they’re starting to tangle around your ribs like ivy you can’t rip off.

So you took the long way back to the dorms, past the neon signs and fried food carts, blending into the hum of Seoul’s nightlife. Hoodie up, head down, pretending that everything’s fine.

You pause outside a bookstore, pretending to check your phone, when you hear it, footsteps. Then a hand wraps gently, just barely, around your wrist. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to stop you.

You turn, and he’s there. Seong Je. Backlit by a flickering streetlamp. His shadow stretching long across the pavement. One hand shoved into the pocket of his jacket, the other still holding you—loose, like he’s giving you a choice to pull away.

But you don’t.

He leans in, close enough that you can smell the ghost of smoke on his collar, that soft scent of citrus and street asphalt and something unplaceable—something him.

His eyes catch yours, and they are so, so dark. He says it. “You trying to disappear on me, Yu Na?”

Soft enough that it feels more dangerous than if he’d yelled. It’s not a question, not really. It’s a dare wrapped in velvet.

Your throat tightens. Your heartbeat goes sprinting somewhere north of logic. “I wasn’t–” you start, but your voice catches like a record scratch. “I wasn’t disappearing. I just…”

He quirks an eyebrow. Just a little. The tiniest smirk threatening the corner of his mouth.

“You saw me that day on the street,” he says, voice calm, eyes unreadable. “I was with people,” he adds, tone casual, but there's a flicker of something raw in his eyes. “Didn’t think I had to call your name just to get you to look at me.”

You feel your cheeks heat, the shame crawling up like fire under your skin. “I was in a hurry–”

“Bullshit.”

Your breath hitches. He steps just a little closer, his shoulder brushing yours. You’re cornered now—physically, emotionally, celestially. There’s a wall at your back, him at your front, and nowhere to run that won’t take your heart with it.

“You looked scared,” he says quieter now. Like it costs him something to say it. “Not like... scared of me. Just scared. Like you were running from something.”

He pauses. His jaw flexes once. “I don’t like when people run.”

For a second, his expression cracks. You see it: the flicker of something real. Concern, maybe. Interest, also maybe. Something soft that has no business living behind a gaze like his.

Your lips part to answer, but the words don’t come. Because he’s still watching. Because the world is holding its breath around you.

And then he lets go of your wrist. Slowly. Like he didn’t really want to. Like it meant something.

He glances down the alley once, then back at you. “You shouldn’t walk alone at night,” he mutters. “Especially not in this part of town.”

He starts to turn, pulling up his hood. Then stops. Looks back at you one last time. “If you’re gonna run, Yu Na… run toward me next time.”

And then he’s gone. Just like that. Into the night like a whisper you’ll replay a thousand times. You’re left staring at empty space, heart pounding, hands shaking, soul spiraling and suddenly, nothing about this mission feels simple anymore.

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The school bell rings like it’s mocking you. Clear, loud, and entirely too cheerful for someone who just had a borderline soul-shaking encounter with Seoul’s most beautiful delinquent boy in a back alley under questionable lighting conditions.

You sit down at your desk. You pull out your notebook. You take a deep breath. “It’s not a crush,” you whisper to yourself like a girl possessed.

Sun Hee glances over from her seat beside you and squints. “You okay?”

“Fine. Totally fine, like super fine.”

Sun Hee raises an eyebrow. You are absolutely not fine. Because every time you blink, you can still see him. The way his voice wrapped around your name like some wish. The way he said, “Run toward me.” The nerve of that line. The audacity. The drama.

Your pencil snaps in half. You try to refocus. You write in your notebook:

• Match 143-B

• Geum Seong Je

• Objective: Perfect Match (not with self. OBVIOUSLY.)

You underline it aggressively. Then underline it again.

Because this is your Final Field Exam. This is your divine responsibility. You are not just a girl. You are not “Park Yu Na.” You are a Cupid. A professional. A winged, sparkly, arrow-wielding being of sacred romantic efficiency. You are not falling for your target.

Except. Your fingers drift to the pocket of your blazer where the banana milk note still sits, slightly crumpled. You haven’t thrown it away. You should. You know you should. But you don’t.

Instead, you stare out the window as the teacher drones on about equations, and your brain replays the way his voice dropped half a register when he said your name. The way he looked at you like he could see straight through the mortal illusion, like he knew you were lying.

