#tying without a partner

[ropesbypatricia]

Rope Techniques ~ Tying without a partner

Here are a couple of tactics I have utilized in practicing shibari when I'm not able to work with a partner

First: Here's how I added "elbows" to my plastic mannequin to enable her to be placed into a gote or box position

The arms of my mannequin disconnect at the shoulders, so I started by removing them and then sawed them apart at the elbow

Next, I stuffed both open ends of the plastic arm halves with foam pool noodles I had on hand

I connected the stuffed arms by running bent lengths of wire hangers into the pool foam to act as a semi-adjustable joint

Finally, I wrapped and secured both new joints with a length of ace bandage and some duct tape - I dress my mannequin in a body suit so the rope has something to grip; the plastic mannequin skin lacks the toothsomeness of human flesh

Second: a simpler and very similar effect can be achieved for gote/tk practice without a mannequin. You can throw a hoodie over a full-backed chair, such as a kitchen chair, and stuff a rolled towel inside the joined arms of the hoodie as pictured below:

Sometimes we cannot tie with a partner. These pictures were taken during the COVID lockdowns, for example.

And while these inanimate accommodations cannot take the place of partnered learning, they have helped me to advance my understanding of patterns and builds and rope handling along the way and I hope they may be of use to some of you too!

*This is the mannequin I modified above which was gifted to me by my SO*

[galaxy-fleur]

Ask for your ocs: what's your, like, ideal date situation (like, partner, location, activities, aftermath [😉])?

Hmm, now this is interesting, especially considering how chaotic and busy their daily lives are!

William is a hopeless romantic at heart. He's a writer! It's basically in his DNA! He keeps that side of him under wraps, though, as he had bad luck with love in the past, getting stuck in relationships where he felt stupid for his wants and needs. But it's still very much in there, and it will come out eventually if he feels safe. He's a bit of a dreamer, getting swept up in all the butterflies and fuzziness that being around someone he loves brings. His ideal date needs to be romantic, first and foremost. It doesn't have to be anything big and loud, he's not one for too much attention, anyways. But something like a romantic picnic out in a botanical garden, or a quiet boat ride under the stars? Oh, he'd definitely go crazy over that. It's important for him to get some alone time with his partner where they both can be fully honest with each other. No worries over being seen and judged. He'd still get dressed to the nines, though. For him, he's as much of a giver as he is a receiver, so he'd be happy to arrange the date himself, or be the one who gets spoiled instead. For him, an ideal date would be something that allows him to connect to his partner on a deeper, more vulnerable level.

Natasha doesn't really think much about love or relationships at all. Not until her feelings hit her square in the face, and she just has to deal with it. It happened with Chaewon, and it happened with Leon. But when it comes to her in an actual romantic relationship: she's very much a giver. Almost to a fault, and she does work on it with time and personal growth. She learns to accept things as they are and not feel obligated to her loved ones whenever they show her kindness. That said, she still prefers to be the one planning an outing and doing something to surprise the one she loves! She is happiest when she knows she made her partner feel valued. So, hm... something like her planning a surprise outing to that one dinner place they were talking to her about a few weeks ago, or buying concert tickets for the group they wanted to see. She's not big on words with her love, but she does make her partner feel heard and appreciated with her actions. I think something like a nice conversation after the date as they go back home, or a quiet moment of intimacy, like taking a warm bath together, is also something she'd enjoy a whole lot. For her, an ideal date would be something that makes her partner happy, and thus making her feel more connected to them.

Dave has been on plenty of dates in his time, most of them... not all that serious. He's not as much about the mushiness of romance as he is about relaxing with someone and just having fun. That said, he does want his partner to have fun, too. Very much so. It's important for him to see them laughing and being happy. He enjoys bars, clubs, street performances, food trucks, ect. Nothing expensive and fancy, but instead something that makes you feel connected to some sort of larger community. Something that lets you just let got of your worries for a couple of hours. If his partner is fine with that? A night of drunken laughter, dancing, some mischief and even troublemaking until they are both out of breath and laughing - is the perfect night for him. If his partner is on the quieter side? That's fine too! Dave is a very adaptive guy. Probably something like visiting his favorite local food truck - the owner being one of his many buddies of course - and just enjoying a walk through the city with some shopping is just fine with him. For him, an ideal date would be something that allows him to just forget about the world and focus on the present with his partner.

Chaewon is not big on going out, but she is big on making her partner happy. One of the reasons her relationship with Natasha didn't work out was because they are both such massive givers in their relationships. For Chaewon, it's not as harmful as in Natasha's case, though. She simply prefers to be the one to spoil and care for her partner because it makes her happy to see them happy, not because of any feelings of guilt or indebtedness to them. Her ideal date would be doing something that her and her partner both enjoy. Or maybe one of them trying out a new hobby/skill that the other is good at. Be it Chaewon trying out something like crocheting (and failing terribly), or her teaching her partner martial arts. She usually hates going out of her comfort zone, since she doesn't like feeling like a fool, but if she loves someone? That means she trusts them. And she knows they wouldn't make her feel stupid for not getting it right at first try. For her, her ideal date would be something that allows her to share an activity with her partner, and grow closer to them as a result.

Wendy does not really go out on dates much, at least, there is no label of a date being involved. Sure, she did enjoy quite a few dates in her lifetime, men and women alike, but most of them were more about achieving some specific goal than actual romantic connection. Be it fishing out some information or getting the person on her side through some smart flattery. But a real, honest date? Hm... I think it'll be rather isolated and private. Probably something both her and her partner agreed upon in advance instead of it being a surprise. Perhaps a private dinner on the roof of her apartment... or a private slow dancing to some old timey romantic tunes playing in the background. Something to just relax and let go of the world for a moment. It'll still be fancy, of course. But it'll also be authentic in a way that's not usual for her. The date itself will be more about shared conversations than the food or the drinks, although those are very pleasant bonuses. It's simple, in a way that is often overlooked, but it's meaningful regardless. For her, an ideal date would be something that makes her open up and connect to someone on a level she hadn't before.

Aruna is cheery and adventurous, but she's also a raging workaholic practically living in her lab (seriously, sometimes she spends multiple days in a row there, nobody approves, but she's too stubborn to listen). You'd think a relationship with her would be fairly easy, but no. Unless her partner is someone who can relate to her feelings of living through her job, or they're in a similar position, I fear it would be a struggle. Either way, the point is that Aruna doesn't really do dates. Not usually. Her idea of a date is spending lunch break together, sharing news and getting to enjoy each other's company for a small while. Not what you would call the most romantic of dates. That said, I do think, on some rare occasion, she would like to just relax with her partner. Be it by booking a full spa day together, or going away to rent out a small cozy cabin out in the woods away from all the duties and all the responsibilities. Just... forget about the rest of the world for these few hours and focus on each other. For once, she'll talk about something else other than work. Although a few science-related anecdotes are still a given. For her, an ideal date would be something that allows her to clear her head and rejuvenate with her partner.

[abbotjack]

(18+ only) nsfw alphabet– michael robinavitch .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪₊ ⊹˚

pairing : michael "robby" robinavitch x afab!reader

18+ MDNI—warning : explicit sexual content, use of cunt, rough sex, praise kink, post-sex intimacy, body worship, possessive language. this is just pure filth start to finish like oh my god...

a/n : no plot, just robby being hot, obsessed, and way too good at ruining your cunt. you're welcome. roughly 4,000 words... needless to say I was very passionate about this one as well. I also did one for dr. abbot!. anyways, happy pitt thursday & ty for 100 followers !

♡ A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

He treats aftercare like it’s an extension of the act itself—just as intimate, just as necessary. He pulls you against his chest immediately after, and murmurs, “You alright?” His voice is low and hoarse, lips ghosting your temple. He doesn’t rush. You’ll feel his fingers smoothing across your skin, touching every place he left red or trembling.

He wipes you down gently with a warm cloth—he never makes you do it yourself—and then pulls the blanket up over both of you. There’s a certain reverence in the way he laces your fingers together afterward. He might not always say the words, but it’s there: You’re mine. I’ve got you.

♡ B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His favorite on himself : His hands because they get to touch you. He’s obsessed with how much he can make you feel with just his fingertips. “Tell me where you want me,” he’ll whisper against your throat while teasing a finger down your thigh.

On you : Your mouth. Not just for what it does, but how it moves. The curve when you smile, the little intake of breath when you’re trying not to moan, the way it parts when he slides a finger into you and whispers something filthy against your ear.

He’s obsessed with the way you whimper against his kiss. Sometimes he’ll press his thumb into your bottom lip and say, “Let me see how much you want it.” And then watch—ruthlessly—as you fall apart

♡ C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Robby finishes deep, every time. It’s instinctive. You clenching around him when he starts to lose control? That’s what does it. He’ll bury his face in your shoulder with a groan that sounds almost pained, holding you in place while he spills inside you. And afterward? He stays inside just a little too long. “Just… let me have this for a second.”

He loves watching it drip out of you after. Fingers gentle but greedy as he brushes it back in, eyes dark with a possessiveness he never voices out loud.

♡ D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He has a thing for catching you in the middle of it.

Not touching yourself for him—not some showy, performed thing. No. He wants to catch you when you think he’s not there. When it’s real. Quiet. Desperate. Private.

That’s his secret.

He’s walked in on you once—half-asleep, legs spread, hand between your thighs, whispering his name under your breath without even realizing it. You didn’t notice him right away.

But he noticed everything.

The way your hips stuttered. The little gasp you made when your fingers brushed just right. The slick sound of you trying to get yourself off like it wasn’t already too much. The blush that crept up your chest when you finally looked over and saw him standing there, hard in his jeans, eyes dark, watching.

He hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

And sometimes—he doesn’t mean to—but he lingers outside the bedroom door when you don’t know he’s home. Just listening. Breathing slow. Letting his cock throb in his hand while you whimper his name with your fingers buried inside you.

He won’t ask you to stop. He won’t interrupt.

♡ E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Robby is the guy who doesn’t look like a heartbreaker, but you find out after that he could be. He’s had lovers—but he doesn’t throw it around casually. When he touches you, it’s obvious : he knows what he’s doing. His rhythm, his pressure, the way he reads your breath and adjusts in real time. Precision with heat.

And when you moan his name? His lips part, slow, like he’s drinking you in. “That’s it. Just like that. Good girl. Let me hear you.”

♡ F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

In the privacy of the bedroom, Robby's preferred position is classic missionary. He loves to have you lying beneath him, legs wrapped around his waist, allowing for deep penetration and full-body contact. This position enables him to maintain eye contact, reading every nuance of your expressions, and to kiss you deeply, muffling shared moans.

What elevates this position for him is the intimacy it fosters. He can feel your heartbeat against his chest, synchronize his breathing with yours, and whisper sweet or filthy nothings directly into your ear. The ability to have his hands free to explore your body, caress your sides, or intertwine fingers adds layers to the connection. It's not just about the physical pleasure but the profound emotional bond it reinforces each time.

♡ G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Not really goofy—more warm. He’s serious when it counts, but he has this soft, crooked smirk when you laugh mid-kiss. He’ll say something under his breath like “You’re trouble, you know that?” while flipping you over. The humor is subtle—intimate. Like you’re in on something private.

♡ H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He’s got a full bush, thick and dark, not out of neglect but because he doesn’t see the point in shaving something that feels natural. The hair down there is soft but dense, and when he’s hard? It frames his cock like it’s meant to be worshipped.

There’s a trail leading up from his pelvis—dark and straight. It’s the kind of thing you see once and can’t stop staring at, especially when his shirt rides up after a long shift and your eyes catch that line of hair leading down. He notices when you look. He always notices.

And let’s not skip the beard.

He loves burying his mouth between your thighs like it’s the only place he wants to be. His tongue is slow, deep, deliberate. His stubble drags across every tender inch, rough enough to leave you raw, just the way he knows you like it.

He shaved once.

He came out of the bathroom with a towel slung low, jaw bare, clean, pink in places where the razor caught. He looked at you—wet hair, smug expression, a glint in his eye like he thought he’d done something special.

Your eyes dragged over his face, down to the curve of his throat. Blank. Quiet. Then :

“You shaved.”

He nodded, a little too proud. “Figured I’d try something different.”

You didn’t answer. Just got under the covers, and faced the wall.

You didn’t fuck him for a week.

You still let him pull you close. Still let him kiss your neck. But your cunt stayed untouched, aching and slick in silence, because you chose to starve him with it. To remind him that this—you—has rules.

You waited until the stubble came back.

That night, you let him between your legs.

You didn’t speak. Just pulled him down and pressed your cunt to his mouth like something owed. He took it like an apology.

Now, he doesn’t forget. When he fucks you with his mouth, he does it slow. Thorough. Until you shake. Until you cry out. Until it’s more than just pleasure—it’s possession. His jaw works like he’s starving. Like he remembers every second of those nights you wouldn't let him have it.

When he pulls back—chin wet, lips parted—his breath ghosts over your skin. You’re flushed and trembling, still pulsing from the friction.

He looks up, voice wrecked, reverent.

“I won’t make that mistake again.”

You exhale, heavy, jaw slack.

“You won’t.”

♡ I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

When he’s in your bed, it’s not about sex—it’s about claiming space in your life. Every touch is intentional. Every glance lingers a second too long. Every thrust carries the weight of everything he doesn’t say out loud.

He gives his full attention, eyes locked on yours while his hands hold you still, and his voice drops in your ear :

“I want you to feel me tomorrow. I want you to remember this.”

And afterward? When your legs are still shaking and your mind’s gone foggy? He pulls you into his chest because you’re his. It's the kind of closeness that tells you—no one else gets this version of him.

♡ J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Robby jerks off only when it’s necessary—when he’s so hard it aches, or when he’s had a day that pressed every damn button and he needs you to take the edge off… but you’re not there.

He always does it the same way : Back against the headboard, hand braced on his thigh, one slow stroke at a time while his eyes are shut and you’re the only thing in his head. Sometimes it’s your voice. Sometimes it’s the way your body looked the last time you collapsed under him.

He finishes hard, jaw clenched, chest rising. And every time? He mutters your name under his breath, like a confession he’s still trying to outrun.

♡ K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

He doesn’t just want to fuck you—he wants to manage you. Override your thoughts. Rewire what you associate with pleasure until the only thing you crave is his voice, his rules, his cock.

And he does it slow. He makes you ask. Not because he’s into power trips—but because he wants to hear you break.

“You want something, you say it. Use your words.”

“That tone won’t get you what you need, sweetheart.”

And when you finally say it—broken, desperate, voice shaking—he rewards you by giving all of himself, rough hands, heavy weight, deliberate thrusts that make you sob.

He’s into positional control—knees spread wide, hands behind your back, chin tilted up with one thick hand under your jaw. Not to scare you. To focus you.

You don’t look away. You don’t squirm.

You listen. You obey.

And when you don’t? He’ll stop mid-thrust, press his body flush to yours, and growl :

“Try that again. See what it gets you.”

When he puts you where he wants you and says, “Stay still while I fuck you,” —you do. Every time.

That’s the kink : You, undone. And him, fully in control of everything.

♡ L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

He’s a bed man, 100%. Not because he’s boring—because he wants time, room, and access. Sheets pushed down. One knee between your thighs. He wants to make a mess.

But he does have a soft spot for the couch especially after a long day, when you curl into his side while watching something on TV, kiss his neck, and he doesn’t even bother pulling your pants all the way off before tugging you into his lap and sliding in from underneath.

♡ M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

What gets Robby going?

You. Wanting him.

It’s the way you shift closer when you speak—like your body can’t help but chase him. The brush of your leg against his under the table, slow and unthinking, but your breath always catches after. The way your eyes dilate when he says your name low.

It’s instinct. Want in its rawest form. Not loud. Not deliberate. Just something in you pulling toward something in him.

And he notices.

Feels it in the silence. In the way your thighs tense when he stands too close. In the heat radiating off you when you pretend you’re not thinking about his hands on your skin. But you are. And he knows it.

And when you do ask?

That’s what does it.

Just a soft little please—barely above a whisper. His cock’s already hard in his pants, jaw tight, breath low and steady, because if he moves too fast, he’ll lose it.

And if you’re already wet when he checks?

He groans—low, rough, wrecked.

“Yeah. That’s all I fuckin’ need.”

Because that’s what gets him. Not performance. Not noise. Just need. Honest, helpless, soaked-through need.

The kind that has your cunt dripping just from the thought of him.

That kind of power? That kind of want?

He’ll fuck you senseless for it. Every time.

♡ N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He won’t turn sex into something cold and punishing.

You can tease him. Push him. You can mouth off just to see how long it takes for him to press you into the mattress and make you sorry you started it. He likes that. He likes the challenge.

But he doesn’t want cruelty. Not from you, not toward you.

The first time it comes up, it’s not even in bed.

You say it offhandedly—half a joke, half testing the waters. Something you read in a post, or a thread, or some comment section that said men like him—older, quiet, in control—like it mean. That they get off on making you cry. That pain is the point. That it’s not real unless it hurts.

And his reaction is immediate. Not angry—just quiet. Controlled. Serious in that way he gets when he needs you to listen.

He touches your chin, gently, turns your face toward him. Thumb brushing your cheek. His eyes on yours.

“No, honey. We don’t do that here.”

His voice is low, even.

“You want to be taken apart? Fine. You want to be mine? Good. But not like that.”

Then he pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes.

He doesn’t care what you’ve read or what men like him are supposed to want—he’s not here to watch you cry just to feel powerful, not interested in pain that leaves you numb or pushing past what you can take just because you think that’s what gets him off.

He wants you honest, wanting, undone by pleasure. He’ll ruin you. Wreck you. Push you to the edge of something so intense it leaves you shaking.

But pain for pain’s sake? Anything that feels hollow, detached, or cruel?

That’s where he stops.

♡ O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Giving?

Devotional. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t tease. He feasts. Like your thighs are the only place he wants to die.

One arm looped under your leg, the other gripping your hip. He’ll drag his tongue in deep, slow strokes until you’re begging. Not because he wants praise—because he wants you undone. Wants your thighs trembling, your voice high and ruined, your fingers scrabbling through his hair with desperate little gasps.

Receiving?

He loves it—but more because he likes watching you want it. The heat in your eyes, the way you look up while you suck him slow, spit slicking your lips. If you grip his thighs and choke a little, he’ll groan and push your hair back :

“Easy, sweetheart… take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

♡ P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Controlled.

Not fast, not rough—measured. Like every thrust is calculated to make you feel exactly what he wants you to.

He’ll keep it slow until you’re practically begging, then snap his hips once—just once—and smirk when you whimper.

“That’s what you needed, huh?”

He’ll go harder when you ask. But his rhythm never loses that precision.

♡ Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Robby doesn’t like quickies. Not really.

He wants time—wants to press his mouth to every inch of your skin, listen to the way your breath shifts, draw your orgasm out like he’s conducting it. Quickies cut corners, and Robby? Doesn’t like cutting corners.

But you? You’re standing just a little too close during a quiet stretch in the ER—eyes wide, cheeks flushed, voice barely above a whisper: “Please. I need you. Right now.”

And when you reach for his hand, tug him gently by the wrist toward the back hallway— He knows where you’re going. And he doesn’t stop you.

You slip into the empty on-call room. He’s two steps behind you, shutting the door with a quiet click and turning the lock.

His voice is low, sharp, already strained:

“You really want this here?”

You nod, out of breath.

“Please, Robby… I need it. I don’t care if it’s quick. I just—fuck—I need you inside me.”