You clench your jaw. “Nope,” you whisper. “Not a crush. Just an obstacle. A very... annoyingly symmetrical obstacle with cheekbones carved by petty gods.”

You look down at your notebook again. You’ve accidentally doodled little hearts around his name. You slam it shut.

“Girl,” Mi Rae whispers from the row behind you, leaning forward. “Are you okay? You look like you're losing a mental battle with your own hormones.” You forced a laugh, then shook your head in response.

The bell rings. Class ends—finally. You pack your books like they’ve personally betrayed you, slam your locker shut, and stomp down the hallway with the focused fury of someone definitely not in love.

You don’t see him that day and it shouldn’t bother you.

But it does. And that bothers you even more.

You are not catching feelings. This is not a crush. You are going to finish this mission, shoot your arrows, match him with some nice emotionally available human, and be done.

You are a Cupid, and Cupids do not fall in love. Right?

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You’re yanked without a single warning right out of your mortal hallway, mid-snack. Your banana milk explodes mid-air, freezing in space as you're teleported through a glittery wormhole of pink smoke and passive-aggressive harp music.

You blink and suddenly you're standing in a giant heart-shaped chamber, glowing with gold filigree and dangerous levels of scented candle energy.

Columns made of rose quartz. Floors of cloud marble. The ceiling? A living mural of every successful match in history, currently judging you.

At the far end of the chamber, lounging sideways on a throne upholstered in actual sunset? Aphrodite.

Wearing a white silk dress and ten feet of attitude. Perfect hair. Glass of wine. Eyeliner is sharp enough to end wars. “Yu Na,” she says, not looking up from her enchanted scroll, “darling… let’s talk.”

You smiled nervously. You are sweating. Celestially. “Hey, boss! You’re looking radiant as always. Like, wow. Is that a new aura or–”

“Save it.” She sips in her glass wine. “We need to discuss Match 143-B.”

Your soul flinches. “Oh! Yeah. Totally. I mean, everything is going great. Super smooth. No feelings involved.”

She finally looks up. One arched brow. A long pause. The room goes quiet. Even the portrait of Helen of Troy in the corner slowly turns her head like, “Girl, really?”

Aphrodite raises her scroll and begins reading out loud, “Excessive proximity to target. Unnecessary rooftop contact. Improper bow usage. Incomplete emotional barrier. Possible romantic attachment. Underlined. Twice.”

She lowers the scroll, folds her hands, and gives you that look, that divine, slow-burn, that mom-knows-you-screwed-up-but-wants-you-to-say-it gaze. “Yu Na. Sweetheart. Do you remember the number one rule?”

You wilt slightly. “Don’t… fall in love with the target.”

“Mmhm, and what do we not do?��

“…Catch feelings for the top dog of a high school gang while wearing a mortal disguise during our final exam?”

“Exactly! We do not do that.”

She sighs and leans back like you’ve aged her 300 years. “Do you know what happened the last time a Cupid fell for a mortal? We got Romeo and Juliet. Do you want Romeo and Juliet again? Because I don’t have the emotional bandwidth for that mess.”

“I-it’s not a crush! I’m just… emotionally confused because of his–! Nevermind.”

She narrows her eyes. “Yu Na, your arrows literally curled away from him mid-shot. You’re the only one in the department whose magic has romantic stage fright.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. You are toast. Celestial toast.

“You have 72 Earth hours to complete this assignment,” Aphrodite says, rising from her throne, heels clicking like judgment. “Or I pull you out and reassign the case. To Eros.”

You gasp. “Eros?? He once matched a squirrel with a lamppost!”

“And yet he doesn’t fall for his assignments.”

She waves a sparkly red finger. The scroll vanishes. The throne starts to fade. “Fix it. Or I will.”

“But what if–”

“Nope. Shhh.”

“But–”

“Shhh.”

The air swirls. Your vision goes blurry.

And just before you’re pulled back into the mortal world, you hear her final words echo through the golden mist, “And stop daydreaming about his stupid face. It’s unbecoming of a goddess.”

You wake up in class. Face down on your desk. Covered in a thin layer of glitter.

Mi Rae pokes you with her pen at the back. “You good?”

You turn your head to her, “No. Aphrodite’s gonna kill me.”

“Dude, what?”

The trees are in full bloom. Petals rain down like confetti for a wedding that hasn’t happened yet. Sun Hee and Mi Rae went to the ladies restroom for awhile leaving you alone in the corridor.

The air is warm, soft. It smells like sunshine, powdered chalk, and the lingering scent of sakura tea from the vending machine in the teacher’s lounge.

You’re watching from the second floor window. Your hand rests on the cool glass, but your heart? It’s burning.

Below, Seong Je stands by the main courtyard fountain, surrounded by a few students from another class. He’s still in uniform, half-unbuttoned shirt, his blazer thrown over his shoulder like he’s in a drama and knows it.

You see it.

The way the girls laugh a little too loud when he talks. The way one of them, Ji Hae, you think, with the long braids and overly shiny lip gloss—leans a bit too close, twirls her hair around her finger like it’s a spell.

And the worst part? He’s letting her. He’s not smirking. Not brushing her off. He’s listening. You can tell. He’s asking about you. Your pulse spikes. The Cupid in you wants to leap for joy. Target is showing interest. Receptive. Progress achieved. Initiate pairing sequence.

But the girl—the you you’re pretending not to be?She wants to curl up and disappear.

Because this should be a win. It should be a perfect step toward the match. You should be pulling out your last arrow, taking aim, and finalizing the assignment.

Instead…You feel like you’re choking on flower petals.

Each laugh from the girl beside him is a tiny dagger. Each glance he gives her, no matter how casual, feels like a betrayal your heart has no right to feel.

You shouldn’t care. You can’t care.

But you do. Because you know what his laugh sounds like up close now. You know how his voice drops when he’s being serious, how his shoulders tense when he’s trying not to show concern, how he calls you "Yu Na" like it means something.

And watching him, down there, in this picture-perfect postcard moment? Hurts.

A petal floats past your cheek. You swipe at it, too fast—angry at how delicate it all is.

Behind you, the empty classroom feels too quiet, too heavy. The world outside is all color and warmth. But you? You're stuck in grayscale.

You press your forehead against the window, whispering to yourself like it might make it true. “This is the job. That’s all. That’s all this is.”

Your fingers twitch near your bag. The bow's in there. So are the two arrows.

You could shoot her. Right now. Make them a perfect match. Seal the deal. End the mission.

But your hands won’t move. Instead, you just watch. As she laughs again, steps closer. As Seong Je finally lets out a small, tired smile—not the one he gives his gang boys, not the dangerous one from the alley, but something softer. Something rare.

And your heart breaks. Quietly. Completely. Like a blossom falling with no one to catch it.

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You clutch the bow tight, your fingers trembling just enough that you pretend it’s from the breeze.

The arrow glows faintly in your other hand, pale pink light pulsing like it knows what you're trying to do and isn’t happy about it.

Below, through the open roof gate, you can see the courtyard. Cherry blossoms still hang like a spell. Seong Je is standing near the vending machine, arms folded, head tilted as Ji Hae chats beside him again—bright, beaming, hopeful. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear like it’s rehearsed. Like she wants this to go somewhere.

It should work. It has to.

You take a shaky breath, nock the arrow, and draw the bowstring back. It hums under your grip. “This is the right choice,” you whisper. “This isn’t about me.”

Ji Hae is sweet. Smart. She’s the type who organizes classroom cleanup even when it’s not her turn. She’d be good for him. Ground him. Love him the way a mortal can.

And most importantly—she isn’t you. You close one eye, steady your aim, and took a deep breath. Jihae’s laugh rings out, warm and close.

You let go of the string. The arrow flies and then—it stops. Wait what—It fucking stopped mid-air. Like it slammed into an invisible wall.

The glow flickers then snaps back like a rubber band, missing both of them entirely and slamming into the side of the vending machine, where it fizzles out in a puff of smoke and divine sass.

You stare, breath caught in your throat. “No. No, no, no.”

You grab your bow tighter, scanning for anything that could’ve blocked the magic, but nothing’s there. Nothing logical, anyway.

The magic didn’t bounce because it was blocked. It bounced… because his heart wouldn’t open to her. He’s immune. Not to love. Just to everyone else. Even her. Even now.

You sag against the roof railing, heart pounding so hard it might break your ribs. “He’s not supposed to be immune. He’s human. He’s supposed to fall for someone.”

You look down again—and that’s when it happens. He looks up. Eyes sharp beneath those glasses, face unreadable. But you see the flicker of something like he felt the magic shift. Like he knows someone was watching. He sees you. Not clearly. You duck back too fast. But still. For a heartbeat, a flicker, a spark—you were connected.