That’s all it takes.

He’s on you in a second—one hand at your throat, the other already pushing you back against the wall. His mouth crashes into yours—filthy, impatient—and he grabs your scrub pants, yanking them down just enough to expose your thighs.

Your underwear stays on.

He hooks a finger under the elastic, pulls it to the side, and groans when he sees you—slick, swollen, already soaked for him.

“You came in here like this?” His voice is gravel now. “Fucking desperate for it?”

You nod again. Barely.

“Robby—please. I need you—need to feel you—”

He growls low in his throat and presses two fingers into you hard and fast, feeling you stretch around him, already pulsing.

“God, you’re fucking dripping.”

He pulls his cock out fast—thick, flushed, angry—and lines himself up without another word. Then, still holding your underwear to the side, he drives into you in one brutal thrust.

You gasp—loud—and his hand’s at your mouth now, pinning you to the wall with his weight.

“Shhh. Be quiet for me. You wanted this so bad, now take it.”

The rhythm is relentless. Fast. Deep. Ruined in five minutes flat. Your hands scramble at his back. Your forehead presses to his collarbone. You’re so full, so fucked, all you can do is sob into his palm as your orgasm crashes over you way too soon.

He fucks you through it. Doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. Just grits out,

“That’s it. Just like that. Come around me. God, you feel fucking perfect—”

When he spills inside you, it’s with a broken moan into your shoulder, hips jerking, fingers gripping your waist like he’s trying to hold himself together.

After? He pulls out slow. Gently tucks himself away. Adjusts your underwear back into place and helps you with your pants. Then brushes his thumb along your lower lip where you bit down too hard.

“Next time? You wait until we’re off shift. So I can do that right.”

But you know—The next time you beg?

He’s going to cave again.

He doesn’t like quickies. But for you? He’ll fuck you like it’s the last five minutes of his life.

♡ R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Robby’s not reckless. But behind closed doors? He’ll try anything once—as long as it comes with trust.

You want to be tied up? He’ll get a rope. You want to try temperature play? He’s already warming the oil. But he needs to know you’re there with him, not playing a part.

♡ S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Two to three rounds, easily—if not more, depending on the day.

And in between rounds? He doesn’t check out. He kisses you. Runs his fingers through your hair. Stays in it.

You won’t even realize he’s hard again until he’s flipping you over, saying, “We're not done yet.”

♡ T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Selective. But curious. He keeps a viberator in the nightstand drawer—not for you to use alone, but for him to hold against you while he’s buried inside you.

“Let go. Come on. Let me feel it.”

He’s also into remote-control toys. The idea of having you wear one while you sit across the table at dinner? Knowing he could ruin you the second you tease him?

Yeah. He’s thought about it. A lot.

♡ U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He lives to tease. Not cruelly—strategically. He’ll keep you on the edge for hours. Pull away right before you come. Make you ride him slow until your voice breaks.

And the whole time? He’ll say shit like:

“You want to come? Say it. Say it like you mean it.”

And when you finally do? He’ll give it to you. Hard. Without hesitation. But only once he’s dragged every drop of want out of you first.

♡ V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Grunts. Groans. Low curses whispered into your neck. The sound he makes when he comes is rough.

And when you ride him, slow and deep? He’ll let out this low, desperate moan into your chest that sounds like he’s trying to hold himself back and failing.

That sound? It’s all because of you.

♡ W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He kept the first pair of underwear you left at his place. Not to be creepy. Not to sniff or jerk off to. Just… because.

They’re in the back of his drawer, folded neatly like he might give them back, but he won’t. It’s a memento. A reminder of the first night you stayed. The first night you were his.

♡ X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Thick. Heavy. Veined. He’s not porn-star long, but he doesn’t need to be—the girth alone is enough to make you gasp every time.

You feel him with your whole body. Even when he’s just rubbing the tip through your slick folds, your hips buck involuntarily, desperate for him to fill you. Stretch you. Keep you full until your thighs shake.

And he knows it. Smirks when he catches the way you hesitate right before he pushes in.

“Too much?” he’ll murmur, nudging at your entrance with slow, deliberate pressure.

“You can take it. You always do.”

He presses all the way in, holds there while your body adjusts. He doesn’t fuck like he’s showing off. He fucks like he’s memorizing you with it. Like he’s been thinking about it all day.

And when he pulls out, slow and slick and aching, you’re already sore. Already wanting it again.

♡ Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Robby can hold off for days. Weeks, even. But when he finally has you?

He’s starving.

He doesn’t just want your body. He wants you wrecked. Tearing up. Shaking. Pressing your mouth to his neck so no one hears how hard you come for him.

He wants you craving him just as badly. Not for show. Not for ego. Because that’s the part he hides from everyone else—how badly he needs you when he doesn’t have you.

And when he’s buried in you, deep and slow, holding your wrists down above your head, mouth at your throat, voice shaking from restraint?

That’s when you hear it : “I’ve needed this. You have no idea how fucking much.”

♡ Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

You fall asleep on your side, facing him. One arm draped over his chest, leg tangled between his, skin still hot from where your bodies were pressed tight.

You’re bare.

Still flushed.

Still soft all over, your thighs sticky, your cunt sore and slick from how deep he took you.

And Robby’s still wide awake. Lying flat on his back, one hand resting on the dip of your waist—but his eyes?

They’re on you.

He watches the way your breath slows, the way your mouth parts slightly, the way your fingers twitch against his ribs while you sleep. You’re loose now. Limp and warm and completely undone—and he still feels you, everywhere.

Your stomach rises and falls against him in slow, perfect rhythm. There’s a faint line on your hip—stretch mark, scar, something you used to try and hide.

He sees it.

He loves it.

He traces it lightly with his thumb, barely a touch.

He wants to move.

Wants to roll you onto your back, lick into your cunt until you're whimpering again, make you take him slow all over.

Wants to feel you twitch when he whispers things he never says out loud—like how badly he wants to keep you like this forever he literally has a ring hidden in his nightstand but that’s besides the point.

But he doesn’t. You’re asleep. Spent. Trusting him with your whole body.

So he shifts in a little closer. Presses a kiss to your shoulder. Lets his palm settle over your hip, wide and warm and claiming. Because for now, that’s enough.

Eventually, his eyes will close.

But not yet.

Not when you’re still glowing from what he did to you.

[fanficgirl429]

Jealous Bucky

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Prompt: Bucky gets jealous when Torres flirts with Y/N

--

The hum of fluorescent lights cast a pale glow over the East Side briefing room of the Helicarrier hangar. Equipment cases lined the walls, gear sorted and labeled with precision, and the scent of metal, oil, and sterilized fabric filled the air. Sam stood at the table in the center, hands braced on either side of a glowing tactical map.

Y/N leaned against the edge, tying her hair back into a messy braid, a black combat vest snug over her base layer. Her movements were quick but unhurried—second nature. Bucky watched her from across the room as he adjusted the shoulder harness of his stealth suit. His fingers moved slowly, distracted. He'd already checked his gear twice.

She caught him looking and gave him a soft, secret smile. The kind of smile that said I'm okay.  The corner of his mouth lifted in return, subtle but real.

“You two gonna kiss or kill something?” Sam asked, not even looking up from the map.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “You know which one I’d prefer.”

Y/N rolled her eyes with a half-laugh, walking over to Sam’s side as Joaquín Torres pulled up a holographic overlay from the nearby terminal.

“Guard rotations are clockwork,” Torres said, pointing. “Three-man teams sweep the corridors every twenty minutes. Entry point’s here, west stairwell. You’ll have a five-minute window to get past the security grid.”

“And once we’re inside?” Y/N asked, leaning in, her fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the table. Bucky’s gaze followed the motion.

“Split and sweep,” Sam said, already sliding into briefing mode. “Y/N and I take the server room. Bucky clears the vault corridor. We regroup at extraction in twenty.”

“Sounds clean,” Torres said. Then his eyes flicked to Y/N. “Wish I was going with you guys. Could use someone with your instincts on my team.”

Y/N raised a brow. “You calling me predictable or reckless?”

“Neither,” he replied, a grin tugging at his lips. “Just saying, if I had someone like you watching my six, I might not get shot at so much.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed.

Y/N laughed it off, casually stepping closer to Bucky without seeming to realize she’d done it. But he noticed. He always noticed. The subtle way her body leaned toward him when someone else was around. The way her hand rested on his forearm briefly, grounding both of them.

Torres was still grinning, oblivious. “You ever think about switching teams, Y/N, let me know. I could use a partner who looks that good and knows how to break a guy’s arm in two seconds.”

Bucky’s voice cut through the air. “She’s not switching anything.”

The room stilled for a second too long. Sam looked up, eyebrows raised. Torres blinked and took half a step back, holding his hands up in defense. 

Y/N let out a slow breath and gave Bucky a look—half amused, half warning.

“Just saying, man. No offense,” Torres said. 

Bucky didn’t answer. Instead, he turned and walked toward the lockers, snapping his gloves tighter than necessary.

Y/N followed.

When they were out of earshot, she leaned against the locker beside him, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“You know I’m not going anywhere, right?” she said softly.

Bucky looked down, then back at her. “Yeah. I know. Doesn’t mean it’s easy watching someone else talk to you like that.”

Y/N tilted her head. “You think I care what Torres thinks? I let you zip my vest this morning.”

His eyes flicked to her chest, then to her face, his voice lower now. “Yeah. That was the highlight of my day.”

A smile played on her lips. “I can give you another highlight, but we’ve got a mission in ten.”

“Damn timing,” Bucky murmured.

She stepped closer, hand brushing lightly against his side—right where his arm met flesh. “I’ll be careful.”

“I know.”

“I mean it,” she whispered. “I don’t want you losing your mind if someone so much as looks at me funny again.”

“Too late for that,” he muttered, then softened. “But I’ll keep it together. Just… stay close. And come back to me.”

She pressed a quick kiss to his lips, unseen from the others. “Always.”

Sam called from across the room, “Time to move out, kids. Jet’s hot and ready. Let’s go look cool and kick ass.”

Y/N turned with a wink. “Let’s go make some noise.”

Bucky watched her walk away—confident, calm, dangerous as hell. And his.

He took a breath, squared his shoulders, and followed.

No one would ever get close enough to take her from him.

Not on his watch.

--

The mission had ended hours ago.

Madripoor had been chaotic—twisting alleys, cold steel corridors, fire flashing off concrete and bad choices. But they’d made it out. Banged up, bruised, a little breathless, but alive.

The quinjet hummed softly as it cut through clouds somewhere over the Atlantic. Sam had passed out three seats back, his arm thrown over his face, muttering occasionally in his sleep. Bucky sat near the front, freshly bandaged, bruised, quiet.

Y/N sat curled up across from him wearing one of his hoodies and her tactical pants, legs tucked beneath her. She’d changed out of her suit, hair loose now, damp from a quick shower at the airbase. Her eyes had been on Bucky since takeoff—not in worry, but something else. Something quieter. Deeper.

He looked tired.

Not physically—though the gash on his shoulder was proof enough the mission hadn’t gone easy—but emotionally tired. Like he’d been holding onto something all day that still hadn’t been said.

She crossed the aisle and slid into the seat beside him, saying nothing at first. Just letting the silence speak.

He glanced at her, then looked away. “You should sleep.”

“You should talk to me.”

A beat passed.

He exhaled. “You could’ve been killed today.”

“You say that like it’s not part of the job.”

His voice dropped. “It’s different when it’s you.”

Y/N turned in the seat, facing him fully. Her hand reached over, fingers brushing his knuckles—just barely. But he felt it like a jolt.

“You saved me. Again.”

“I shouldn’t have had to.” His jaw flexed. “I should’ve cleared the corner faster. Should’ve—should’ve gotten between you and that guy.”

“Bucky.”

“I saw the way he raised the gun. He wasn’t aiming at me. He wanted you. And all I could think was—”

He stopped himself. Chest rising, falling. The words stuck somewhere between his lungs and his heart.

“All I could think was, what if this is the last time I see you?” he finished, softer now. “What if I lose you before I ever get to tell you…”

Her hand moved to his jaw, thumb tracing the stubble just below his cheekbone.

“Tell me what?” she asked.

He met her eyes, blue and stormy and full of something that cracked her open inside.

“That I love you,” he said. No hesitation now. No fear. Just the truth. 

Y/N’s breath hitched. She was already smiling, already blinking away tears she hadn’t realized were there. “Took you long enough.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “Guess I’m still learning how to say things before I almost lose them.”

She cupped his face, pulling him in gently, and kissed him—slow and deep. When they parted, her forehead rested against his.

“I love you too,” she whispered. “Even when you’re brooding and jealous and act like you invented angst.”

His lips curved against hers. “I did invent angst, actually. 1943. Patent pending.”

She laughed, and he held her close, letting the sound soak into his skin.

They stayed curled together for the rest of the flight, her head on his shoulder, his fingers tangled in hers. No words needed.

Outside, the storm had passed.

But inside the quinjet, something far more powerful had settled.

Peace. And love.

[wolviensabes]

NSFW Alphabet: Wolverine

a/n: I was excited to write a nsfw version of this because his character was surprisingly fun and easy to write for this. I like Logan because you can really be flexible with how he is in bed. It all depends on preference and writer ofc, but still it was fun to write. Wrote mostly gender neutral, on parts where body is described, I wrote for afab and amab. Not edited please ignore mistakes ty <3

18+ under the cut. MDNI.

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex):

Aftercare king.

He knows just what to do, especially since sex with him is normally pretty rough and crazy. He leaves you a mess under him and you're barely able to walk. "Atta girl/boy, princess/prince, up you come." he grabs hold of you and lifts you up, carrying you to the bathroom to get you all clean.

He's a messy partner so you need a shower to get all the sex off you. He leaves you alone to do anything you need privately, but otherwise he's helping you maintain your balance in the shower and drying off.

You're in such a dazed state, you feel dizzy and lightheaded, still a little loopy. He will get you back to bed and lay you down, feeling pride and satisfaction within himself at how he could bring you to such a state. Only he could do that to you.

He will hold you close to him, you feel cold now, his body will warm you up. He likes skin to skin, so unless you want a shirt, he won't dress you so he can feel your softer skin against his own.

The praise he gives you makes you feel so special and worth so much, it helps when you come down from your high, knowing he was satisfied and loved every moment of the act.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s):

I don't think he really has a favorite part of his partner, but I will die on the hill that he likes his partners a little chunky. He loves to grab onto you, he likes how he can manhandle you without worry of hurting you.

Those plush hips and belly drive him insane. If you are afab, your ass draws his hand in every single time and he loves to smack and grab it. If you are amab, he will grab onto your thighs or soft, relaxed chest muscles and squeeze them. Both afab and amab, his hands come around from behind and gently knead your belly.

Logan is a dude so on himself...he holds his manhood very high, and for good reason.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically):

Filthy.

He gets that shit all over the place and he loves it.

He loves marking you inside and out. He loves shooting his spunk on your body just as much but something about releasing inside you makes him somehow cum harder and with more.

He's not that bad taste wise, I mean cum doesn't taste great, but he's not bad. Not too bitter, not too salty, but his cum is thick. And when he does climax, he cums a LOT.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs):

Logan, being a primal mutant, loves scents. It's one of the things that he relies on a lot, and your scent is intoxicating. He steals some of your clothes and smells them, or sometimes he will dive into your crotch and inhale you.

Not exactly dirty, but Logan secretly likes when you scratch his head or mess with his hair after sex. He likes to keep himself up as a tough guy most of the time but when you wind down, even if he's the one holding you, he sometimes scoots down enough to let you play with his hair.

He will move his head where he wants your hand to scratch and leans into it when you reach that sweet spot.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?):

He's over 200 years old, he's got experience.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying):

Literally anything where he can watch you mewl and moan for him.

He also likes from behind or positions where he can watch his cock sink into you with each thrust.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.):

Logan isn't goofy but he also isn't serious. He's open to messing around and with tossing, turning, all sorts of play, it's not going to be serious 100% of the time.

He will chuckle and tease, sometimes funny noises are made, that's just how it is, and you both will laugh a little...but then you get back to it because who can resist?

Sometimes he will play fight you, wrestle you down to the bed and hold you there, with ease, and he smirks down at you trying to overpower him. It's a fun way to rile him up for sex and he enjoys it quite a bit.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.):

Logan is hairy, but not insanely so. I think below he is pretty crazy but he trims it down enough once you two get more intimate. Though he thought it was funny watching you spit out his pubes.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect):

He can be romantic but he is more passionate than anything. He likes to make sure you feel good, and he loves doing it. Once he gets you feeling good, he gets a little more rough and tells you what he likes without shame.

He's very forward, and his communication in the bedroom is immaculate. You wished he were like that outside of the bedroom sometimes, because there's no hesitation, no secrets, he's fully confident and tells you exactly what he wants.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon):

Sometimes he masturbates, sometimes he doesn't. It all depends on how horny he is in the moment.

He'll fist his cock to the thought of you, or since he likes your scent a lot, he will practically inhale your underwear and jerk himself until he cums all over his hand.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks):

Logan...he's kinky as hell.

Dom/sub dynamics drive him up the wall. He loves being in control, manhandling you, having you listen to what he says without fail.

Slight primal play would be up his alley. The playful wrestling and fighting gets him going and he likes to bite and mark you up during sex. Almost looking like an animal attacked you, but no, it was just Logan marking you as his.

Dirty talk king. He is so brazen with his language, whispering it into your ear as he pounds your poor, swollen hole full of another load.

Praise, praise, praise! He loves to praise you and how good you take his thick cock inside you.

Overstimulation/denial, he loves the control. He often makes you cum multiple times before even penetrating you just to hear you cry and whimper for him.

Maybe a slight breeding kink, since he loves the idea of filling you up to the brim with his thick cum, (this goes regardless of afab or amab), he's going to fill you up regardless if it's biologically possible to impregnate you or not. It's just for fantasy anyway.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do):

He will do it anywhere he feels like. He doesn't care who sees. You're his and he likes everyone around you to know it.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going):

I love that most everyone agrees that wearing his clothes makes him fucking feral. He would lose it seeing you in a shirt of his...or maybe even naked and only wearing a flannel. Slowly unclasping each button to make him growl and almost rip the damn thing off you.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs):

He'd never want to hurt you. There are things he likes that might harm you but he doesn't actually want to cause you harm.

He can be rough and he doesn't want to actually hurt you. A spank or choking just enough to get you dizzy is about as far as he would go. Logan would never intentionally try to harm you, especially during something as intimate as sex.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.):

He has a hard time picking what he likes better. He loves diving between your legs and lapping you. But he also loves to see you choke around his thick cock.

Logan loves the dirtiness of it, his dick in your throat and watching you try your best to please him. He loves seeing you choke and gag on him, your face gets so sloppy with spit and cum, it makes him more crazy in bed when he's fucking you.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.):

With Logan it can be 50/50. He can be rough and hard, or slower and passionate. Most of the time he is ensuring you cum multiple times, and then he fucks you into the bed while you cry around his cock. Then, he gives you another orgasm, he cums, and the cycle repeats until you literally can't take it anymore.

Then he cleans you up and makes sure you know how good you were for him. You'll have trouble walking for a few days.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.):

He's down for a quickie, he can make you cum fast when he wants to. However he does prefer to make you whine and beg instead of giving you a solid, quick orgasm unless you really need it.

Sometimes he needs a quick one too, so a fast blowjob helps. But again, he likes to take his time rather than rush it.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.):

He takes plenty of risks. He loves to test the waters with you and experiment with all sorts of things. He's down to try almost anything.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?):

His mutation allows him to have enhanced stamina so be prepared for that.

He can go for literal hours and not be tired at all. His mutation also allows his refectory period to be very short. So...you will be filled to the brim.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?):

I don't think he would have any for himself, but he would start to grow a collection if you had any or showed interest in some. He'd keep them under his bed in his room whenever you wanted to spice things up.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease):

Logan is the king of teasing you. He loves to tease until you can't take it and tears are rolling down your cheeks.

He always gives you what you want in the end, but not without that asshole making you beg.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.):

He doesn't give two shits who hears him, or you, he is loud. He grunts, groans, snarls. Not to mention the insane level of dirty talk he does, and he loves to make you scream out his name.

By the time you're done, you swear half the mansion heard you.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character):

He dirty talks like crazy.

Sometimes he will fuck you when you're wearing his clothes, or when he comes back from a mission, he doesn't bother cleaning up before he storms up to your shared room and he fucks you.

Angry sexxx

He lets out his frustrations from missions as he pounds into you.

"Goddamn slim, stupid fuckin' self-designated leader thinks he can boss me around like I'm nothin' but a loyal scout to 'em." he grunts and snarls with each plap of his hips into you, his cock driving against you. You have no idea what happened on the mission but can you complain? No.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes):

Logan's dick is huge let's get that out of the way.

He's thick, it feels like he rips you open each time he penetrates you and it feels fucking incredible. That also means lots of foreplay~

He's veiny, his cock throbs as he stands erect, and his balls are heavy.

He's a good 8 to 8.5 inches fully erect, the damn thing leaks precum constantly when he's horny.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?):

Insanely high. He will fuck you every single day if he could.

He is down to fuck all the time, anytime. You just have to say the word and he's on top of you.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards):

Logan makes sure you're comfortable before he even attempts to sleep. He stays awake, letting you curl into him and he watches you, making sure nothing he did was too much or causing pain.

Once you seem okay and have fallen asleep, he will allow himself to relax and fall asleep beside you.

Thanks for reading.

*SNIKT*

Tag list: @strawberryshortcake20

Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list by leaving a 🧡.

dividers by @/strangergraphics

[khioneee]

ORGAN THIEF

synopsis. you tell yourself caleb was never yours to have, so you let zayne get close. until caleb decides he doesn’t like to share. warnings. jealousy. mentions of violence. angst. pairings. caleb x reader (x zayne) word count. 7k. an. felt like crying tbh. might edit later.

when you were young, there was no such thing as distance between you and caleb.

you were always together, moving through life side by side, never questioning it. there were scraped knees from racing down the street, grass stains from summers spent lying in the backyard, and lazy afternoons where he let you steal food from his plate without complaint. nights meant whispered conversations under blanket forts, his voice always the last thing you heard before sleep took you.

you grew up together, side by side, pulling each other out of the awkwardness of childhood, shedding timidity like second skin.

caleb and y/n, y/n and caleb.

here’s y/n.

here’s caleb.

here's a bond that no one else quite understands.

your love for caleb hasn’t changed, but it’s grown into something you didn’t understand. can’t understand. not yet.

but caleb has grown. taller, sharper, still careless with his hair, but just as hopeless at tying his tie in the morning. there’s a natural ease to him now, a quiet confidence that draws people in without effort. he doesn’t just enter a room, he shifts the atmosphere, commanding attention without needing to say a word.

you hear the way the girls in the hallways whisper about him, their voices hushed but excited, their eyes lighting up when he so much as glances in their direction. he’s the kind of person people gravitate toward, like planets drawn to the pull of the sun.

kind. athletic. smart. golden.

the one who remembers names, who helps the new kid find their classes, who scores the winning shot and shrugs like it was never in question.

when caleb talks to people, he makes them feel important, like they’re the only one in the room, like whatever they’re saying is the most interesting thing he’s ever heard. he finds beauty in everything, in everyone, and in return, people can’t help but see the same in him. they admire him, look up to him, want to be close to him.

but they also fear him.

they don’t realize it at first. not until they get too close to you.

at first, you didn’t think much of it.

the way conversations with guys ended abruptly, how some hesitated before sitting next to you, or how your lab partner, who had been openly flirting with you just the day before, suddenly kept his distance. his easy confidence had dulled overnight, his laughter forced, his eyes avoiding yours.

maybe it was just a coincidence, a strange pattern you convinced yourself wasn’t worth questioning. but then it started happening more often. the brief glances, the quiet goodbyes, the way some of caleb’s teammates barely acknowledged you despite knowing that you were close.

still, you never questioned it. because, in the end, it never really bothered you.

caleb had always been like that.

like how he insisted you wear his jersey at his games. the first time, he tossed it at you casually, like it was an afterthought. ‘now they’ll all know exactly who you’re watching.’

you rolled your eyes but pulled it on anyway, ignoring how it smelled faintly of his cologne and sweat. after that, it became a habit. if you ever showed up without it, he’d pull it from his bag and toss it over. no words, no discussion.

or how he always left his jacket with you when you were cold. it didn’t matter if you insisted you were fine. if he caught you rubbing your arms or tucking your hands into your sleeves, his jacket would be around your shoulders before you could protest. warm, a little too big, and never once did he ask for it back.

if you returned it to his room later, he’d only shrug like he hadn’t expected it back in the first place.

and then there were the small things. how he always found a way to sit next to you, even when his friends were at another table. how he would drop by your class between periods, casually placing a snack on your desk before walking off without a word. he never explained why, and you never asked.

maybe you should have questioned it more.

but the thing that stood out the most was that caleb never introduced you as his sister.

it would’ve been the easiest thing to say. it would have explained the connection, the way you were always around each other, how naturally you fit into his life. but he never said it. not once.

until people noticed.

one day, after a game, one of his teammates finally asked.

‘so, she’s your sister, huh?’ the guy grinned, nudging caleb in the ribs.

caleb didn’t respond immediately, just looked at him, unreadable.

the guy smirked, pushing further. ‘should i start calling you brother-in-law, then?’

you expected caleb to laugh it off, maybe roll his eyes or shove the guy off like he usually would. but he didn’t. his response was smooth, controlled, and too even.

‘she’s off-limits.’

there was no room for argument.

his teammate hesitated, raising his hands in mock surrender before forcing out a laugh. ‘damn, man. didn’t know it was like that.’

you didn’t think much of it.

not until a few days later, when that same teammate got injured at practice.

a bad fall, they said.

a collision that left him with a bruised eye and a limp that lasted over a week.

accidents happen all the time in sports. it was easy to write it off as bad luck.

but when you glanced at caleb, standing on the sidelines, unbothered, indifferent with bruises along his knuckles, you felt something shift in your stomach.

maybe you should have been mad. maybe you should have confronted him, called him out, demanded an explanation.

not because it was unfair.

not because it was wrong.

but because you liked it too much.

you liked the way caleb made it impossible for anyone else to get too close. the way his hand lingered at the small of your back when he guided you through a crowded hallway. the way he always waited for you after school, even when you had nothing planned.

the way he looked at you sometimes. like there was something simmering beneath the surface, something unspoken and dangerous and impossible.

and that was the problem.

because he wasn’t yours.

because he was supposed to be your best friend.your family. the one person you shouldn’t want.

you understood now. the love you had for him has grown to fill the spaces you didn’t have when you were a child. it’s grown into longing and desire and jealousy, something so fucking powerful and essential that there isn’t a piece of you that doesn’t love him.

so you did the only thing you could think of.

you avoided him.

at first, caleb let it slide, pretending not to notice the way you pulled away. he let you ignore him in the hallways, let you skip out on lunches, let you slip past him at home without so much as a glance. maybe he thought you just needed space, that whatever was wrong would work itself out on its own.

but after a few weeks, the cracks started to show. he stopped lingering after class, stopped waiting for you outside your door, stopped trying to pull you back into his orbit. the easy confidence he carried dulled, his smirks a little less sharp, his presence not as loud. he wasn’t himself, and he knew it.

then, one day, he cornered you after the last period.

the hallway had mostly emptied, students filtering out in groups, their voices fading into the distance. but caleb wasn’t moving. he stood in front of you, arms crossed, blocking your path, his amethyst eyes sharp and unwavering.

‘you’re avoiding me.’

it wasn’t a question.

your stomach twisted, but you forced yourself to meet his gaze. ‘i’m not.’

his jaw clenched, his expression unreadable. ‘bullshit.’

you exhaled slowly, willing your voice to stay steady. ‘i’ve just been busy.’

he scoffed, shaking his head. ‘right. too busy to come out of your room? too busy to even lok at me? we live in the same house, y/n. you don’t just disappear on me.’

you swallowed, opening your mouth to say something, but nothing came out. caleb ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply, frustration radiating off of him.

‘so you win. whatever it is i did, i’m sorry. now will you please fucking forgive me and put us both out of our misery?’

the words hit harder than you expected. he thought this was about him. he thought he had done something wrong. and worst of all, he looked miserable. bruises under his eyes, the tell–tale signs of too little sleep. heartbreak seeping through the sunshine boy's skin and weaving its way through his veins and making rivers.

the weight of it crashed into you all at once, the lump in your throat impossible to swallow. before you could stop it, your vision blurred.

caleb’s face shifted the moment he saw the tears, his frustration dissolving into something softer.

his shoulders relaxed, his hands twitching at his sides before he finally reached for you, pulling you in without hesitation. his warmth wrapped around you, solid and steady, his breath slow against your hair. his fingers found their way to your hip, his lips pressing lightly against your forehead, his presence sinking into you in a way that felt painfully familiar.

and you didn’t resist.

because despite everything, despite the space you had tried to put between you, despite how complicated things had become, caleb still felt safe.

so you pressed into his touch, letting yourself breathe him in, letting yourself forget, just for a moment, that you had ever tried to let him go.

friends, friends, friends.

he held you close, his voice rough with emotion. ‘i’m sorry, pipsqueak,’ he muttered against your hair. ‘whatever i did or said, i’m sorry, okay?’

you didn’t answer.

you couldn’t.

because the truth was—

you were the one who needed to apologize.

because this was never about him.

it was about you.

and the fact that no matter how hard you tried, you could never, ever stop wanting him.

too much, too much. you wanted caleb too much, want too much always, but you are not together and you had to accept that.

caleb’s pinky locked into yours. you weren’t sure if it’s another apology or a source of comfort you need in your state, or just plain habit, but he’s touching you (friends, friends, friends) and that’s all you really need to know.

because despite everything, caleb still felt like home.

but home didn’t last.

caleb starts staying out late.

at first, it’s nothing. just a few nights out, a way to kill time.

you hear about it through his teammates, offhand mentions from gran when she asks if he’s home yet. It doesn’t bother you.

caleb has always been social, always had people orbiting around him, always found ways to fill the spaces in his life.

but then it becomes a habit. the late nights turn into early mornings, his weekends disappear into parties, and soon enough, it feels like he’s never home. he moves through the house like a ghost, slipping in while everyone else is asleep and leaving before anyone notices.

and you notice.

you notice the way he comes back smelling like perfume that isn’t his, how his lips are redder than before, how his amethyst eyes seem heavier, dimmer, weighed down by something you don’t recognize. you see the kiss stains on his neck, the scratches down his back.

you wish they hurt. you wish you left them there.

you don’t avoid him, not entirely, but you don’t talk to him the same way. your words are clipped, your tone indifferent. you stop waiting for him after school, stop lingering in doorways to say goodnight, stop reaching for him first.

when he nudges your shoulder, slings an arm around you, tugs on your sleeve like he always does, you pull away before he can get too close.

and caleb notices.

at first, he brushes it off, shrugs like it doesn’t matter. he teases you the way he always does, pokes and prods, waiting for you to roll your eyes and shove him back. but the space between you keeps growing, stretching into something neither of you know how to name.

he stays out later. comes home smelling stronger, marked up worse, his voice hoarse in the mornings like he’s been screaming into the night. he looks at you, waiting for a reaction.

but you don’t give him one.

and for the first time in your life, caleb stops trying.

the sky was falling weeks later when the door of your own room opens. blinking sleepily, you leaned over and flicked on the bedside lamp. he swayed against the wall, there is purple and green pressed all over his skin.

it’s caleb, whose lips are swollen again.

it’s late. too late.

the smell of beer clings to him, mixed with something sweeter. something that isn’t his.

his hoodie is loose, his hair messy, his steps uneven as he leans against your doorframe, eyes heavy-lidded but sharp as they land on you.

‘you mad at me, pipsqueak?’ his voice is lower than usual, playful, teasing, but there’s something behind it. something that isn’t entirely a joke.

your lamp lit up the dark bruise on his neck in a ghastly light. you could still see the fingertips, could feel the ghost of them pressing into his skin. friends.

your hand goes white–knuckled, gripping into the sheets. ‘go to bed, caleb.’

‘i’ll sleep in your bed,’ he mutters, like it’s obvious. like it’s true. like you’ll agree without doubt.

you exhale, shaking your head. ‘you’re drunk.’

‘and?’ he counters, stepping into your space, his smirk faltering just slightly. ‘you say that like it changes anything.’

you don’t answer.

because maybe it doesn’t.

he peeled off his hoodie without a word. there are red fingernail marks on the ridge of his spine and bruises on his hips, signs from the girl with perfume you smelled on him last night, the girl who gets to touch caleb in the places you can’t.

he watches you for a long moment, his eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to figure something out. and then, finally—

‘i don’t get it.’ his voice is quieter now, more serious. ‘what did i do?’

you settled back against the bed. ‘nothing.’

‘bullshit.’ he laughs, but there’s no humor in it. ‘you’ve barely looked at me in weeks, y/n. you don’t wait for me anymore. you barely talk to me. and every time i try to touch you, you act like it makes you sick.’ his jaw clenches. ‘so tell me. what the hell did i do?’

you should lie. you should push him away. you should say something sharp, something final, something that makes him leave.

but you don’t.

and caleb, drunk and tired and hurting, sees right through you.

when he reached your fingers, he thread them between your own, collecting all the pieces of your conscience and disappearing without a trace, all remnants of your soul in hand.

his expression shifts, something softer flickering across his face. and then—

his fingers graze your cheek, barely there, like he’s testing the distance between you. the touch is slow, hesitant, deliberate. like he knows he shouldn’t, but he’s never been the type to stop himself when it comes to you.

his hand moves to your hair, tucking it behind your ear with practiced ease, like it’s something second nature, like he’s done it so many times before that he doesn’t even have to think about it.

his thumb lingers, brushing over your cheek, tracing the frustration etched into your skin. it’s warm, careful, almost apologetic. like he’s trying to smooth out the anger, the hurt, the weight of everything unspoken between you.

then, softer than you’ve ever heard him, he murmurs, ‘how can i sleep if my favorite girl is mad at me?’

and when you look at him, really look at him, your breath stumbles in your chest. he knew how to do it. how to make you feel like the sun rises in his veins only for you.

because caleb doesn’t just sound tired. he looks it.

the dim light casts hollows into his features, emphasizing the exhaustion settling deep in his bones. his eyes, usually sharp and full of mischief, are duller now, heavier, shadowed by something that feels dangerously close to regret. there’s no cocky grin, no teasing glint.

just quiet, aching exhaustion.

for the first time, caleb looks small. like the saddest man on earth, like he’s holding onto something he doesn’t know how to fix.

you couldn't help but think of the amount of stars that had fallen with every step he took with a frown.

and it wrecks you.

you wanted to hold him, but you knew you’ll be left with burned fingertips and calloused heart.

because he smells like beer and someone else’s perfume. because there are scratches on his back that weren’t made by your hands. because he has no right to touch you this softly after spending his nights with people who don’t know him the way you do.

because no matter how much you wish you didn’t care. you do.

and so, despite everything, despite the weight pressing against your ribs, despite knowing you shouldn’t. out control, out of control, out of—

you kiss him.

for a tense, breathless second, he didn’t move.

his body stiff, frozen, caught somewhere between hesitation and something else entirely.

and then, you felt it.

his hands sliding up, fingers threading into your hair, gripping tight.

and then for a second. just a second. he kisses you back.

it’s desperate, reckless, a collision of everything you’ve been holding back. his lips taste like beer, and you don’t care. your fingers grip his hair, pulling him closer.

his lips crashed against yours, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with a hunger that left you breathless.

a quiet moan escaped you, swallowed by the heat of him, by the way his hands moved down, gripping, pulling, like he couldn’t bear the space between you.

then, he tore himself away from you. friends.

tepping back so fast it felt like the air had been knocked out of your lungs. the warmth of his mouth, his hands, his presence, gone in an instant, leaving behind nothing but the sharp contrast of cold in his absence.

your eyes snapped open, breath uneven, pulse hammering as you stared at him, trying to make sense of what had just happened. caleb stood right in front of you, his chest rising and falling too quickly, his disheveled hair messier than before, his lips still swollen from the kiss. his amethyst eyes were dark, unreadable, but something about them made your stomach twist.

because he knew.

he knew what this kiss meant. he knew what you felt, what you had been too afraid to say. he knew you had shattered whatever fragile barrier had been keeping this moment at bay. he knew.

and yet, he smiled.

not the kind that comforted, not the kind that softened his sharp edges. this one was different. it was hollow, something cold curling at the edges, something sharp enough to cut through you with ease.

‘had enough practice?’

his voice was light, almost amused, as if the kiss had been nothing at all, as if it hadn’t just unraveled you completely. you could only stare, frozen in place, his words slicing through you before you even had the chance to process them.

and you took it for what it was, a dagger to the heart.

then, with careful, deliberate movements, he stepped back, putting more space between you, widening a distance that already felt impossible to cross. his hand raked through his hair, a humorless chuckle escaping his lips, but there was no real amusement in it.

‘if you just wanted to get your first kiss over with, you could’ve told me.’ the words were effortless, thrown out like they meant nothing, but there was something in the way his voice faltered at the end that made your stomach drop. his gaze flickered over you for a second, lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, wasn’t quite anything at all. ‘guess now you’re ready for the real thing with whoever you actually want.’

your mouth opened, but no words came out.

it didn’t matter. caleb didn’t wait for a response. he exhaled sharply, his eyes lingering for a beat too long before he turned away. there was no hesitation in his steps, no second glance, nothing to suggest that this moment had shaken him the way it had shaken you.

and then, just like that, he was gone.

he doesn't think, doesn't wait, doesn't want.

he just leaves.

disappearing into the dark, leaving you standing there, cold, alone, and regretting everything.

and maybe that was the moment you lost him.

y/n and caleb, and it's hard to tell where one end and the other begins. there probably isn't a difference, and trying to draw the line would doom the both of you.

this time, caleb starts avoiding you.

and this time, you know exactly why.

it’s different now. worse. because he doesn’t just disappear at school. he disappears at home, too.

you hear him tell gran he has practice when you know he doesn’t. you catch glimpses of him slipping out late at night, hood up, car keys dangling from his fingers. when he comes back, it’s always late, long after the house has gone quiet.

you pretend not to hear the front door creak open, the careful shuffle of his footsteps down the hall, the way he pauses outside your door for just a second before moving on.

he doesn’t look at you.

not in the morning when you pass each other in the kitchen, not when you sit at opposite ends of the dinner table, not when gran asks him a question and he answers without ever acknowledging the weight of your silence. the air between you is thick, heavy with everything unspoken, but neither of you say a word.

at school, it’s even worse.

you used to know exactly where to find him: leaning against his locker, sprawled across the lunch table, laughing too loudly, always moving, always there. but now, he’s everywhere except near you.

and when you do see him, it’s only for a second. a glance across the hallway before he looks away. a flicker of amethyst eyes lost in a crowd. an almost-moment before he disappears again, slipping into someone else’s world, somewhere you don’t belong.

you should’ve expected this. you should’ve known that kiss, your first kiss, would wreck everything.

but somehow, it still hurts.

and what’s worse, what makes your stomach twist, what makes your skin feel too tight and your throat close up, is that you hate yourself for it.

you hate yourself for wanting it.

for wanting him.

you feel disgusted when you think about it, about how easily you caved, about how much you liked it, about the way his hands felt on your skin, his lips against yours. you hate that even now, when you close your eyes, you can still feel it, still want it, still crave the weight of him against you like a sickness you don’t know how to cure.

so you do what you can. you push forward. you stop waiting.

and that was when you met him.

it started with a name, called out in class like it meant nothing.