And suddenly the weight of the two remaining arrows in your satchel feels unbearably heavy.

You have one last try. One last shot to finish this assignment.

But what if… the only one he could ever fall for is you?

And worse—what if you're already too far gone to stop it?

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You materialize inside Aphrodite’s private suite of chaos and charm: a place where silk drapes ripple with no wind, and heart-shaped clouds hover like bored interns.

The air smells like roses, vanilla lip gloss, and ancient power. Everything here glows. Even the floor is radiant, like walking on crushed starlight.

But nothing shines brighter or more threateningly than the goddess seated before you on a velvet fainting couch that she’s never once fainted on.

Aphrodite doesn’t look up immediately. She’s painting her nails with some divine shimmering lacquer that changes color depending on your emotional damage level.

When she finally speaks, her voice is smooth and dangerous, like velvet hiding a knife. “So…You used one of your last two arrows… and it failed.”

You wince. “It bounced off him. Like he rejected it before it even reached his heart.”

She raises a brow, now fully looking at you. Her gaze is sharp. Regal and a little smug. “And you tried to match him with someone else?”

You nodded fast. “Jihae. She’s sweet. Pretty. Human. A good match. He should’ve liked her.”

Aphrodite’s smile is small and lethal. The kind that says, oh honey, you sweet naïve disaster.

She leans forward, elbow on her knee, chin in her palm, eyes sparkling with something that makes your stomach twist. “Then you already know what the match is.”

You blink. “No,” you say too fast. “That’s–he can’t–it’s not me. I’m Cupid. I’m just supposed to guide them. I don’t–”

She cuts you off with one perfectly manicured finger raised. “The arrow doesn’t lie, sweetheart. It never has. And if his heart won’t open to anyone else…”

“Well.” She shrugs, lips curling. “Maybe it’s because it already has.”

You take a step back like her words physically hit you. Your bow shifts on your shoulder. You feel the weight of the last arrow against your spine.

Only one. One more shot.

And suddenly it doesn’t feel like a tool of love—it feels like a choice, a test, or a trap. “This isn’t allowed,” you whisper, your voice smaller than you want it to be. “We’re not supposed to–”

Aphrodite rolls her eyes, dramatic. “Please. As if any great love ever followed rules.”

She gets up, walking toward you in heels that click like divine thunder. “You think I built this entire department to push paperwork and throw random teens together at prom? No, darling. I built it to make stories worth writing down.”

“And yours?” She taps your chest, just over your heart. “Might be the most human one I’ve seen in centuries.”

You want to argue. To say you’re not in love. To say this is just magic and proximity and the fact that he smirks like sin and listens like he means it. But you don’t. Because deep down, you know.

He was never just a target. He was always the risk.

And you? You were never ready for what loving a mortal would feel like.

“You have one arrow left, little archer,” she says, her voice like velvet and finality. “Choose wisely.”

And just like that, you’re alone again. Only now, your heart’s louder than ever, and the final arrow in your quiver feels warm—like it knows where it wants to go.

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The crowd buzzes with soft laughter and the pop of soda cans. Strings of paper lanterns flicker overhead, casting warm glows on the rows of booths, cotton candy stands, and prize-filled claw machines. It smells like roasted sweet potatoes, sugar syrup, and something heartbreak-shaped.

You stand at the edge of the square—hidden in the soft halo of a cherry tree, one hand tight around your bow.

He’s here. Leaning against a pillar near the game booths, bored and gorgeous, his school uniform rumpled like he fought three boys in it earlier and probably did.

He’s alone. Vulnerable. For once, not surrounded by the other Union boys. His usual wall of noise and swagger is… quieter tonight. Like even he can feel the hum of something bigger, something fated.

Your fingers slide up to your final arrow. It glows faintly in the evening light, the pulse of it syncing—traitorously—with your heartbeat.

You breathe in. Lift the bow.

The arrow floats into place, drawn like it already knows its target. His name echoes in your head like a prayer. “Seong Je.”

One clean shot. One perfect hit, and his heart will open—just as the laws of magic decree.

You stare down the line of the bow. Your aim is steady. But your soul isn’t. “If I use this,” you whisper, the words trembling from your lips like smoke, “I’ll never know if it was real.”

Because the arrow chooses for them. But you? You wanted him to choose you.

Your breath hitches. Your hand shakes. And just as you're about to lower the bow—she appears in the moment, Jihae.