‘zayne and y/n.’

your biology teacher paired you together for a semester-long project, and you hadn’t expected anything from it. zayne wasn’t someone you had paid much attention to before, and when he pulled out the chair beside you, there was no hesitation, no awkwardness, just quiet acceptance.

‘looks like we’re partners.’ his tone was even, uninterested, like he was already calculating how much effort this would require.

‘looks like it.’you mirrored his indifference, expecting nothing more than a few study sessions and a forgettable final grade.

but it wasn’t just another assignment.

zayne wasn’t like caleb.

he didn’t overthink his place beside you, didn’t steal glances to gauge what others might think. he wasn’t loud, wasn’t overbearing, didn’t fill the silence with pointless conversation just to make his presence known. he was steady, self-contained, comfortable in the quiet. after weeks of feeling like you were walking on eggshells, that steadiness ws a relief.

at first, your time together was purely academic.

library meetings that were structured and efficient, an easy rhythm of work that never strayed beyond the boundaries of your project. but then, something changed. lunches became routine, neither of you discussing it but always sitting at the same table. walks to class happened naturally, steps falling in sync without effort. conversations stretched beyond assignments and deadlines, carrying into late-night messages about things that had nothing to do with school.

zayne told you about his love for the winter, and how he would sneak out during the first snow fall. you told him about the time you and caleb got caught sneaking out, how caleb had talked his way out of trouble while you stood there panicking.

unlike caleb, zayne didn’t tease, didn’t turn your stories into jokes at your expense. he just listened, nodded like he was actually picturing it.

too kind, too understanding, too much of exactly what you needed.

somewhere along the way, you became friends. and soon, you were always together.

dinners with gran started to change. it used to be the three of you. gran, caleb, and you.

but caleb started skipping them, claiming he was busy, always finding somewhere else to be, never home long enough for it to feel like anything but an excuse.

zayne, on the other hand, filled the space caleb left behind.

it started as a casual invitation.

gran insisting he stay after studying, reassuring him there was more than enough food. he had accepted without fuss, without hesitation, and from that night on, his place at the table never felt out of place. gran told stories you had heard a thousand times before, and zayne listened to every one of them, nodding along, asking questions like he hadn’t already picked up on the details from you.

he wasn’t a replacement for caleb.

but he was something constant.

then one afternoon, you and zayne crossed paths with caleb in the hallway.

there was no tension, no hesitation, no moment of discomfort where zayne second-guessed himself. he just looked at caleb, gave a simple nod in acknowledgment, and kept walking, like it was nothing.

like caleb was no one special.

like he wasn’t even worth a second thought.

caleb didn’t say anything. he just stood there, watching.

but you knew that wasn’t the end of it.

and you were right.

the moment the wrong boy fell in love with you. and you wished he could pull out your heart, and make him see that you fell in love with the wrong boy too.

that was why you were here, standing in the biting cold, surrounded by barren fields of frost, with zayne’s rare laughter curling into the air like something warm, something that was meant to feel safe. that was why you let him get close, why you let yourself believe, even for a moment, that this could be enough.

you shouldn’t have been thinking about caleb.

so you focused on the wrong boy instead.

on the way his voice carried in the quiet, on how he walked beside you without hesitation, how his presence didn’t ask for anything more than what you were willing to give. he wasn’t waiting for you to figure things out, wasn’t demanding answers you didn’t have. he was just there. steady. certain.

maybe that was what love was supposed to feel like when you didn’t want it. something easy, something quiet, something that didn’t threaten to tear you apart.

but it still didn’t fit right in your chest.

‘we’re here.’

zayne’s voice pulled you back, his excitement evident in his eyes as he gestured toward the sled he had set up.

you blinked at it, then at him. ‘are you serious?’

he grinned, brushing the snow off the seat before tossing his scarf around your shoulders, adjusting it with careful hands. the fabric was thick and slightly uneven, the pattern something you wouldn’t have picked for yourself, but it was warm, and it smelled like him.

you raised an eyebrow, eyeing the details.

‘gran taught me how to knit,’ he admitted, a flicker of amusement in his expression.

your fingers traced the edges of the scarf as you exhaled. ‘it’s nice.’

and it was.

you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry over how endearing it was, how easily he gave things to you, how much he seemed to mean it. he could have handed you anything, and you would have taken it, because this. this moment, this feeling. was already too much.

then, without a word, he just looked at you.

not a passing glance. not a fleeting moment of consideration.

zayne never did things halfway.

when he looked at you, he made sure you knew.

his hazel eyes were bright despite the winter gray, his expression unreadable but not indifferent. there was something certain about the way he watched you, something steady in the way his gaze settled, like he was memorizing the shape of you.

like he took in every detail.

the way the cold had flushed your cheeks, the way your breath curled into the air, the way the weight of the moment made your fingers tremble against the scarf.

‘is there something on my face?’ you asked, startled by the intensity in his stare.

he shook his head, his gaze flickering slightly before settling again. ‘i wish i had more time with you.’

the words were quiet, simple, but the weight of them landed hard.

you swallowed, pulse stuttering, because there was something in the way he said it that made your chest ache. he didn’t say it like a passing thought, didn’t say it like he was reaching for something just out of grasp. he said it like he knew.

like he already understood that whatever this was, whatever you were, had an expiration date.

his eyes dropped, just for a second, barely noticeable, but enough.

enough to know what he was thinking.

enough to know that if you leaned in, he wouldn’t stop you.

and for a fleeting moment, you wanted to.

not because it was right. not because it was real.

but because you needed to forget.

you needed something to press over the ache in your chest, something to drown out the weight of caleb’s absence, the sound of his voice in your head, the way he had always, always been there. until he wasn’t.

but you didn’t.

because it would have been a lie.

‘gran, we’ve talked about this—‘

caleb’s voice cut through the air, sharp with frustration, breaking the moment before it had the chance to solidify into something real.

‘no, you talked. an aviation school halfway across the country? when there are good ones right here? what’s wrong with being close to home?’

the front door creaked open, and as if time couldn’t be any crueler, gran and caleb stepped outside.

his presence was immediate, impossible to ignore.

caleb had always carried himself like he belonged in any space he occupied, but now, standing in the cold with the weight of an argument still lingering between him and gran, he felt like something distant. something storming just beneath the surface, unreadable and untouchable.

zayne sighed, shifting beside you, but you barely noticed.

because while he was looking at you, you were looking at caleb.

your stomach twisted, the weight in your chest pressing down harder, suffocating in a way you didn’t understand.

‘and i know it’s far. i know it’s hard. but it’s not about running away.’ caleb’s voice was firm, steady, like he had already made up his mind. he barely hesitated before adding, ‘this is what’s best for me. for all of us.’

and just like that, it was over.

he turned before anyone could argue, before you could even process what he had said, stepping back into the warmth of the house.

the door clicked shut behind him, and somehow, that sound felt louder than anything else.

you don't know what's love and what's hate now. if there is a difference between the two of you, y/n and caleb, here.

later that evening, you fell.

it was late, exhaustion pulling at your limbs as you trudged up the stairs, arms full of books. zayne followed a few steps behind, his pace unhurried, hands tucked into his pockets as he listened to you yap.

you were mid-sentence, distracted by the conversation, too focused on the warmth of another presence at your side to notice the uneven step beneath your feet.

your toe caught the edge, and before you could react, your balance shifted forward. books tilted dangerously in your grasp before slipping from your fingers as gravity pulled you down. your stomach lurched, breath catching in your throat—

but you never hit the ground.

zayne’s hand wrapped firmly around your wrist, his other pressing against your waist with steady ease. his grip was strong, grounding, keeping you upright before you even had the chance to panic. your breathing was uneven, heart hammering from the sudden shock, your body tensed from the lingering adrenaline.

for a moment, neither of you moved.

his fingers still pressed against your skin, his touch neither hurried or hesitant. . he had caught you, steadied you, and yet he didn’t let go.

you became painfully aware of the way his chest hovered just inches from yours, the warmth of his palm burning through your shirt.

when you looked up at him, his expression was unreadable. calm, composed, but something else lingered beneath the surface. he wasn’t just looking at you. he was waiting.

waiting for you to move. waiting for you to step back. waiting for your permission.

and that was what made your pulse stutter.

it’s too much and it’s never enough.

you should have pulled away. should have created space. should have let the moment pass as nothing more than a near fall. but you didn’t.

because then, his gaze flickered. just slightly, just for a second. before his eyes dropped to your lips.

your breath hitched, and before you could process what was happening, a voice shattered the moment.

‘y/n? zayne?’

gran’s voice, light, amused, pulling you back to reality.

and then—

‘what the fuck?’

caleb.

your entire body locked up, tension snapping through your muscles as your head turned toward the sound.

he stood at the end of the hall, unmoving, his eyes dark, expression unreadable. his jaw clenched, the muscle ticking, his hands curled into tight fists at his sides.

he wasn’t just watching. he was seeing something he wasn’t supposed to.

zayne, still close, exhaled a quiet chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck, as if this was nothing, as if caleb wasn’t standing there barely a few feet away. gran smirked, clearly entertained by whatever she thought was happening.

caleb did not.

he didn’t speak, didn’t demand an explanation, didn’t so much as glance in your direction. he just turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing down the hall without another word.

and somehow, that was worse.

dinner was slow, thick with something unspoken, the weight of the evening settling over the table like a fog.

gran, as oblivious as ever, carried the conversation, her voice the only thing filling the silence. ‘he’s going to be a doctor, y/n,’ she said, beaming like it was something worth celebrating.

zayne gave a polite shake of his head, still eating, still composed, his presence unwavering despite the obvious tension in the room. ‘still got a long way to go.’

but the real shift came when caleb sat down.

for the first time in weeks, he joined dinner.

he didn’t make an excuse, didn’t disappear before the plates hit the table, didn’t claim to have somewhere else to be.

he was here. silent, stiff, but here.

his fork scraped against his plate, but he barely ate. his shoulders were tense, his fingers gripping the edge of the table just a little too tightly. he answered when spoken to, voice clipped, his eyes fixed on his food, refusing to meet yours.

zayne, on the other hand, didn’t react. he carried himself with the same quiet steadiness as always, like nothing had changed, like caleb’s presence, or his anger, meant nothing to him. he didn’t fidget, didn’t acknowledge the storm brewing across the table, didn’t shift under the weight of caleb’s unspoken frustration.

and that made it worse.

but you noticed.

caleb was stiff, his usual relaxed posture replaced with something rigid, something tense. his grip on his fork was just a little too tight, his knuckles flexing under the strain. he barely touched his food, answering gran’s questions with clipped responses, his voice measured, controlled.

through it all, he never once looked at you.

your stomach twisted, the weight of his silence pressing down on you more than any harsh words ever could. it wasn’t like caleb to hold back, it wasn't like him to sit in the same room as you and act as if you didn’t exist. but tonight, he was locked in his own storm, letting it brew under the surface, making sure you felt it, even if he refused to acknowledge you.

then, after zayne left, gran turned to caleb, her gaze slow and assessing, studying him the way only she could. she took a sip of her tea, setting the cup down with a quiet clink before speaking, her tone light but deliberate.

‘zayne is a good boy, but whether he’s good enough for you...’ she let the words linger just long enough to make them feel heavier before tilting her head toward caleb, watching for a reaction. ‘what do you think, caleb?’

the shift in him was subtle.

a slight tightening of his jaw, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression, the barely-there twitch of his fingers against the table. you barely had time to process it before he moved, smooth and purposefully, his arm slipping around your shoulders like it belonged there.

his grip was warm, steady, and possessive.

‘i think,’ he said, his voice softer than usual, the perfect balance of ease and sincerity, ‘as long as pipsqueak’s happy, then i’m happy too.’

the words were convincing.

to anyone else, they would have sounded effortless, genuine even. but you knew him. you knew the calm in his voice when he was anything but. you knew the way he smiled when he wanted to bite back something sharper. you knew the restraint in his touch, the tension running just beneath the surface.

and right now, caleb wasn’t just mad.

he was furious.

furious that you had kept something from him. furious that you had let someone else too close. furious that, for the first time, there wasn’t a single thing he could do about it.

later that night, when you knock on his door, he opens it immediately, like he had been waiting.

the hallway is dim, the only light spilling from his room, casting sharp shadows across his face. the space between you feels suffocating, thick with something unspoken, something heavy you aren’t ready to name.

his expression is unreadable, his face carefully blank, but you see it anyway.

the tension in his shoulders, the way his grip tightens around the doorknob, the barely restrained control in the way he stands, like he’s holding himself back.

your pulse thrums in your throat as you force the words out. ‘did you mean it?’

caleb doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, his silence stretching unbearably between you.

you swallow hard, pushing forward even as your stomach twists. ‘as long as i’m happy?’

a second passes, then another. his jaw tightens, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face before he finally answers.

‘no.’

the word lands between you like a blow. it should make things clearer, should make it easier to understand, but instead, it only makes everything worse.

you shift on your feet, your heartbeat hammering against your ribs, but caleb just watches you, his amethyst eyes locked onto yours in a way that makes it impossible to breathe.

‘then why are you acting like this?’

there's a crack in his surface, his electric electric eyes gleaming in undetectable, hidden message. his expression was a clear indication to what he felt.he wasn't ready to hear that.

his exhale is slow, controlled, measured, but there’s something beneath it, somehing restrained. and then, just as carefully, he says it.

‘get rid of him.’

the command slices through the air, sharp and undeniable, like a final puzzle piece snapping into place. your stomach drops at the certainty in his voice, at the quiet weight behind his words.

‘i-i can’t.’ the response comes out weak, barely more than a whisper, but it’s the only thing you can give him.

something in caleb shifts instantly. his body tenses, his expression sharpening as his focus narrows completely onto you. his movements are deliberate, controlled, like he’s making a conscious effort not to move too fast, not to let whatever he’s feeling slip past the careful edges of his restraint.

‘what do you mean you can’t?’ his voice is low, steady, but there’s an edge to it, a dangerous thread of something unraveling just beneath the surface.

you look away, knowing that whatever comes next will change everything. ‘i don’t want to hurt him.’

the silence that follows is heavier than anything he could have said.

his lips press into a thin line, his shoulders squaring as the warmth in his eyes fades into something colder, something unreadable. his posture doesn’t change, but the shift in the air between you is unmistakable.

‘so you’d rather hurt me?’

the words hit you harder than they should. you weren’t prepared for them, weren’t expecting the weight they carried, the way they landed with a finality that made your chest ache.

your throat tightens, and for a moment, you don’t know what to say, don’t know how to fix whatever just cracked open between you. but caleb doesn’t look away, doesn’t take it back, doesn’t even flinch as the meaning behind his own words settles over him.

his gaze flickers, the muscle in his jaw tightening before he exhales sharply, like he’s regretting letting you see this part of him.

‘are you saying… you’re jealous?’ the words feel too fragile, too uncertain, but they leave your lips before you can stop them.

for a moment, he doesn’t move.

doesn’t breathe.

you expect him to deny it, to roll his eyes, to throw some dismissive remark at you like he always does. you expect him to do what he’s best at, pretend it doesn’t matter.

but he doesn’t.

he just watches you, his silence heavier than any answer he could have given. and then—slowly, carefully—he smirks.

‘if you want me to say i’m jealous, i will.’

his voice is smooth, effortless, light in a way that only makes your stomach twist. it should be reassuring, should make this moment feel less like a breaking point, but it doesn’t.

because it’s too easy. too casual.

like he’s still pretending.

like he’s still keeping you at a distance.

your fingers curl into fists at your sides as the frustration rises, your voice barely more than a murmur. ‘you could have just lied.’

caleb exhales sharply, tilting his head slightly, and then he moves.

too close. you're too close together for just friends.

your back presses against the wall before you even realize you’ve stepped back. his presence is everywhere, surrounding you, his warmth pulling you in even when you know you should push him away.

and then his hands are on your face, fingers cupping your jaw, steady and warm, grounding in a way that makes it impossible to think.

your pulse jumps, a sharp inhale catching in your throat as his amethyst eyes lock onto yours, the distance between you disappearing entirely. there’s no teasing in his gaze this time, no smirk, no sarcasm.

just heat.

just certainty.

his thumb brushes against your cheek, slow, deliberate, like he’s memorizing the feel of you, like he needs to. and then, his voice drops lower, softer, barely above a whisper.

‘i am jealous, baby.’

a pause.

a beat of silence so heavy you can feel it in your ribs.

his fingers tighten just slightly, his grip firm but careful, like he’s making sure you don’t move, like he doesn’t want you to look away.

you're trying to not cry now but you missed everything you never had.

and then—

‘more than you think possible.’

[strawberry-bubblef]

Just found your blog after seeing the Overblot students reacting to causing serious harm to the reader/their partner and oof the angst is strong there! Excellent stuff all around and the way that several of them have symbolic injuries suited to each is fitting-

Like Vil pointed out the irony that his attack blinded them (likely disfiguring too)

Leona missing the arm that never hesitated to reach out for him.

Jamil making his S/O unable to stand without them, needing his support.

For some reason, it all reminded me of the Jekyll and Hyde musical (not at all accurate to the original work but the music is pretty good) particularly the Confrontation song, where Jekyll and Hyde have a musical number ripping into the other.

Imagine if the Overblot guys (whether merely haunted by their memories of the event or tying into your original post about permanent injuries inflicted to the person they loved most) have nightmares confronting those versions of themselves especially in regards to the harm that could have (or did) happen to their S/O. Only to get hit with “can’t you see were the same” but maybe the OB’s are mild yanderes towards the S/O or point out easier it is to keep them by his side, that he’s willing to take the risks to keep them around unlike the “good boy” persona some of them keep up.

OB students having nightmares of themselves after hurting their s/o

Part 1: Ob student unintentionally hurting their s/o

Aww! Thanks for the sweet words 🥲🫶 I'm glade you liked it !

Riddle Rosehearts

The halls of Heartslabyul are silent after curfew. Moonlight cuts silver through the tall windows, casting the checkered floor in sharp, cold contrast. It’s late, but Riddle isn’t sleeping. Not really. Not anymore.

He jolts awake again, breath shallow, red eyes wide. He stares at the ceiling, but all he sees is the moment he can never take back.

Your voice, cracking as you tried to reach him.

The way the vines coiled around you, cruel and tight,his vines.

How you cried out.

And the silence after. The absolute silence.

He’s by your side now, and you’ve forgiven him. You told him as much, your voice gentle, your hand on his. But that forgiveness tastes like ash when he remembers the look on your face back then,not fear, not anger, but disbelief. As if you couldn't quite believe he was the one hurting you.

It clings to him like a second skin.

And every night, the dream returns.

The maze is dead now. No more vibrant red blooms or the sweet scent of petals. Only twisted thorns and rotting leaves, the sky above a bruised, stormy purple. The air is heavy with guilt and magic.

In the center of it all sits his throne.

That version of him is waiting, legs crossed elegantly, sipping black tea that stains the porcelain cup like ink.

“You're late,” the Overblot says. “But I suppose shame slows the feet.”

Riddle takes a breath. “I’m not here for your games.”

“Ah, but we’ve played such lovely ones, haven’t we? Tea parties and rules and hearts cut clean in half.”

He steps closer, circling Riddle like a cat. “Do you remember how quiet they became after we were done? No more backtalk. No more chaos. They obeyed. Isn't that what you wanted?”

Riddle flinches.

The Overblot leans in, voice silken and low. “You wrapped yourself in rules because your mother left you no room to breathe. So you did the same to them because love is terrifying when it’s free, isn’t it?”

“I was wrong,” Riddle says. “That wasn’t love.”

“Then what do you call it?” the other hisses, the smile gone. “You think your bouquet of apologies rewrites what you did? You think gentle words and shared tea make up for the way they screamed?”

Riddle’s hands tremble. He can’t meet his own eyes,those cruel red eyes staring out of a mirror cracked by power and pain.

“I didn't mean to hurt them.”

“But you did.” The Overblot’s voice turns almost tender, almost sad. “And I-we will always live with that.”

Silence falls like snow.

And then: “But at least I was honest. At least I did what had to be done to keep them close. You fear they’ll leave. I made it impossible. Maybe you should be thanking me.”

Riddle recoils. “You turned them into something fragile.”

“I turned them into something ours. They stay because of you, but they flinch because of me.”

A pause.

“Can’t you see?” he whispers. “We’re the same.”

The dream ends with Riddle reaching for his collar, choking on petals that pour from his mouth,crimson, velvet, suffocating.

He wakes with a cry.

It’s still night, the room quiet. He reaches for you instinctively, but the sheets are cool, the space beside him empty. Panic strikes fast and cold.

He finds you on the balcony, bathed in moonlight. Wrapped in a soft robe, you’re gazing at the stars. Your arm is wrapped, supported. Some movements are slower now. But your eyes are bright as ever.

You turn as he approaches.

“Another nightmare?”

Riddle says nothing. He only stands behind you and hesitantly slide his hand into yours. His grip is tight,not crushing, never again but desperate in its quiet plea.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers.

“You don’t get to decide that alone,” you reply softly, placing yourhand over his. “You made a mistake. A terrible one. But you changed. You’re trying. That matters.”

“I see him every time I close my eyes,” Riddle admits. “He says we’re the same.”

You turn, gently cupping his face with the only hand that you have left. “Then prove him wrong.”

He leans into your touch like a drowning man, clinging to the only solid thing in a storm. In your eyes, there’s still pain. Still healing. But also,somehow hope.

He’s terrified he’ll always be at war with that version of himself.

But if you’re willing to walk beside him through the thorns, maybe, just maybe, there’s a path forward.

Leona Kingscholar

The desert wind howls in his ears.

Leona stands on the edge of a dry, cracked savannah where nothing grows, under a sunless sky. The ground is stained with soot and ash, grass burned to cinders. In the distance, a pride stone crumbles into dust.

And there,at the center of the destruction,is himself.

Or at least, what’s left of him.

His Overblot form sits lazily upon a throne of twisted bone and stone, smoke curling from his mane like incense from an open flame. Those glowing eyes burn, full of mirthless amusement.

“Took you long enough,” the Overblot drawls. “What, couldn’t face me sooner? Or were you too busy watching them struggle to tie their shoes with the wrong damn hand?”

Leona's jaw tightens. “Shut up.”

“Hit a nerve?” His other self stretches, claws dragging over the arms of the throne. “I’m not the one who tore it from them. You are. We are.”

“I never meant–”

“Don’t insult both of us. You knew what that spell could do. You were angry. Jealous. Tired of always coming second. So you struck. And you didn’t stop.”

Leona’s fists clench. He can still remember the heat, the way magic surged through him like wildfire, untamed and wild. The look on your face when you collapsed, your dominant arm crushed under a landslide of sand and force.

He remembers how still you were. How you didn’t reach for him. Couldn’t.

And how the silence that followed was louder than any roar.

“They can’t write like they used to,” his Overblot murmurs. “Can’t lift a box. Can’t sketch, or braid your damn hair. All the things they used to do so easily,gone. Because of you.”

“I know !” Leona snaps. “I live with it every day.”

“Do you?” The Overblot tilts his head. “Then why haven’t you left? Why not let them go and find someone better for them? Someone whole?”

Leona’s voice drops to a growl. “Because I love them.”

The other version smiles, sharp and cruel. “No. You need them. And they need you now, don’t they? You made sure of that. No one else understands them like you. No one else will want them like this.”

Leona stares, disgust tightening in his throat.

“Come on,” the Overblot purrs. “Admit it. Part of you is relieved. Because now they’ll stay.”

“No.”

“They’ll never leave you.”

“NO!”

The Overblot lunges, claws out, but Leona doesn’t move.

Because he knows the truth: this isn’t about physical pain. This is about guilt, about possession, about fear.

And about how love can rot if left to fester.

He wakes up leaning against a tree in Savanaclaw. It's still dark, the early morning stars just beginning to fade. His hands are buried in the dirt, sweat soaking the back of his shirt. His heart thunders in his chest like it’s trying to dig out.

The scent of jasmine reaches him first. Then your voice.

“Bad dream?”

Leona looks up.

You’re seated nearby, wrapped in a blanket, watching the horizon. Your sleeve is pinned up neatly, your right side turned toward him. The scarred place where your arm used to be is hidden, but he knows its shape by memory now.

He sits beside you wordlessly. You lean into him, letting his warmth chase away the morning chill.

“It’s always the same dream,” he mutters. “Me. Him. You.”

You rest your head on his shoulder. “Do you still hate yourself?”

He doesn’t answer.

His grip tightens ever so slightly. “I wish it had been me instead.”

You reach for his hand with your remaining one and lace your fingers together.

“I would’ve still stayed,” you say. “Even if it had been you who got hurt. Even if it was your arm.”

Silence stretches, heavy and honest.

Leona leans into you then, pressing his forehead to your temple.

“I’m trying,” he whispers.

“I know.”

And for once, the guilt doesn’t scream quite so loud.

Azul Ashengrotto

The sea is too still.

No current, no light,only the inky abyss stretching endlessly in every direction. Azul floats weightlessly in the dark, arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed as if sleep could shield him from what he knows is coming.

No light,only the inky abyss stretching endlessly in every direction. Azul floats weightlessly in the dark, arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed as if sleep could shield him from what he knows is coming.

And then it starts.

The water shifts.

A shadow coils in the deep like smoke in water,and from it emerges himself,not in his human form, not even in his merman body. No, it’s the Overblot: bloated and grandiose, tentacles stretching into the black like roots through rot. His grin is razor-sharp, filled with oil-slick malice.

“Still pretending to be human?” it coos. “Still clinging to the mask of the poor little businessman?”

Azul doesn’t look at it.

“Did you think success would make you good?” the Overblot hisses, gliding around him like a serpent. “That if you just worked hard enough, they’d love you? Respect you?”

Azul breathes slowly, deliberately. “Shut up.”

“Oh, touchy.” “You weren’t nearly so quiet when you were begging them not to leave you. Not when they were lying there,bleeding, gasping because you made them part of your deal.”

Azul flinches.

He sees it again: the whirlpool, the crashing debris, the spell cast in desperation and greed. The way you fell,your leg crushed under the magical pressure, twisted unnaturally before he could stop it.

Before he cared to stop it.

“You used them,” the Overblot sings. “Because deep down, you thought: if they depend on me, they won’t leave me.”

“I didn’t—”

“Yes, you did,” it snarls. “You saw them shine and you thought: I want that. You dragged them into your schemes, into your world. And now?”

A cruel smile stretches over its face.

“Now they can’t even dance.”

Azul’s fists curl.

“They limp through the halls, leaning on a cane or your arm, and every step is a reminder. And yet, they still smile at you. Still tell you it’s not your fault.”

The Overblot leans in close, eyes glowing.

“But it is.”

Azul screams,no sound leaves his throat, only bubbles but he surges forward, trying to claw at the thing wearing his face, only for it to melt away into nothing.

Leaving him alone in the silent sea.

He jolts awake in a cold sweat.

The lounge is dark, only the soft glow of enchanted lamps illuminating the drapes. Azul sits on the couch, disheveled,, breath caught halfway in his throat.

A small noise draws his attention.

You're at the window, adjusting your prosthetic leg,carefully, patiently. You don’t notice him watching, or maybe you do, and you choose not to look.

He swallows.

You always do things quietly now. No complaints. No bitter remarks. But you also don’t hum anymore when you walk. You don’t twirl in the water like you used to.

Azul lowers his eyes.

He hears the soft tap of your cane as you make your way over, the familiar pattern of your gait now etched into his memory.

You sit beside him, brushing your hand against his.

“You dreamt about it again.”

He nods, shame burning behind his eyes.

“I see him in the mirror sometimes,” he murmurs. “The one I was. I wonder if I’m still him.”

You shake your head. “He would’ve run from this. You didn’t.”

Azul hesitates before reaching for your hand. “I don’t deserve your kindness.”

“Maybe not,” you whisper, “but you’re trying. And that counts more than you think.”

He leans in slowly, resting his forehead against the side of your head. “If I could give you that leg back…”

“I wouldn’t take it.”

He stiffens, shocked.

You turn to him with quiet intensity. “Because then maybe you’d still be pretending to be someone you’re not. I don’t need perfection. I need you.”

Azul doesn’t reply,he can’t. But he holds you a little tighter, breathing in the proof that somehow, some way… you’re still here.

And maybe that's enough.

Jamil Viper

The chains rattle again.

He doesn’t know where he is,some room, always dark, always humid. The smell of sweat and ash lingers like incense from an old nightmare. Stone walls stretch in every direction, but there’s no exit. No sky. Just that mirror on the wall.

He doesn’t look at it.

Not yet.

He knows who’s waiting on the other side.

But he turns anyway.

And there he i. The Overblot version of himself smiles cruelly, slouching in that confident, arrogant way Jamil hates to admit he once wished he could embody.

“You look exhausted,” the Overblot drawls. “Not sleeping well, Jamil?”

“I’m not here to talk to you,” Jamil hisses.

“Oh, but I’m here to talk to you.” The reflection slinks closer. “How’s our darling doing, by the way? Still limping around because of you?”

Jamil’s stomach churns.

The sound of bones snapping, of the ground cracking during that awful moment,when magic surged out of control, when the pressure pinned you down, the illusion spells fraying as your foot was crushed beneath falling debris he summoned. Not even intentionally. Not really.

But he knew you were nearby.

And he still didn’t care.

He had finally taken the reins of his life and you were collateral.

“I didn’t mean-” Jamil starts, voice strained.

“You didn’t stop,” the Overblot cuts in, venomous. “You didn’t hesitate. You knew they were watching. And still you used your magic. Still you twisted their mind until they collapsed.”

Jamil’s voice is a whisper. “I didn't want to hurt them.”

“You wanted control.”

Silence.

“You wanted them to stop pitying you. To see you,not the servant, not the background character, but the powerful one. And when you had it, even just for a moment…”

The Overblot tilts his head.

“…you liked it.”

Jamil clenches his fists. “I hate you.”

“No,” it says, baring fangs. “You hate that I’m you. You hate that some part of you thought, ‘If I can just keep them dependent… they’ll never leave.’”

The words sting like poison.

“Now look at them,” the Overblot murmurs. “They used to dance barefoot on sunlit floors. Now every step is calculated. Controlled. Like you wanted everything else to be.”

Jamil shuts his eyes tight.

When he opens them again, the mirror is empty.

He’s alone again.

But the silence is louder than before.

He wakes up in a sweat.

The room is dim, lit by the flicker of a candle. The warmth of the dorm blankets does little to soothe him, especially not when he sees the empty spot in the bed beside him.

You're by the window.

Adjusting the supportive brace over your ankle,what's left of it. Your balance is careful, practiced. Your fingers are deft. Jamil sits up quietly, heart aching.

You glance over your shoulder. “Nightmare?”

He nods, slow.

You limp over to him, footsteps padded by the soft cloth of your wrap. You don’t say anything at first,you just press your forehead to his, fingers tangling with his.

“I see him,” Jamil says. “The version of me who… who didn't care. Who thought being loved wasn’t as important as being obeyed.”

You don’t flinch. You already know.

“I hate him,” he whispers.

“But he’s not you,” you murmur back.

Jamil’s eyes glint with unshed tears.

“I almost made you another chain.”

You shake your head, taking his hand and placing it against your heartbeat. “But you let go. You let me go. You helped me stand again.”

His voice is raw. “You should’ve run from me.”

“I didn’t want to,” you reply. “I wanted to walk beside you. Even if I had to relearn how.”

He exhales shakily.

And when he kisses your knuckles, it’s soft. Tentative. Like he’s still trying to prove to himself that you’re real,that this, what he has now, is real.

Even after all he’s done.

Vil Schoenheit

The mirror doesn’t lie. That’s the curse.

He can’t hide from it. Not from the face that stares back at him,twisted, blot-streaked, gleaming with hatred and pride. His Overblot self grins through cracked lipstick and bleeding glamour.

“Ah. Come to scold me again, Schoenheit?”

Vil doesn’t answer. He already knows how this goes.

Every night, it’s the same: the same confrontation, the same voice that sounds too much like his own, the same sickening echo of violet light bursting from his fingertips, burning away the world and everything he held dear.

Especially you.

“Still pretending you didn’t enjoy it?” the Overblot version sneers. “You always thought beauty was everything. Until you became the monster.”

Vil’s voice is cold. “I wanted the world to see me. Not them.”

“And now they can’t see anything at all.” A cruel chuckle. “Isn’t that poetic?”

His throat tightens.

He remembers the scent of magic in the air, the searing heat, the flash of light as your scream tore through him. The way you clutched your face, blood slipping between your fingers. The panic that followed. The silence. The way your eyes never found him again.

“I didn’t mean to hurt them.”

“But you did.” The Overblot tilts his head mockingly. “You wanted to be seen. So you made sure they never would be seen again. You took that from them. You, who worshipped beauty like a god.”

Vil’s hands tremble at his sides.

“You knew what your magic could do. You chose to use it anyway.”

“I thought I could control it.”

“You were wrong.”

Silence.

Then:

“They still call your name,” the Overblot whispers. “Even now. Still reach for you. Still smile in your direction. And doesn’t that make it worse?”

Vil turns away.

“All they know is the echo of your voice and the feel of your touch. And you cling to that, don’t you? Because if they saw you as you were... they would’ve run.”

The mirror cracks.

Not from magic but from the way Vil slams his fist into it, fury rippling through every bone.

And when he opens his eyes again, he's awake.

The bedroom is quiet, curtains drawn open just enough to let in moonlight. You’re seated on the bed, fingers moving expertly as you read a Braille book Vil had custom,made for you. Your head tilts slightly when you hear him stir.

“Another dream?” you ask gently.

Vil’s voice is hoarse. “Yes.”

You set the book down. “Was it him again?”

“…Yes.”

You pat the space beside you, and he comes willingly. Sits beside you. Lets you touch his face. You always do that now,run your fingertips along his cheekbones, brush over the curve of his lips, like you’re memorizing him all over again.

“I hate what I did to you,” he whispers. “I took the stars from your eyes.”

“And still I find light in your voice.” you say softly.

Vil swallows. “You don’t hate me?”

“I miss what I lost,” you admit. “But I don’t miss you. Because you’re still here.”

He presses your hand to his chest. “It should’ve been me.”

“No,” you whisper. “You came back to me. That’s enough.”

Sometimes, he still dreams of mirrors.

But these days, when he wakes,he’s holding your hand.

And somehow, that makes all the difference.

Idia Shroud

That’s how the nightmare always starts.

Blue flame dances along the walls, scorching consoles, melting cables, and setting off a chorus of alarms. Everything is chaos.Except for him. Except for the Overblot.

It rises from the flames like a ghost made of rage and sorrow, hair wilder, cloak billowing like smoke. It grins, bearing rows of flame-slicked teeth.

“Guess what, Idia,” it sing-songs. “You’re the villain in your own tragic visual novel. Bad End unlocked!”

Idia curls inward, arms around himself. “I didn’t want to hurt them.”

“You did more than hurt them,” it hisses. “You burned them. Because you wanted to keep them close. You wanted them safe.”

“I lost control. The magic-”

“You thought locking them in the Underworld was safer than letting them leave you. And when they reached out for you..” The Overblot snaps its fingers.

The scent of scorched flesh.

The sound of your cry.

Idia covers his ears, but it’s no use.

“You destroyed the very hands that held you. Four fingers. Gone. Just like that. Do you know how many times they tried to play your games after that? Tried to cook? Draw? Hold a pen?”

“I didn’t mean to-!”

“But you did.” The voice is ice now. “And you know what the worst part is?”

Silence.

“They still forgive you.”

Idia lifts his head slowly, shame thick in his eyes.

“They still smile when you fumble with words. Still wrap what’s left of their hand around yours. Still kiss your cheek and say it’s okay. It’s not okay.”

“I know,” he whispers. “I know it’s not.”

“Then why do you stay?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then-q

“…Because they asked me to. Because they didn’t want to lose me too.”

The Overblot’s grin fades.

Idia steps closer to it. For once, he doesn’t flinch.

“I am a coward. I am broken. But I’m trying. Every day. I can’t fix what I did… but I can be here now. And that’s what they asked of me.”

The flames flicker.

“You don’t deserve them,” it spits.

“I know,” Idia says. “But they still choose me. And I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of that.”

He wakes up gasping.

Your hand is in his,smaller now, missing parts of what once was, wrapped in soft bandages and healing cream. But warm. Still warm.

You stir beside him. “Another one?”

He nods.

You squeeze. “You’re still here.”

“…Yeah.”

You rest your forehead against his. “Then I’m okay.”

He doesn’t cry, but he holds your hand tighter.

And for the first time, the nightmare fades into silence.

Malleus Draconia

The castle is quiet. Too quiet.

He wanders its halls alone in the dream. The stone is grey, cracked with age. Thorny vines have grown wild over every door, every window. The sky outside is eternally twilight, like the world itself is holding its breath. Time doesn’t move here. It hasn’t for centuries.

He knows where you are.

He always knows.

Your chamber lies behind an arch of briars, untouched by rot or dust. Enchanted sleep preserved you, peaceful and unmoving, lips barely parted as if frozen mid-sigh.

He crosses the threshold slowly, reverently. His footsteps don’t echo anymore.

You lies there still.

Because of him.

“Malleus.”

The voice that greets him isn’t yours.

It’s his but deeper, weightless, echoing with ancient magic.

The Overblot.

It steps into view like a reflection peeled from his shadow. A smile too gentle to be anything but cruel.

“You saved her,” it says. “She was going to leave. Be taken away. You stopped it.”

“I imprisoned her,” Malleus whispers.

“You protected her. In eternal sleep, she couldn’t be harmed. Couldn’t abandon you. Couldn’t be taken away by time or fate or death.”