Her smile is radiant, nervous in that way mortals get when they hope too hard. She says something you can’t hear. Seong Je raises a brow, vaguely polite.

Then she leans in. She was about to kiss him. So sudden, it is too fast and too forced.

You inhale sharply. The bow drops a little, the arrow’s glow pulsing like it’s holding its breath.

But he turns his face away. Steps back, hand gently catching her wrist before she makes contact. Not cruel, not cold. Just distant.

His eyes are already searching. Past Jihae. Past the booths. Across the crowd. Like he’s looking for someone else.

Your fingers loosen on the string, heart hammering so hard it hurts.

He doesn’t even realize what he’s doing. But his gaze skips over every student, every light, every sound—until it lands in your direction.

You duck behind the tree fast—too fast, you almost slipped on the grass.

The arrow dims slightly in your hand. Like it, too, isn’t sure anymore and neither are you. You slide it back into your quiver.

Because if he’s already searching for you… What if the match was never magic? What if it was always… real?

You’re still behind the cherry tree, hand pressed to your chest where your heart is playing whack-a-mole with your ribs. The arrow hums faintly in its quiver, as if it, too, is stunned by what almost happened.

Then a cloud of glitter suddenly appears beside you. The scent of ancient roses and bad decisions. “You’re prolonging this for drama and I LOVE IT.”

Aphrodite appears at your side like she never left, draped in a silk suit that looks too expensive for Earth and too fabulous for a reason. Her heels don't even touch the ground—she floats, all smugness and starshine.

“Really, darling. The tortured hesitation. The Forbidden love. The half-lowered bow under the cherry blossoms? Iconic.” She sips something pink and bubbly from a champagne flute that absolutely did not exist a second ago. “But unfortunately, we’re moving on to the finale now.”

You blink. “What?”

She claps once and then he appears. Another Cupid. Tall, cold-eyed, his wings sleek and too perfect. No warmth. No humor. No hesitation. He doesn’t even acknowledge you—just steps past with mechanical grace.

“You’re compromised,” he says flatly, not bothering to look your way. “You’re being replaced.”

Your gut twists. You grab your bow instinctively. “Wait, no–You can’t just–!”

But he already has his own. It was already being pulled. The first arrow was fired straight into Jihae’s heart. She flinches as it hits, eyes going wide with wonder and awe, pupils dilating with the sweet, unnatural rush of magic. “Wha…?” she whispers, voice dreamy. “Seong Je…”

You take a step forward from the Cupid trying to stop him. “Stop–don’t–!”

The second arrow was released. It hits Seong Je square in the chest. He jerks like it knocked the wind out of him. Blinks rapidly. Breath stalling. He looks up, across the crowd, at Jihae.

Not at you. Never at you.

Aphrodite hums a little tune as if none of this is soul-shattering, as if she didn’t just throw your heart into a blender with strawberries and a broken contract.

She finally turns to you, sipping the last of her celestial drink. “Now your assignment is done,” she says, voice bright, decisive, cruel in its gentleness. “You can collect your diploma. Come along, sweetheart.”

She gestures toward the glowing portal behind her—already swirling open like a beckoning goodbye.

But you—you can’t even move. It’s like you're paralyzed in there. You just stand there, mouth dry, heart sinking like a stone through the sea. Watching Seong Je.

He looks at Jihae, a smile begins to form, it was slow—soft in a way that isn’t his. It’s Cupid-soft, artificial, borrowed, and most importantly it was forced.

“But that’s not real,” you say, barely above a whisper. “That’s not him.”

Aphrodite gives a tiny shrug, eyes sparkling. “No, darling. But it’s what the file wanted, isn’t it? You were supposed to match him. Now he’s matched. This is the clean ending.”

But nothing about it feels clean. Nothing about this feels like love. It feels like theater.

Seong Je’s hand brushes Jihae’s. He’s smiling—but you know him better than that. That smile is wrong. It doesn't reach his eyes. He doesn’t even know why he’s smiling.

You’re just standing in a garden of blossoms, with a full heart and an empty hand, staring at the boy who no longer sees you.

The last arrow in your quiver hums softly, unused, undeniably yours. You could still shoot it. You could ruin everything, or you could follow the goddess. Get your diploma. Graduate. That’s all.

But one truth now roots itself deep inside you like the petals beneath your shoes:

You never wanted to pass.

You wanted to matter.