Malleus walks toward the bed. Your skin is still warm beneath the spell, magic thrumming softly with every breath. So many years have passed. More than he dares count.

“And yet she wept in her dreams,” he murmurs. “I heard it. Even through the spell.”

“Dreams are nothing,” the Overblot croons. “She’s safe. Isn’t that all you ever wanted?”

His hands tremble.

“I wanted to be with her,” Malleus says, voice breaking. “Not without her. Not like this.”

The Overblot’s smile fades. It regards him like a disappointed parent. “You are a king .You could have have eternity together.”

“No. I forced eternity upon her. I robbed her of choice… of time… of life.”

A silence falls.

Then-

“But she’s awake now.”

That voice. Yours.

He turns.

You're standing in the doorway. Older than you should be, touched by the centuries but beautiful still. Eyes full of sorrow and kindness both.

“I’m awake, Malleus.”

He stares, breathless. “This isn’t real.”

“It could be,” you say, stepping forward. “If you let go of the guilt. If you come back to me.”

“But I hurt you. I stole your future.”

“And yet I chose to wake up.”

You reach out.

He takes your hand in both of his, kneeling as if in penance.

“I will never forgive myself,” he whispers.

“Then let me forgive you instead,” you say. “You’re here now. And I waited because I believed you’d come back.”

He wakes in your arms, forehead against your shoulder, breath shaky.

You cradle his head gently, fingers weaving through his hair.

“You dreamt it again,” you murmur.

He nods, silent.

“I’m still here,” you remind him. “Still choosing you.”

And he holds you tighter, as though centuries could slip between his fingers once more.

But this time, he’ll never let go.

English is not my first language !

[itsoutrageouss]

Third follow up on the dynamic between you and Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley after he sees you cry for the first time. He’s getting so fucking obsessed with you and this next mission does absolutely nothing to help that:

It was a classic, but one you’d never experienced yourself before now; a mission where you had to gain intel from someone at a high class event. Meaning you had to get dolled up with your mission partner. Guess who?

It had been forever since you’d worn a dress; this way or work didn’t give much opportunity for it. It had been so long that you only had one in your closet- but it was everything to you- a tiny part of the persons you’d had to store away when becoming part of a military task force. Hidden away in a box on the top of your closet at your barracks.

You smoothed it out, admiring it on its own for a moment before slipping it over you, tying the back so it dipped at your waist, giving you a sense of security at the slight pressure. Your hands ran over the dark green fabric that matched the emeralds in your ears and down along your cleavage, looking like crystal droplets over the taught skin of your collarbones.

Your hair had been neatly curled- cheeks rosy, eyelids shimmering and lips a muted mauve. It was very different from the tactical gear most operations called for and it felt naked to only have the gun at your inner thigh and the smallest piece that was draped over by your hair.

Your heart pounded like a war drum as you stepped into the entrance of the base, at the double doors that led to the parking lot.

You knew it would draw attention- you’d never looked anything like this since you joined the task force and you felt so self conscious that your knees nearly buckled, feet unsteady in the heels that hugged them. But you knew you looked good- repeated it to yourself because half of this was confidence.

And so did he. Simon was adjusting the cuffs of his suit with a grunt, annoyed at the feel of the tight button up trapped under the black habit jacket that bulged over his muscles. But when he turned around his hand fell away from his cuffs mindlessly, going lax at his sides. He hadn’t known the way his heart stuttered before. He hadn’t known what to expect but you- you were a sight for sore eyes.

It didn’t help him at all with how he struggled to decipher his feelings for you. After seeing you so vulnerable and human, crying on that concrete floor he thought that was as far as he could ever go. Then you had bandaged his knuckles, and let him cuddle you in the irrevocable silence on that couch. But this was another stepping stone: you in that dress.

He could see a confidence in you that he’d either never noticed or that was brought forth by the way you looked tonight. Which would be very valid in his opinion because he’d been looking at you without saying anything for a solid minute now.

You frowned, fidgeting with the rings on your fingers because you couldn’t read his expression at all.

“You should wear a suit more often,” you said, roving shamelessly over his hunky figure, looking even taller with the dark suit on, his thick thighs coming to their right. You wanted to kiss his knuckles again.

Kiss a lot of him, actually.

“Fuckin’ annoying” he grumbled and rolled his shoulders in the suit, the jacket creaking with the motion. It was his way of accepting the compliment without, and you both knew it. He wanted to compliment you too, but there was so much he wanted to say that absolutely nothing came out. And when he saw the shameless hunger in your eyes as you trailed the movements of his hands, he definitely couldn’t speak. Had you always looked at him like that? Or did these past weeks open gates for you too?

You gulped down the disappointment when he didn’t say anything after a long beat of opportunity, masking your expression quickly as your spine straightened, hands smoothing down the fabric along your hips. “The car is waiting” you say, silence unbearable as your heels click on the linoleum, walking into the moonlight lid parking lot.

You both go over the mission details in the car, but his eyes kept finding their way to your silly curls bouncing around your face, the light in the car shining off of your lips. He gritted his teeth.

“Where’s your gun?” He asked because he would never forget that the mission was so much more dangerous like this- despite the rest of the task force being on standby, you could both get hurt way easier in this attire- especially you. He could wear a bulletproof vest under his button up. You could not- and ghost had yelled at you to find something else to wear but you refused. This was your lucky dress.

Then you unconsciously did the hottest thing he’d ever seen in his goddamn life as you spread your thighs slightly in your seat, fingers grazing and pulling aside the satin material of the slit in your dress to reveal your bare thigh, gun strapped to the plush of your inner skin. He might’ve died, and you had no clue, simply pulling the dress back in place and looking over the blueprints one more time.

The air prickled at your skin and you tugged the shawl closer around your arms when his large hand slipped over the satin, landing on the bare skin on the small of your back. The contact was electric and you both stiffened, looking up at the adorned building ahead, checking your earpieces before walking up the shiny stairs.

Right before the staff opened the golden double doors for you, giving out your fake names, he leans down to the shell of your ear.

“You’re the most gorgeous fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen, love, I can’t focus.” He managed to grumble out just before nudging your lower back gently to start walking. His eyes immediately honed in on the people and the layout. But you felt frozen in place, eyes widening impossibly much at his singular, lethal sentence.

That he’d ever seen? Of everything in the entire world he’d ever seen? It rung around your skull, zapping all the way to your toes that curled inside the heels, a unusually giddy feeling wracking up and down your spine, making your hips sway a little more as you followed his guiding hand.

He could feel your warm skin under his palm, the way your muscles moved with every sway, and immense satisfaction coursed through him when he noticed the subtle change his compliment had caused.

Maybe tonight he would pretend- for the mission of course- that you really were his. Really give it his all- make up a story of how you met. Tell people he’s gonna propose. No no no what the fuck? He’s taking it way too far. The mission came first. The thrill of showing you off on his arm came second.

That’s what he said, until a woman commented on how lucky he was, both his and her eyes watching you as you stood next to one of your targets for intel, sipping a champagne glass and twirling your hair.

“I am. I really am.” He said, not noticing the woman had already left.

series masterlist

[maythedreadwolftakeyou]

when i was 19 and playing Dragon Age: Origins, Zevran really WAS my ideal romantic interest at the time, because that relationship was full of adventure and romance and nothing tying us down. but now i am 32. and my daydream of a long term partner is instead someone who does chores without being asked and has generational wealth, so thanks Lucanis

[chevroletdean]

Welcome Home

nsfw prompts, send in a character + a number

PAIRING: Dean x Fem!Reader GENRE: Smut (18+ CONTENT) TO NOTE/WARNINGS: mentions of (healed) injuries, PWP, established relationship, (guided) masturbation, dirty talk, sex toys, fingering, not proofread WORD COUNT: 2.8k PROMPT: 10) finding their partner’s sex toy/toys and making them play with it in front of them A/N: based on an anon's request, ty! CREDIT & LINKS: dividers by cafekitsune ─〃★ join the taglist ─〃★ Dean Masterlist

You were sitting on the bed, legs crossed, compact mirror in one hand, mascara wand in the other. Maybe it was a little silly, but you wanted to doll yourself up extra nicely today.

Dean’s been away for two whole weeks, working on this super complicated case several states over. You, on the other hand, had been stuck at the Bunker thanks to an annoying injury for the whole duration of his absence. A busted ankle rendered you bed-ridden for a while and Dean, ever the worried boyfriend, was strict about your healing process.

Thus, you stayed behind, unable to do much except twirling your thumbs and calling him every day.

Fourteen lonely days, every single one feeling like torture.

Even though your leg’s been fully healed since a couple of days, Dean insisted that you should take it easy. Restless as you were, however, you offered to tag along, join him after all.

His response you couldn’t have anticipated.

“I’m on my way home already,” he said through the phone, the curl of his lips audible. “Surprise, sweetheart.”

You immediately dropped everything.

That thick novel you’ve been reading? Shoved back onto the shelves. Your warm cup of tea to comfort that empty feeling in your chest? Left behind to cool entirely. Blanket? Who needed that when soon you would have your boyfriend’s arms back around you!

You nearly tripped over your own two feet as you rushed to your wardrobe. If you’d manage to break another bone in the process of exchanging your pyjamas for something nicer, Dean wouldn’t let you hear the end of it.

However, in your giddiness you could not be bothered to care.

Dean informed you that he’d be at the Bunker in an hour or two, which was just enough time to prepare everything. Like cleaning your room and making yourself presentable.

Absorbed in your own world, you hummed along to your playlist as you did the finishing touches of your makeup. Though, when your door creaked open, you squealed— half surprised, half flustered.

“You’re early,” you huffed, though the wide smile and the brightness in your eyes belied your attempt at scolding him.

You jumped up from the bed, practically flinging yourself into his arms. His eyes almost appeared greener than you remembered, or maybe you just missed the color so badly that seeing it again made your heart flutter even more than usual.

“My bad,” he played along with a chuckle and the deep rumble of his voice sent your pulse skyrocketing, “Want me to leave again and come back later?”

“Don’t you dare, Winchester,” you retorted, grin still wide on your tinted lips. Before he could even think about abandoning you again, whether in jest or not, you pulled him into a kiss, the familiar taste of him melting your heart right away.

Despite being worn down after a long drive and an even longer hunt, Dean soaked up your excited welcome, mimicking the effortless smile you wore.

“I missed you,” he mumbled against your mouth with a relieved sigh.

“Missed you too,” you whispered back, connecting your lips with his in another chaste kiss.

“I can tell,” he grinned, leaning back only to scan you up and down. You had picked one of his old Metallica shirts, paired with a denim mini-skirt. One that left him no choice but to whistle.

“Two weeks without me and you turn into a caveman,” you quipped teasingly. Still, that look of approval and desire caused your skin to tingle.

“Can’t blame a guy for appreciating his pretty girl,” Dean shrugged, boyish grin plastered across his face. “You look like a work of art.”

“And the canvas isn’t even done yet,” you chuckled. “Can you grab my lipgloss from the bathroom real quick?”

Dean didn’t respond for a second, too busy taking in the sight of you. His hands lazily trailed up and down your sides, testing the material of his shirt, the fabric old and worn and falling softly over those irresistble curves of yours. You were asking the impossible of him—no way did he want to pull away from you for even just another minute.

“What’s the point if I’m gonna kiss it off that pretty mouth anyway?,” Dean tested, wiggling his eyebrows playfully.

“Hold your horses, Cassanova,” you clicked your tongue with that flustered grin of yours, shyly shoving at his shoulder to nudge him towards the bathroom. “It’s the cherry flavored one, your favorite.”

Dean’s eyes lit up to match the flirtatious sparkle in yours, both thanks to the heavenly sound of your laugh and your little promise.

“Should’ve said so sooner, sweetheart,” he hummed with that wide, giddy grin of his. Though he did not let you off the hook that easily — giving you another peck, along with a well measured squeeze of your ass that had you yelp and giggle again — he turned on his heel and retreated to the bathroom.

“Gotta freshen up a bit anyway,” was the last thing you heard him mumble.

As for you, you swiftly finished the last bits of preparations. The moment you learned he’d finally come home, you knew just how to welcome him back properly. Microwaved popcorn, some slices of greasy pizza, one or two of Dean’s favorite old Western classics.

“Steve McQueen or John Wayne?,” you called as you were shuffling through the DVD collection in the box, which usually sat under your bed. You’d found it pulled out already and, what can you say, sometime’s not tidying up immediately has its perks.

And sometimes it’s a bulletproof set-up for failure.

Dean returned just then, though it’s the rasp of his voice that grabs your attention rather than the steps of heavy boots you expected to appear behind you.

“Wanna tell me what this is?”

Curious, your head turned to him. Your gaze fell on his frame first, much closer than you thought he’d be and half-naked. He’s washed the grime off his skin, which thus was slightly damp and smelled like the perfect blend of citrus and spice.

Once finally managing to peel your eyes off his broad chest, your eyelashes flickered upwards. Though your heart sank right to the bottom of your stomach as you realized what he was holding might’ve been pink, but it definitely wasn’t your lipgloss. Instantly the shade of your cheeks matched the silicone toy he waved around.

Your Satisfyer. Of course, you’d just cleaned it in the bathroom and forgot to put it away. Hence that box not being stashed away yet either.

“I can explain,” you muttered shyly, almost timidly and tense, though your defensive response earned you just a smirk from Dean.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he hummed. “Didn’t say I was mad.”

He turned the small vibrator in his hands, once, twice, eyeing it with curiosity. Not anger. Not disgust or any of that.

“Didn’t know you owned one of these,” he spoke, casually, as if he didn’t just jumpscare the shit out of you by wiggling your sex toy in front of your face.

You’re not sure what prompted you to even attempt defending yourself: “I only use it when I miss you too much…” While justifying why you had it, that explanation certainly didn’t make you feel any less exposed.

A thick silence followed, so heavy between you you could hear your own blood rush through your ears. The blush crept from your face to your neck, darkening into a tomato-red.

Dean stared at you as if you’d grown a second head, and you couldn’t possibly maintain eyecontact with him anymore. Although, when you averted your gaze, he lifted your chin up again, looking down at you with an intensity that overwhelmed you.

“When you miss me,” Dean echoed, voice low and laced with something dangerous. Something proud. Like the secret you just revealed equated to you handing him a trophy.

Shyly, you nodded. Barely.

“You’re thinking of me when you’re touching yourself, sweetheart?” His words had you shudder. And swallow. Thickly. Though your throat remained dry and you didn’t trust yourself to speak up just yet.

“Hmhm,” you hummed quietly, nodding again. Wasn’t it self-explanatory? Of course you were. It was always him you imagined in those moments. It was always his touch you wished would explore you. His hands, mouth, thick cock—

“Show me,” Dean spoke, holding the item out for you.

Bewildered, you blinked at him, unsure if you understood correctly.

“Wh-what?”

He took a step forward, towering over you in a way that made you feel small, but desired all the same. Instinctively, you staggered backwards, until the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed, causing you to sit down.

“Show me what happens when you miss me, sweetheart,” Dean elaborated, placing the toy in your lap and then pulling back.

Your eyes, wide with shock, never left him as he pushed a chair over to the bed and made himself comfortable, sitting there leaned back and ready to enjoy the show.

“But I— You…”

Dean tilted his head, one hand reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “What? I wanna see my girl make herself feel good. Just do it like you normally would.”

It’s not that you were uncomfortable with the idea, knowing he’d never push you to anything you don’t want. It’s rather that his request made heat pool at your core, so fast that it made you dizzy. He couldn’t possibly hold you getting so flustered against you.

This felt like a damn ambush, one that made your brain short circuit.

Hearing the gears turn in your head, Dean leaned forward, supporting his elbows on his knees and tilting his head. “Not your cup of tea, sugar?”

Damn bastard knew what he was doing, letting his wolfish eyes roam your body like you were some frozen-in-the-headlights deer. The low rumble of his voice was enough to make you instinctively squeeze your thighs together.

“No— I mean yes? Just…,” you stuttered, making a complete fool of yourself. This was uncharted territory. You knew your body and how to explore it. Dean knew your body and how to explore it. But in this constellation, the alignment of stars painted a new picture.

While you didn’t want to admit how awkward you felt, not wanting to sound lame, Dean understood without you having to spell it out for him. He got up from the chair and settled on the bed instead, making himself comfortable right behind you.

Biting your lower lip, you let his arms circle around your waist and pull you closer until your back was pressed flush against his chest. The heat of his skin seeped through your clothes and you relaxed into his embrace right away.

“This okay?,” he whispered, the gentleness of his voice contrasted only by the brush of his stubble against your cheek. As his fingertips slipped under your shirt, erasing the tension from your middle, you leaned back into him even further.

“More than okay,” you answered, voice soft but sure.

You felt the smile tugging at his lips against your neck, along with the kiss he placed there. Slow and deliberate. Reassuring you while his fingers made quick work of your skirt’s button. He unfastened it, helping you lift your lower half to slip the denim down and taking your panties right with them.

Both items discarded onto the floor, you shifted into a more comfortable position. You settled between Dean’s legs and slowly spread your own, following the guide of his palms that stroked the plush of your thighs.

“Show me, please?”

The way he asked for it had your heart and pussy flutter in tandem. That desperate edge to his tone, the subtle twitch of his fingers against your inner thighs — as if he was itching to touch you himself, but wanting you to do it instead.

You bit your lower lip and pressed the toy’s switch, its soft buzz making both yours and Dean’s breath hitch.

You guided the vibrator to your slick folds, your center already throbbing with anticipation. Dean’s chin settled on your shoulder, eyes glued to your ministrations. Having him watch you at your most vulnerable, such a private moment suddenly so intimate, it drove you to the brink of insanity.

“You’re tellin’ me this is what I’m missing every time I’m gone?,” Dean huffed through a clenched jaw, absolutely mesmerized by the sight in front of him. You, all splayed out for him, letting yourself fall apart, unwavering trust behind your actions.

A whine left your lips as you shook your head shyly.

“No?,” he hummed, hands still tracing lazy circles over your thighs, occasionally lifting your oversized shirt out of the way.

“Mmh, ‘s different when you’re here,” you replied in between ragged panting.

“Different how?”

“Better.”

You had no idea what those words did to him. Or maybe you did, judging by the way you arched your back and pushed your hips back, just to feel the tent in his boxers.

“What’s it like when I’m not here?” Maybe Dean was pushing his luck, asking you to share the most scandalous of your thoughts, wanting a glimpse of your fantasies. Or maybe he was pushing your buttons in just the right way, relishing in the flush of your cheeks and the tremble of your lips. “What’re you imagining then, baby? Bet you wish it was me touching you, right?”

The moan bubbling from you was broken but beautiful, accompanied by another nod of yours.

“Use your words, sweetheart.”

You angled the toy up slightly until the ring suctioned right over your clit, pressure and friction so delicious you sobbed softly.

“Wish you’d fuck me, keep thinking ‘bout your cock filling me,” you rambled to your own surprise.

“Keep it up, and I might,” Dean chuckled lightly behind you, his only reward for now another kiss to your flushed skin.

Eager to please him, more than pleasuring yourself at this point, you turned up the setting. Though your thighs twitched, you kept chasing the feeling. Your hips automatically bucked into the smooth surface of your toy. It was practically drenched already, glistening with your essence.

“So fucking pretty,” Dean rasped, large hands holding your legs open from behind.

You whimpered, throwing your head back against his shoulder as the pressure between your thighs became nearly unbearable. Dean used the opportunity to plant wet, hot kisses across your neck, burying his nose in the curve of your shoulder.

“Doing so good, baby,” he whispered. “Just a little longer, can you do that for me?”

“Dunno, ‘m so close,” you cried, coil in your lower stomach so damn tight, so damn close to snapping.

“’s alright,” Dean purred, his own hand maneuvering their way between your legs. You yelped softly as you felt his fingers collect your wetness and run right through your slit. “Almost there.”

Overwhelmed, you almost squirmed away, but his grip on you was iron, his words whispering sweet affirmations into your ear. How pretty you looked. How good you felt. How perfect you were. And the best part about it? He was actually, really, right there—not some flicker of your imagination, not the ghost of his touch or the memory of his voice.

Dean slipped one finger inside of you, then added a second one. His thrusts were steady, a welcome scratch to the itch you could never quite manage on your own. A soothe to your nerves only Dean was able to accomplish. He was making you sing and curse and worship his name with your voice.

“Let go for me,” Dean spoke, talking you through it as all that you managed were moans and slight thrashes.

He pushed you over the edge with ease, catching you all the same in the storm of your orgasm. The intense crash of heat washing over you caused one of your hands to grasp his wrist—you weren’t entirely sure whether you were trying to make him slow down or asking him to keep going.

Dean slowed his movement, the pulsating of your heat subsiding gently until all that was left was you, sweaty and shaking in his embrace.

“Good to be back,” Dean quipped jokingly, sealing your long awaited reunion with another lock of your lips.

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[helaintoloki]

Somethin’ Stupid

part two

pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

warnings: angst, lots of pining, eventual fluff

notes: part two is here! ty guys for the support and hope you enjoy <3

summary: being forced to go on a mission together allows bucky and y/n to come to an understanding

*part one

You wake up with an awful hangover and a broken heart.

A part of you had hoped that the events that had transpired last night were merely figments of a dream, a peek into some alternate dimension where you had misjudged your tolerance for alcohol and completely humiliated yourself in front of the man you were hopelessly in love with. But the glass of water paired with a bottle of aspirin and a note from Natasha excusing you from training today proved otherwise.

All it took was a single drunken confession to completely obliterate one of the most dearest friendships you had. How could you ever possibly face him after this? Not only had you completely misread his intentions, but he had responded less than enthusiastically to your profession. You’d seen it in his face, the guilt that swam in his eyes and sympathetic smile that he wore so beautifully despite how badly it hurt you. Though Natasha had cut him off before he could offer a full response, you had enough sense to know what had been coming next.

“I’m sorry kid, but I don’t see you that way. You’re just not my type.”

The mere thought has you reeling all over again as you fight to keep your nausea at bay and clumsily reach for the glass of water. You’re grateful that you’ve been given the green light to essentially lock yourself away in your room and hide in your shame for the rest of the day, but you know that eventually you’ll be expected to go back out there and resume your daily routine. But Bucky was part of that routine, and you feel absolutely pathetic as you realize just how much you’d centered your life around him.

It’s obvious that logic is not your strong suit when it comes to these situations, so it made sense that you felt the only natural solution was to simply avoid Bucky for as long as humanly possible. You’d spar with someone else, maybe ask Natasha to join you for a movie instead, and chase away your own nightmares from now on. Surely this would help you get over him once and for all.

At least that’s what you hoped.

However, you were only successful in avoiding Bucky for a straight week until Steve decided you two were the perfect candidates for a recon mission.

You’d followed Steve around the compound pleading your case as soon as he’d handed you the mission file, but the man was adamant that you were the only one right for the job.

“You’re the only one who can see inside the building without actually having to step foot in it,” Steve had reminded you, his stance firm and his arms crossed over his broad chest as he spoke. “We need to know if these guys actually have any stolen Stark tech on their hands before we risk going in there. Your vision can give us the layout of the building and determine their inventory without them even knowing.”

“If my enhanced eyesight makes me the most qualified then why can’t I just go on my own?” You adamantly protested before handing the file back to him. “It clearly states in the report that I’m not expected to go inside or make contact with any hostiles, so why do I need a partner?”

“You’re going to be too busy scanning the building to watch your own back, so you’ll need someone else there to watch it for you,” Steve reminded you with authority, his tone indicative of the fact that as Captain he had the final say. With a softer tone, he placed a firm hand on your shoulder before giving it a comforting squeeze. “Besides, I think this will be good for you both. A team only works if everyone’s on the same page, so it’s important to me that you two figure things out. Understood?”

“You got it, Cap,” you finally relinquished with a discontented sigh before excusing yourself to prepare for the mission.

You end up in the car garage a few hours later anxiously waiting for Bucky’s arrival. A part of you had considered leaving without him and worrying about Steve’s wrath at a later point, but you knew better than to test your luck. He was right about needing someone to have your back, but you just wish that someone could have been anyone else on the team.

The sound of heavy boots making their way towards you prompts you to lift your despondent gaze towards their own. Despite only having been apart from him for a week, you still find your breath catching in your throat and heartbeat speeding its pace by tenfold as you lock eyes with his stormy gaze. You have no idea what he’s thinking, and you desperately wish your x-ray vision could allow you to look into his head and read his thoughts, but unfortunately that’s Wanda’s speciality, not yours.

“Hey,” he greets with a barely visible smile that makes your chest tighten with longing. You’d think that after being rejected you’d be over him by now, but it turns out it’s true when they say absence makes the heart grow fonder.

“Hi,” you murmur meekly, absently dragging the toe of your boot along the ground. The air is thick with tension as you both engage in an unwelcome staring contest and wait with baited breath for the other to address the obvious elephant in the room. After a minute, you finally speak, “Thanks for coming along.”

“No need to thank me,” he assures you in the softest tone he can muster, almost as if you’ll run off again if he doesn’t choose his words carefully. “You know I’ll always have your back.”

His reply has you swallowing harshly while your stomach twists itself in knots; this week had been miserable for you, and yet you’d never stopped to consider how Bucky was fairing in your absence. Even if he did only view you as a kid, you still had formed a close bond with the man, and it must have been jarring for him to spend his days unused to your absence. You’d essentially iced him out without worrying about the repercussions, and now here you were forced to face them head on.

“We should go,” you state suddenly in an attempt to avoid any further awkwardness. Bucky opens his mouth to protest but instead chooses to keep silent and grab the keys for his motorcycle. As much as he’s been dying to talk to you about what had occurred at Tony’s party, he knows you both need to be focused on the task at hand, so he instead chooses to offer you a helmet before starting up the bike.

The world almost feels whole again when you seat yourself behind him and wrap your arms around his torso in a tight hold as he begins to speed off to your destination. You’ve missed this closeness, his warmth, the scent of his cologne and the comfort it brings you to rest your cheek against his back as you watch the scenery pass you by. You’re not sure if your relationship with the super soldier will ever be the same, and a part of you wonders if it’s possible to borrow the time stone from Dr. Strange so you can go back and stop yourself from making such a horrid mistake. You’d feel better if you could at least know what Bucky was thinking.

Unbeknownst to you, Bucky was thinking about a lot of things.

Though everyone around him could see how stupidly blind he was to your adoration for him, Bucky legitimately had no inkling of your romantic feelings for him. The shock on his face that night had been genuine, and your confession left him dumbfounded as he scrambled to come up with the right words, but Natasha had whisked you away before he had been given the chance.

Bucky laid awake for hours that night reminiscing on all the times you’d shared together- evenings spent talking for hours until the sun came out, playful teasing over your earpieces during missions, letting you crawl into his bed at odd hours because it helped your night terrors. He could say he was simply being a good friend, a good teammate even, but he knew he’d only be kidding himself. Bucky would do just about anything you asked of him, and he knew it was because deep inside he loved you too.

The word kid had slipped out, but it was meant to be viewed as a harmless pet name. If he knew just how upset it would have made you he never would have used it, and it haunted him every single day you ignored him. He wanted to make things right, but that would only be possible if you gave him the chance.

And right now, it didn’t seem like that was going to happen anytime soon.

~~~

Your eyes are laser focused on the building before you as you nestle into the high branches of a tree and ignore the biting cold from the snowfall. Bucky is perched beside you, gaze constantly shifting as he scans the area for any potential threats to your safety. You’ve been at this for about an hour as you meticulously scan each floor in search of any weapons as well as intel regarding how many people occupy the building. Your eyes are starting to burn from the amount of strain your powers put on them, something Bucky picks up on as he places a hand on your shoulder to get your attention.

“I think you should take a break,” he prompts with worry clear on his features. Though a part of you agrees, you’re too stubborn to relent to his suggestion. This mission is your chance to prove to him that you’re not just some kid he has to babysit; you are just as capable as anyone else, and you want him to see you not as a mentee but as an equal.

“I’m fine,” you insist indignantly before returning your gaze to the weapons base, “you’re breaking my concentration.”

“Y/n, if you put too much pressure on your eyes you’re going to have a crushing migraine for weeks and Steve will have no choice but to bench you from missions,” he reminds you, and though Bucky is only trying to be helpful you feel as if you’re being reprimanded like some child.

“Are you not listening to me? I’m fine,” you grit through clenched teeth. The pressure is getting to you, and this conversation certainly isn’t helping.

“Look, just stop to use the eyedrops Dr. Banner gave you and then-“

“Oh my god, would you stop?! You’re not my babysitter, Bucky!” You finally cry out in exasperation.

“Hey!” A third voice interjects before Bucky can respond, prompting both of you to turn your heads just in time to see a man below raising his gun in your direction. You’d both been so engrossed in your debacle to notice a guard had been sent to search the area, and your little outburst had just given away your hiding spot.

Your head is pounding from the overexertion of your powers, and you’re barely able to register Bucky yelling at you to duck. The man begins to shoot before Bucky can draw his gun, and you’re not quick enough to duck out of the way when a bullet comes in your direction. It shoots straight through your shoulder blade, the force strong enough to hinder your balance and throw you off of the tree branch.

“Y/n!” Bucky cries out, eyes wide as he shoots a hand out for you. He’s barely able to graze your fingertips before you go falling straight to the ground with a strangled cry. The last thing you see is his horrified face before you hit the floor with a defeaning thud.

Everything goes dark after that.

~~~

The lights of the infirmary are blinding as you will yourself to peel your eyes open with a groan. A dull throbbing fills your head as you lift your hand to shield your eyes and attempt to sit up only to be gently pushed back down onto the bed.

“Easy there, slugger,” a voice reprimands teasingly, “Bruce says you shouldn’t be making any sudden movements for the next few days. You didn’t break anything, but you’re bruised up pretty bad and need to be on a five day medication regimen to keep the migraines at bay, and that’s not even mentioning the bullet hole in your shoulder.”

“Natasha?” you murmur hoarsely, barely making out her figure through squinted eyes. Your mind is reeling as you try to recall the events of your mission, and your stomach drops as you recall that you hadn’t been alone when you’d been ambushed. “Where’s Bucky?!”

You try to sit up again only for her to push you back down with one hand while the other uses the control pad to dim the lights in the room. You’re grateful for the pressure it alleviates, but your racing heart does nothing to help your anxious state.

“Bucky is fine,” she reassures you, “he left to get you some water, but he’s been in this room all day since you both got back.”

“What happened? I-I remember arguing with him, getting caught, falling out of a tree…”

“You hit a couple branches on the way down which is why you’re all banged up, but luckily the snow helped break your fall and prevented any further damage. Barnes was able to get you both out of there unscathed, and thankfully Bruce was able to remove the bullet out of your shoulder with minimal scarring. But… I have to say, I’ve never seen Bucky look so worried before.”

“God,” you whine in embarrassment, palms pressing into your eyes as you hold your face in your hands. “It’s like I’m incapable of not making a fool of myself every time we’re alone together.”

“Look, just stop dragging your feet and face the issue head on. You two need to work this out,” Natasha reiterates, her eyes subtly shifting to the man that enters the infirmary with a bottle of water in his hands. “The sooner the better.”

Bucky looks like a dog caught with its tail between his legs as he approaches your bedside, swallowing nervously as Natasha moves past him with a “good luck” leaving her lips as she exits the room and allows you both some privacy. You take the bottle from him with trembling hands and a quiet thank you before finally willing yourself to look at him.

“I’m sorry… this whole mess is my fault,” you murmur remorsefully, fingers fidgeting with the paper label on the bottle, "if I had just kept my mouth shut that night-“

“I’m glad you said it.”

“What?” You breathe out in surprise, unsure if you heard him correctly or if it was just your migraine skewing your perception of reality. Bucky swallows nervously before seating himself beside your bed, a bashful smile playing at his lips as he meets your gaze.

“Look, I know I reacted horribly in the moment, but it was only because I thought you were too drunk to mean it,” he confesses almost shamefully, a flash of guilt present in his features. “It’s hard to believe a woman as wonderful as you would want a tired old man like me, and I assumed it was a spur of the moment thing. But I have cared for you the moment Steve introduced you to us as a new member of the team, and I don’t go out of my way to protect you because I think you’re some incapable kid who needs my help. It’s because… well, it’s because I love you too. And I’m sorry it took me this long to say it.”

Your lips are parted in shock as you process Bucky’s words, your mind racing to catch up as you realize the man you’ve pined for so long is now confessing his love for you. A part of you is scared that this is some sort of concussion dream and that you’ll wake up to find it wasn’t real. But the feel of his hand carefully cupping your cheek says otherwise, and you nearly melt into his touch at the feeling.

“You love me?” You repeat again in quiet astonishment. Bucky lets out a small chuckle in response.

“Of course I do, sweetheart,” he reassures you with an adoring smile, “it killed me to be away from you for so long, and I hate that it took us being shot at for me to finally tell you that.”

“I guess we just operate better on chaos,” you weakly joke, smiling when it earns you another laugh out of Bucky.

“It certainly is our specialty,” he agrees with wry grin. Then, tone more serious now as he moves to take one of your hands in his own, he says, “I love you, y/n, and I’d be honored if you would give me the chance to take you out somewhere nice to makeup for this whole mess I put us through.”

With a soft smile, you give his hand a gentle squeeze and answer, “I’d love nothing more.”

And then, in the privacy of the quiet infirmary, Bucky leans in and steals the first of many kisses from you.

| tags: @cjand10 @wamefou @g1g1l @yes-ilovetowrite @greatenthusiasttidalwave @shanksstrawhat @vicmc624 |

[lefteagleblizzard]

𝔖𝔦𝔠𝔨 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔴𝔞𝔫𝔱 Joel Miller x male reader

Summary: Accidentally inhaling aphrodisiac spores when on patrol with Joel Miller

Tags: Set between The Last of Us Part I and II. Male reader. He/him pronouns are used towards the reader. Friends to lovers. Lots of science rambling that can be skipped. Overstimulation. Sex pollen. Aphrodisiac spores. Age gap. Smut. Gay smut. Top Joel Miller. Bottom male reader. Handjob. Anal sex.

ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

Words count: 7000 words

Your horse’s hooves crunched rhythmically through the icy crust, breaking apart the layer that had hardened atop the road since dawn. You sat astride it with a loose posture, the reins slack in your gloves, not out of laziness but from quiet trust in the beast beneath you. Its coarse winter coat was dusted in pale flakes, which you brushed gently from its mane as it snorted softly, exhaling warm breath that curled through the air like smoke.

You murmured nonsense to it under your breath, fingertips carding through its thick mane, thumb trailing along the ridge of its strong neck.

Ahead of you, Joel’s figure broke the horizon in long, steady strides of his horse. The worn brown coat he wore was dark against the snow, spotted with white. His rifle hung across his back and the familiar hunch of his shoulders gave away the fact he was already scanning for any promising structures that might yield a can of soup or an untouched medicine cabinet.

His horse moved at a sure pace, faster than yours and he never looked back once.

You bit your lower lip, teeth digging in enough that you felt the faint sting. The silence was a weight between you, thick and unwelcoming for most of the patrol.

You leaned forward slightly in your saddle, clearing your throat.

“Hey, uh…” You hesitated. Shit. Too many ways to ask this, and none of them sounded good in your head. You went with the one that had been festering in your brain since Maria handed you the new schedule this morning. “Do you have any idea why Ellie asked to switch patrol partners this week?”

The second you said it, you winced. It sounded accusatory, like you were prying into something you weren’t supposed to know.

Joel didn’t stop but his head turned, and he looked back at you over his shoulder.

Snowflakes clung to the scruff lining his jaw, tangled in the silvered strands of his beard. Hazel leaning to amber eyes met yours, brow drawn like usual.

Fuck, he was so handsome.

That gaze held you frozen for a second and then he turned back forward without saying anything.

You scrambled to patch it. “I just meant, y’know—hope she’s alright.”

“She’s fine.” A faint mutter back as the only answer you got. Didn’t address what you really asked.

You sat back in your saddle, exhaling slowly, watching your breath curl away like smoke from a dying fire.

The horses continued forward in tandem, hooves crunching the snow in that steady rhythm again until Joel’s horse let out a low nicker and Joel gave a grunt as he pulled on the reins.

“Hold up,” he called and you tugged your horse to a stop beside him, coming close enough to see ta descent hidden under a treacherous quilt of white.

The snow dipped fast here, sliding down into a basin where the large roof of a house poked up barely above the surface. You could only see the tip of its peak, the chimney like a crooked finger reaching up from the grave.

“Jesus,” you breathed, shifting in your saddle.

Joel dismounted with practiced ease, boots sinking into the snow with a muted thump. He walked toward you, glancing over your horse’s bridle.

You started moving to do the same, grabbing the rope from your saddle to find somewhere to hitch the animal but Joel reached out and took the rope from your hands, his gloves brushing against yours just briefly. “I got it.”

You blinked. “Oh—I mean, I can—”

“I said I got it,” he muttered, turning before you could answer, tone gruff and clipped with no real edge to it.

You watched him walk away with both ropes, tying the horses down near the base of a bare tree, checking the knots twice. Then he turned back and started walking toward you again, shooting you a quick glance before his eyes dropped back to the snow and he trudged forward, jaw tight, gloved hands flexing.

You didn’t say anything as he passed you, just turned to follow him as he stepped carefully into the snow toward the house that lay buried beneath the frost.

The descent looked steep and slick, but there was a stupid itch that crawled right up your spine.

You’d ridden the tension of Joel’s quiet for long enough and now that you were finally off the horse, boots sinking ankle-deep into snow that practically swallowed your ankles, the temptation was too good to pass up.

You crouched before throwing yourself backward and let your weight carry you down. Soon the snow greeted your ass with a soft, satisfying crunch before you slipped down fast. Cold stung your cheeks and the wind clawed at your face in the most fun way possible.

Behind you now that you surpassed him, you heard Joel’s voice carry through the crisp air.

“Are you fuckin’ serious?!”

It made you laugh harder, the sound catching in your throat and blooming outward until you collided with the incline of the buried roof. A flurry of snow rained down from the eaves above, thumping into your hood, spilling down your back. You choked out a gasp from the coldness but even as you shoved the snow off your head and shoulders, you couldn’t stop grinning.

Dusting yourself completely, the flush of exhilaration was still warm under your skin, fighting back the bite of frost.

Then Joel appeared from the top of the hill, trudging down with that big, square frame. You barked out another laugh at the look on his face.

He looked beyond pissed, jaw locked tight, mouth set in that signature scowl, eyes that held fury, surprise, and a glint of reluctant amusement hiding behind his scowl that he’d be damned if he ever let you see it.