You turn your head to the portal and start making your way there.

Aphrodite walks ahead of you in heels too loud for the quiet in your chest. Her perfume leaves a trail—roses, smoke, and the bitter scent of endings.

You trail behind her, stiff, eyes glassy. The crowd fades behind you. The festival sounds dim like someone turned the world’s volume knob down.

Seong Je is gone now. Or maybe not. Maybe he’s still there. Standing beside Jihae under strings of golden lights, smiling with someone else’s heart.

You don’t dare look back.

“You did well,” Aphrodite says, not looking at you. “You didn’t let your feelings interfere. You were right to walk away.”

You say nothing. Because if you open your mouth, your voice might break. And gods forbid a Cupid cries before graduation.

The portal pulses gently. The colors shift—gold, lilac, then soft rose. It hums with magic. With home.

And yet, you paused right in front of it. Right on the threshold of eternity and closure.

Your diploma floats gently in the air beside you. Sealed in pink. Gilded with divine calligraphy. Sparkling like it’s proud of you.

“You’re free now,” Aphrodite says. “No more assignments. No more temptation.”

You nod once. But something deep in your ribs is screaming. Quietly, but insistently.

“That wasn’t love.”

“That wasn’t real.”

“I wasn’t done.”

And somehow you wonder, If he ever turns around tonight… If he ever asks where you went…If he ever remembers the weird girl with wings in her eyes and a bow she never fired… Will he know it was almost fate?

Aphrodite offers her hand and you take it.Step through the portal. Now everything… blurs.

Back in the Divine Realm, The hallway isn’t glowing gold this time.

It’s quiet. Dim. The clouds beneath your feet are soft but cold. The Department of Matchmaking Magic feels too polished. Too clean. Like nothing in it ever hurt.

You hold your diploma like it’s heavier than your bow ever was.

Around you, Cupids celebrate. Wings flutter. Laughter fills the space. Someone just got their perfect match approved and they’re crying happy tears.

But you? You sit on a bench made of mist and memory. Bow across your lap. Arrow untouched. One name still echoing in your heart.

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You’re dragging your tired, emotionally compromised self past filing cabinets that file themselves, still in your post-diploma haze. Hair unbrushed. Wings tucked in like they’ve given up on believing in miracles.

You’re in the admin wing of the Divine Realm, sipping an ambrosia latte. You’ve been assigned light clerical duty while they "process your graduation paperwork" Which means in divine-speak for "we're giving you busywork so you stop brooding in front of the mortal observation mirrors."

You’re sorting scrolls. Matching files. Y’know, doing the grunt work you thought you’d never go back to now that you're officially Cupid-certified.

That is, until one scroll starts glowing violently pink. Spins in a full dramatic circle and then smacks itself against your forehead.

You catch it before it hits the cloud-floor. It glows hot—not hot pink like usual. Not gold either. But red. Urgent Transfer Request.

You blink. The scroll unravels by itself like it’s got nothing better to do but ruin your peace.

The ribbon unfurls by itself and hovers midair with a flare of gold script.

REQUEST FOR INTERREALM TRANSFER

Name: Seong Je (성제)

Mortal ID: [REDACTED]

Requested Department: Matchmaking Magic

Reason for Transfer: "Unfinished Business/Unresolved Emotional Link."

Priority Level: Urgent.

Divine Approval: Pending.

Additional Notes: “If she’s not going to tell me the truth, I’ll find it myself.”

You just stand there—freeze. Your heart slams against your ribs so hard you swear the file cabinets pause in their floating routine like, “Girl, WHAT??” Your coffee hits the floor. “No,” you whisper. “No no no no—how did he even find this place?”

The room falls away—because how? HOW?

You didn’t leave a trace. No charms. No enchantments. The last arrow was never fired. You didn’t say goodbye. You weren’t even real to him.

So why? Why is his name here? Why is he asking for you?

“Holy Olympus,” you whisper, heart leapfrogging into your throat. “He remembers.”

Just then, a cherub courier floats past with a lollipop in one hand and a clipboard in the other.

“Yo, you’re being summoned again. Aphrodite’s office. Something about an ‘unresolved situation’? She sounds way too excited.”

You stagger to your feet, the scroll still hovering like it's waiting for your soul to catch up.

Because it’s happening. He's looking for you. Not the fake name. Not the Cupid. Not the mission.

You.

And across realms, timelines, rules, and magic—he sent for you. The last arrow on your back shimmers softly. Maybe fate wasn’t finished after all.

You drag yourself up the spiral of love-infused cloudsteps toward her office, your steps a mix between “I just got hit by a truck” and “I will throw hands with a literal goddess.” The scroll is still hovering beside you like a nosy bird, pulsing red like it’s counting down to something.

The doors open themselves and you immediately squint from the sight in front of you.

Because her “office” has somehow transformed into a beach cabana. There’s a sky that bleeds sunset gold into lavender waves. Seagulls caw overhead (you’re pretty sure they’re enchanted and probably trained to harmonize). Pink tropical drinks with curly straws float midair. It smells like sun-warmed salt and forbidden romance.

Aphrodite lounges under a parasol in a silk robe, her heart-shaped sunglasses glittering. She takes one look at your face and beams. “Aww, look who got emotionally wrecked by their own target!”

She claps like you just won a reality show. “Cupid of the Year, baby.”

You stare at her. You are vibrating with twelve different emotions and three unresolved heartbreaks. “Why is his name in here?” you ask. “How is he even able to be here?”

Aphrodite shrugs lazily, flicking her nails and summoning a file out of thin air. It lands on the cocktail tray next to her. Big gold lettering, all caps:

MATCH 143-B

STATUS: COMPLICATED

She sips her champagne like she’s watching the best drama on divine television. “He filed an Interrealm Request. Personally. Used an artifact that hasn’t worked since the Trojan War. We didn’t even know mortals could get those anymore. He broke four laws of emotional containment and walked straight through a temporary rift near Mount Halla.”

You blink, how the hell did he end up on a Mountain. Mount Halla? That’s in Jeju. That means… “He crossed a whole country for me?”

Aphrodite sips on her champagne, “And two realms. Don’t forget the realms, darling.” she added, while making a piece sign of her hand, symbolizing the word “two”.

Your head spins. You clutch the back of a floating heart-lounger like it’s a life preserver. “Why now?” you whisper. “I never fired the arrow. I never said anything. He shouldn’t even remember me.”

Aphrodite stands now, her face softening—just a little. She taps the file. It flutters open, glowing with rows of shifting fate-threads. “Because you may not have shot the arrow, sweetheart… But you aimed it. And sometimes? That’s worse.”

You freeze. Because deep down, you know what she means. You felt it. Every time his gaze found you in a crowd. Every time your name almost slipped from his mouth. Every time you almost let yourself believe…

Aphrodite sighs and then, like she’s bored of being sentimental, “Now. Due to this messy, delicious twist, we’re activating a Cupid Clause. Technically, he’s requesting closure. Which means we have to respond.”

Your eyes widen. “Closure?”

She grins. “You get to see him again, darling.”

You lift your eyebrows, “Wait, what?”

She waves her hand, and another scroll appears—this one gold and sealed with something that feels like fate humming through your bones.

“One last assignment. This time? No bow. No arrows. No lies. Just you and him. And a question.” Aphrodite said, while smiling softly.

You whisper, “What question?”

She smirks over the rim of her drink. “Do you still love him?”

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The sky over Jeju is painted in soft pastels, the kind of pink and orange that only happens right before the sun sinks into the sea. Wind rustles through blooming cherry blossom trees that stretch like a dream across the temple courtyard where you land—barefoot, breathless.

Your wings are gone. Your bow? Left behind.

All you have is your uniform, a satchel slung over your shoulder, and the name he whispered when he looked up at the sky like he was begging the gods for one more try.

The air is thick with sakura petals, brushing against your cheeks as if even the wind wants to soften this moment. You’re not sure what you’re walking toward—closure? Consequence? Catastrophe?

But you walk anyway and then you see him.

He’s standing alone under the largest cherry tree, back to you, hood pulled low. Jeans. Scuffed sneakers. A silver ring glinting on his finger.

But when he hears your steps crunch on the stone path, he turns, slow, eyes wide, lips parting, and the second his eyes lock onto yours, everything around you… stops.

No petals, no breeze, no sound. Just you and him suspended in whatever this is. This unspoken thing that crossed dimensions and beat time and rewrote rules.

His voice is rough when he finally says it, “So you’re real.”

You try to smile. It breaks halfway. “More or less.”

“You lied to me.”

You flinch. “I know.”

“You disappeared.”

“I had to.”

He walks toward you slowly. Step by step, like each one hurts. Like he’s scared if he moves too fast, you’ll vanish again. “But I remembered. Everyone else forgot you, but I couldn’t. I didn’t. Even when I tried.”

You’re shaking, but not from fear. “Why?” you whisper.

He stops a breath away. You can see the shadows under his eyes. The cracks in his armor.

But also the way his hand twitches, like he wants to reach out but doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

“Because you ruined me,” he says, voice low.

“Because every time I closed my eyes, I saw you. Because when I kissed other girls and I looked for your reaction, and.. Because I caught myself smiling at the sky like a fool. Like maybe you were still watching.”

You want to cry. You want to scream. You want to rewind to that day on the rooftop and do it all differently. But you can’t. So instead you say, “I was supposed to match you. That was the mission. That was all it was supposed to be. But then you smiled and made some dumb jokes. And looked at me like I mattered. And still, I never used the last arrow.”

He blinks. “You didn’t?”

You shake your head. “Because I wanted to know if you’d fall in love with me without it.”

He stares. Then he exhales—like he’s been holding that breath for eternity. “I did.”

And then he steps closer.

The cherry blossoms swirl around you like confetti from the gods, and his hand comes up to brush a petal from your hair, fingers lingering like they’ve been waiting for this exact moment.

His eyes are soft—too soft. “So what now?” he whispers.

Your heart aches. But this time, you smile through it. “Now we see what love really is... without magic.”

The sea roars beside you, wild and untamed, crashing against the jagged rocks with the kind of rage only heartbreak understands. The salty wind tangles your hair. Your cardigan flaps through the wind, and parked right in front of you, leaning—His matte black motorcycle.

Seong Je straddles it like he owns the night. Helmet hanging off the handlebars. Hair a mess. Leather jacket thrown over his uniform like rules were never part of his vocabulary. His rings glint against the throttle like danger has jewelry taste now.

“You getting on or what?” he says, like it's nothing. But his voice is lower, rougher. The wind can’t even carry it right.

You hesitate. “I’ve never been on one before.”

He raises a brow. “Guess there’s a first time for everything.” Then that smirk carves across his lips like it was forged in rebellion. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe.”

You climb on to the motorbike. You shouldn’t still be wanting to memorize how his shoulders feel under your palms, how the space between you feels like magnetic static, like lightning waiting to happen.

But you do—you always do, you hold onto his shoulders.

He revs the engine. It purrs like a beast.

And when he takes off, it’s not chaos. It’s flight.

Wheels eating up the coastal road, wind peeling laughter from your chest, cliffs and cherry blossoms whirling by in a pastel blur. The ocean to your right, Seong Je in front of you, and the sky above bleeding every color it knows how to feel.

Then he pulls over, right at the edge of the world.

You’re both breathless, just by the scene in front you. He pulls off his gloves with slow fingers. Leans back against the bike. Looks at you like he’s figuring out the ending of a poem he never meant to write.

“I didn’t think I’d get to see you again,” he murmurs.

“I didn’t think you’d remember me,” you whisper back.

His eyes flicker—dark, golden, deep. “Can’t forget what rewired my whole heart.”

And then he pulls you in. Gently. His hand finds your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your lip like he’s memorizing it. Like he’s measuring the distance between craving and kissing. And then finally he leans in.

The kiss is slow at first. Careful. Like he doesn’t want to scare you away. But then something snaps—the kind of hunger that builds after months of almosts, after watching, waiting, hurting. His hand slides into your hair. His lips press firmer, warmer, like he’s trying to anchor you to this moment.

You kiss him back and it’s not magic—not the divine kind.

Because it’s real. It’s every mortal emotion tangled in heat and saltwater and the sound of the sea waves.

When he finally pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours. “Still think this was all a mission?” he asks.

You smiled at him. Eyes were glossy. “No. I think this was fate with attitude.”

note: yow everyone HAHAHAH how do y'all feel about this oneshot? well, yk I think this is going to be my last last post before school finally starts on monday 🥀🥀 I hope you guys enjoy reading this because this is really really long MWA 😚😝😼

#geum seong je #geum seongje #keum seongje #wolf keum #geum seong je x reader #geum seongje x reader #keum seongje x reader #wolf keum x reader #weak hero x reader #weak hero class x reader #weak hero class 1 #weak hero class 2 #weak hero class one #weak hero class two #cursed carmine dividers #dividerdivider by si-eunnis

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