You pull that kinda stupid shit again,” he growled once he was close enough to loom over you, “I’ll leave your goddamn body out here for the infected to find, see how long you last.”

The low rumble of his voice dragged down your spine, no sarcasm or laughter in his tone.

“Worth it.” Your grin only widened and he groaned in annoyance and turned sharply, trudging toward the side of the partially buried chalet without giving you another glance.

You went to the other side with a spring in your step, gun free while eyes scanned the snow-sunken facade. On the far end, hidden beneath a white curtain of ice-glossed ivy, was a tall window pane, mostly unbroken, though the glass was filmed with frost and streaked by old melt marks.

You approached it carefully and leaned in, using your gloved fingers to rub a circle of visibility through the foggy layer.

The room inside was a full-blown lab. Makeshift but organized, a mess inside only science could make. Metal tables lined with test tubes, vials filled with preserved samples of unknown and apparently rotten liquids.

You half-whispered, half-called over your shoulder, “Joel.”

You heard his footsteps crunch toward you just a few seconds later, fast and heavy. He stepped up behind you, his body close enough that you could feel the heat from him through all that damn flannel and denim and leather. His left hand braced against the side of the window as he leaned forward to peer in.

Your eyes flicked to his arm bent at the elbow, flexed from the slight lean, thick under the tight sleeve of his shirt where his jacket had pulled back. Veins like cords twisted along his forearm, disappearing into the glove at his wrist.

You forced your attention back to the lab. “Looks pretty clean in there. Not too dusty. Might be medicine and supplies.”

He gave a soft grunt in response while his eyes stayed on the room for another second, narrowed slightly.

Without a word, he stepped back, shifted the rifle off his shoulder, gripped it at the barrel and with one quick motion, raised the butt of it.

The glass exploded in a clean fracture under the weight of his swing. Shards burst outward and you flinched on instinct.

The remaining edges of the window splintered inward. Joel gave them a quick once-over before stepping in, boots crunching as they touched down on the dark wood floor inside.

“You comin’ in or what?” He turned back, giving you a look. His brow lifted before he added, “Figured if nobody came runnin’ when your dumb ass rolled down that slope, place’s probably empty.”

You climbed in after him, boots thudding against the floorboards and exhaled a quiet breath. The air inside was cold but untouched. Your gun stayed low, loose in your grip but ready.

You went left, he went right. The place wasn’t huge, just one main room, everything scattered but oddly preserved. Your eyes caught on a stash in the corner and you knelt, rifling through what looked like a first aid kit still sealed. Antibiotics, gauze, alcohol, a cache of painkillers, labeled and bagged, bottles still full and expiry date a few years out. Your heart jumped at the treasure found.

There were coins there as well. Metal, worn but intact. Circular, silver with a black enamel inlay. The firefly logo etched across the surface, an insect with outstretched wings, speared through by a vertical line.

There was a whole open floor empty beyond your position and, at the far end, wooden stairs led down. You walked toward them, cautious, gun still at the ready.

As you reached the stairs, particles floated in the shaft of faint light that fell from above.

Spores.

You crouched quickly, unshouldering your pack, flipping it open and digging through the supplies. Fingers fumbling until they closed around the mask. You yanked it free, pulled the straps around your head and started to seal it tight.

Joel was still across the room, his broad back to you, opening drawers and scavenging the place while his hand remained loose over the handle of his revolver, head slightly tilted downward in focus.

Your eyes roamed shamelessly, every inch of him was weathered in the most painfully attractive way and you lingered too long.

Your foot shifted slightly, the floor groaned.

You opened your mouth, his name halfway up your throat when the wood beneath your boots gave out with a snap, splintering down the center.

Your back and shoulders scraped down jagged beams, the slap of gravity pulling you through the tight shaft until you slammed into the floor below, shoulder-first, the impact blooming pain across your collarbone and upper back.

A strangled sound ripped from your throat that was half curse, half gasp. You bounced, rolled to your side, landing hard on your ribs and hip, the floor beneath you unforgiving and damp.

Your breath punched out of your lungs, and for a second, all you could do was lay there, curled slightly, jaw clenched as a long, dry groan dragged from your throat.

The air was wrong. Thick, wet and almost syrupy, like you’ve dropped into the lungs of something alive. Humidity clinging to your skin through the cracks in your jacket.

The smell is a layered, sickening mélange of rot that’s gone sweet with time, earthy decay soaked in moisture.

Your eyes start watering, it feels like your lungs have been lined with spider silk soaked in vinegar. A burn blooms in your throat, sharp and sudden at the first breath, like the air is slicing on the way down.

Your body bucked on instinct. A wheeze tore up your throat, nostrils flared and instantly recoiled.

You shoved yourself upright, coughing dryly, mouth open but refusing to inhale again.

You pulled the mask down with a rough tug, fingers scrambling at the small button of the purifier unit and pressed hard.

The machine vibrated against your cheek, a dull, mechanical hum that began to work.

Your lungs begged for oxygen, ribs now clenching in panic, diaphragm spasming as you waited.

The air filtered through the mask started to feel cooler.

You pulled in a small breath. It didn’t burn this time, the air now feeling artificial.

The pressure in your chest loosened. You swallowed hard, heart pounding like a fist behind your sternum and sagged forward against the wall behind you.

You breathed deep and the filtered air fed your lungs, staving off the panic.

Joel’s voice tore down through the ruined floor as he called your name, tone gravel-thick and thunderous, sharp with panic. You could hear his boots scuffling above, wood groaning dangerously under his weight. You looked up through the splintered opening, all the ceiling was covered in those pinkish walls made of fungus, hence why it was so weak to your weight and gave away.

His face appeared, the muscles in his neck were taut, jaw tight and eyes wide.

“I’m fine!” you shouted, voice muffled behind the plastic and filters of your respirator. You lifted your arm slightly, wincing. “Don’t come close, the floor’s fuckin’ rotten!”

His jaw flexed, eyes tracking the layout quickly before he cursed again before he disappeared rom view as he backed away from the rim of the hole. Even then, you could still hear him pacing, booths thudding in short, frustrated steps.

Finally, you had the breath to look around. The chamber below was far larger than you expected, a full-blown Firefly lab. The quality of what was left here, even if buried under spores and decay, screamed intent.

Fluorescent lights still clung to the ceiling in long, unbroken bars, cracked but intact. A metal gurney with padded restraints sat center-stage and trays of unused surgical instruments glinted on a shelf.

It was organized, intact and completely drowned in spores.

You turned slowly, lifting your flashlight. The beam cut across thick plumes of particulate matter—pinkish, soft as down, thick as fog. You couldn’t see more than ten feet ahead without seeing spores shift in your beam. They clung to the ceilings, ballooning in dense patches—fungal colonies like pulsing lungs latched to the beams above.

There was nothing here. No clickers, corpses or even bones.

How the hell had all these spores flooded the place without anything ever dying here?

Something touched your arm and you recoiled violently, breath choking in your throat, a muffled, startled “FUCK!” bursting past your respirator. Your gun raised on instinct, heart skidding into panic.

It was Joel.

He had dropped down through the stares you were also supposed to take and his boots were now planted solid beside yours. Snow crusted his shoulders, mask was on tight. The lenses fogged slightly from his breath and his gloved hand gripped your bicep hard enough to anchor you in place.

He said your name low, voice slightly distorted behind the mask’s filter unit.

“You hurt?” he asked, tone rough and steady, eyes scanning you, flicking over your chest and arms for any injury. “Talk to me.”

His grip on your arm didn’t loosen, fingers clamped just above your elbow, firm and grounding and the way his sharp gaze was fixed on you sent a tight shiver up your spine.

You swallowed hard, tried to answer, but something in your tongue tangled. Your voice stuck. Maybe it was the mask or the pain still radiating in your shoulder.

You could feel the thick line of muscle under his coat, his forearm flexed just slightly with the hold. His glove had slipped back a little and you could see the veins in his wrist, raised over sinew and tanned skin.

You blinked fast, heat slid into your cheeks, a slowness curled through your stomach, a strange pressure behind your eyes, like your blood was moving differently all of a sudden.

Joel’s fingers squeezed your arm harder.

“You gonna answer me or not?” His voice was gruffer this time and sharper, but the edge was concerned, cloaked in impatience.

You cleared your throat. “I’m—fuck, I’m fine. Landed hard on my arm, that’s all. Just a bit numb. Didn’t break.”

Joel’s eyes narrowed slightly, those rich hazel irises locked to yours, searching for any lie, the tension around his brow eased enough and let go of your arm. Slowly and reluctantly.

Then he pulled out his pistol, the metal glinting slightly in the artificial light as he stepped past you, solid and silent. He didn’t glance back as he muttered, “Don’t fuck around in here.”

He moved half a step ahead of you, as if shielding you, checking corners, vents, behind ruined tables.

“I made a lot of noise when I fell,” you said after a moment, eyes still flicking toward darkened corners. “If anyone was down here, infected or not, they would’ve jumped me already.”

You moved slowly, your boots gliding across the damp concrete floor. Your heart was still hammering, but it wasn’t the same tight spike in your ribs or shortness of breath. It was different slower now and heavier. Like your body was trying to tell you something it hadn’t figured out how to say yet.

You reached the edge of a workstation mottled now with patches of thick, fleshy mold that bloomed in pinkish tendrils across its surface like bruised coral. A few black strands of mycelium threaded through it like veins, pulsing faintly under the dim overhead light, their edges glistening wet.

The sight turned your stomach slightly, but you kept your gloved fingers steady as you reached toward a paper half-submerged in that wall of gross, spongy matter. It stuck a little when you tugged, tore faintly at one corner, but you coaxed it free, holding it up to the beam of your flashlight.

The ink had bled in places, the middle of the page warped by whatever moisture or rot had saturated the mold. But the text was still legible. You squinted at the heading:

[PAGE 7 – Entry 3.2a] (Corner torn, middle stuck together with green mold latticework)

…first success with fungal/plant hybridization observed at 09:34. Spore culture 7G-Alpha2 successfully integrated plasmid DNA from Panax quinquefolius via Agrobacterium-mediated transformation. Fusion strain exhibited marked increase in alkaloid production, unusual for a fungal host.

No fruiting body yet, but the lab humidity chamber has sustained active mycelial growth for 72 hours. Odor profile altered, slight pheromone volatility.

It was hard to wrap your head around at first, bioengineering, spore cultures, DNA fusion with plant-based alkaloids.

You blinked. The print started to blur slightly from your own eyes. A warmth started to crawl under your skin, like standing too close to a fire.

The paper shook slightly in your grip.

Blood serum from rat trials (Group C) shows a significant spike in dopamine and oxytocin levels post-aerosol exposure.

(Handwriting changes. More urgent and slightly uneven.)

Repeat: Respiratory intake is the only variable. Sample B221 designated as viable for further study.

IMPORTANT: pathogen is non-contagious, inert outside of air-saturated chamber. Transmissibility halts without direct spore inhalation. Gene-editing safeguards remain intact. Replication cascade requires >95% humidity and nutrient gel base to activate.

NOTE: Confirm sterilization thresholds before storage.

You let the page drop onto the table, breath pushing out in a soft huff through your mask. Your chest rose and fell slowly, like your lungs were pressing out against something thick. Not hard to breathe, just heavy. Your eyes stung again, not with tears this time, but a strange sort of pressure behind them, as if a headache was blooming there.

You rubbed a gloved hand against your forehead, then turned and that’s when you saw a tank in the corner of the lab, half-shrouded in the drifting cloud of spores. Glass, large and thick but with one entire side cracked. The inner wall was fogged over with old condensation, now streaked with pinkish residue.

Inside, two small skeletons, rodent-sized. One lay curled in the corner, partially buried under a pile of decomposed straw bedding. The other closer to the cracked glass, lay on its side, bones bleached by exposure and time, ribs cracked inward. No visible growth or spores clinging to the bones and yet, this had to be where it started.

One of them, maybe spooked or altered by the hybrid strain, must have panicked. Slammed against the glass, broke the seal and the spores released, flooding the lab.

Your fingers reached for the small stack of papers next to the base of the tank, corners browned, text visible under fungal smudges. You flipped through them, heart thudding harder now.

The first few lines jumped out at you:

“Strain B221 is no longer Cordyceps. Its host behavior is driven not by neural hijack, but chemical amplification. Sexual arousal is observed as byproduct of pheromone analogs stimulating limbic regions directly…”

Subject 15 (male, 32. Accidentally inhaled spores when mask malfunctioned) self-reported lucid state. Vitals spiked: pulse at 158 bpm, skin temp +3.6°F, erection maintained for 37 minutes post-exposure with no physical contact.

Subject did not lose speech or identity.

(Sticky zone begins. It’s smudged, brownish-gold mold—scraped text legible in places)

Increased tactile sensitivity begins 10-15 minutes post-exposure. Subdermal flush around neck, thighs, lower abdomen. Shivering, full-body muscle tension. Erection onset within 10 mins of phase start, resistant to manual suppression.

Increase in tear production, ocular surface wetness. Scleral micro-discoloration: red flush forming at medial corners of eyes, growing outward, associated with burst capillary dilation + fungal metabolite buildup.

STRONG HYPOTHESIS: Fungus aims for propagation via sexual fluid exchange but lacks vector. Safety threshold remains: not contagious via skin, saliva, or semen. Only active in the direct inhalation zone.

You lowered the papers, heartbeat thudding faster in your ears now. Your neck felt damp, pulse fluttered under the skin, and your fingers, shaky now, flexed against the notes.

This is just panic. That’s what you told yourself. Residual adrenaline, shock and pain. Chemicals fucking with your head.

You turned your head, mouth slightly open behind the mask, lips now wet.

The page you held trembled in your grip again. Your arms felt a little like jelly, spine pulled into a slow arch as you inhaled deeper than you meant to. It felt too good.

You dropped the stack to the filthy floor without thought, boots crunching lightly over a smear of dried spores and dust and held the last page tight between trembling fingers.

[PAGE 4 – Entry 6.3: Flare-Up Termination Response]

You could barely focus. The words were fuzzy at the edges, letters bleeding in and out like water-smeared ink, but you forced yourself to trace them, each line landing like a hammer against your spine:

Activation of neurochemical effects now appears governed by host endocrine cycles.

Initial hypothesis of random arousal episodes disproven. Host hormone panels show pattern: recurring surge in fungal expression linked to pulsatile testosterone and cortisol rhythms approx. every 29–32 days.

Strain lies dormant within lymphatic and pulmonary tissue during inactive periods. Reactivation corresponds with small but measurable hormonal fluctuations, suggesting fungal intelligence keyed to endocrine shifts.

Symptoms remain until sexual climax occurs. Neurochemical scan reveals drop-off in fungal signaling immediately following orgasm.

Spike in dopamine, prolactin and oxytocin likely flood receptor sites, disrupting fungal influence and causing symptoms to alleviate over time.

A single bead of sweat rolled down your temple, slipping under the edge of your mask. The inside of your collar was soaked. Your breath hissed in and out of your filter system, loud and uneven, each inhale tighter than the last.

You felt it a presence behind you

Joel was standing behind you. You didn’t know how long he’d been watching. Had he read over your shoulder the whole time? Had he seen the way your knees had started to tremble?

He huffed. A single breath, deep and thick through his mask.

“What the fuck were these people on.” He muttered, voice flat and gruff through the static distortion of the respirator.

“Buncha freaks,” he added, head tilting slightly as he scanned the tank again. “All this damn science talk to explain the fungus makin’ folks horny once a month.” His tone is bitter and blunt.

A hum started in your ears, a pulsing buzz that crackled at the base of your skull, like someone had pressed your head against an old generator. Your heart was racing too fast. The corners of your vision flickered faintly and your cock gave a twitch in your pants.

You sucked in a breath, fast. Your chest burned under the pressure of your shirt. Fuck, the mask was too tight, too hot. You stumbled a step sideways and the page in your hand fluttered from your grip like ash.

Joel shifted behind you in sudden awareness.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” he asked, his voice low, rougher now. Still trying to sound like he didn’t care too much. But you knew that tone. You’d heard it before when Ellie was missing too long from patrols.

You turned, your mouth opening, but nothing came out. You were panting, full lips parted behind the glass of the mask, leaving the inside fogged over. It smeared with each breath, your own condensation clouding your vision. You saw Joel’s outline, dark and solid, but the details were gone. Only the shape of him remained.

Your hands dropped to the table’s edge, knuckles white, the cool steel hissing against your palms through your gloves. You were burning.

The heat pooled low in your belly, pulsing and tightening. Your cock twitched again, harder this time, thickening in your pants. No friction, arousal bloomed in your nerves like static.

Joel called your name again, louder and sharper this time, but you didn’t answer.

His hand gripped your arm hard, pulling you halfway up off the table with one sharp motion.

It felt so good. The pressure of his hand on you, fingers wrapping around your bicep through your jacket and glove, anchoring you in place, his whole body solid beside yours. You turned your head toward him, lips parting on reflex, throat working with something you couldn’t swallow down.

It was instinct more than anything that made you jerk away. His touch felt like it was melting you and the mask became unbearable. Your muscles tensed as you tore out of his grip, stumbling toward the stairs.

Your boots pounded the steps, feet nearly slipping once as your equilibrium gave a pulse. You slammed your palm against the wall and caught yourself, everything felt like it was breathing.

Upstairs was colder, but it didn’t help, you staggered toward the broken window, the one Joel had smashed earlier and leaned against the wall beside it, fingers fumbling at the straps.

You ripped the mask off your face with one wild pull and it dropped, still connected by the dangling strap and hung from your wrist as your other hand clawed at your jacket. The zipper stuck and you swore loudly, yanked it down hard. Peeled it off like a second skin, undershirt now drenched with sweat.

You collapsed back against the cold wood of the wall, head hitting it with a dull thunk, eyes fluttering half-shut as your hands cupped your face.

Joel’s boots hit the wooden floor with short, hard thuds as he marched across the room, jaw clenched so tight the muscles twitched in his cheek. He reached you in three long strides and without hesitation, he reached up and tore the mask off his face. The hiss of the release valves and the scrape of straps broke the silence.

The look on your face near broke something deep inside him. Your skin was flushed high with heat, brow slick with sweat and your lips hung parted, breathing ragged and short, the muscles in your chest heaving like you’d been running uphill for miles.

“Joel—” you started, voice catching in your dry throat.

You could barely get the words out, barely keep your legs beneath you, but still, somehow, you tried. You reached for anything that didn’t lead to this. “It’s just the heat down there,” you muttered hoarsely, trying to keep your voice level.

Joel’s jaw ticked, the twitch in his cheek gave it away first. His shoulders pulled tight, lips parted, the words ground out between teeth so clenched it was a miracle they even made it into the air.

“Don’t lie to me.” He took one slow step closer threatening, he wasn’t gonna let you squirm out from under it with soft words or shaky logic.

“Don’t stand there tellin’ me lies to my goddamn face when your eyes’re goin’ red.” he snapped.

That caught you off guard. You stared back at him, heartbeat thudding like a war drum in your throat. With trembling fingers, you raised the mask still dangling from your wrist and pulled it up toward your face.

Your reflection stared back, twisted and blurred by the warping curve of the mask but the color still shone clear.

Your sclerae were no longer white. Laced with thin filaments of vascular pink that curled out from your irises.

The mask slipped as your grip failed and it clattered to the floor, your knees began to give and Joel’s hand shot out instinctively, callused fingers curled firm around your muscle, grounding you instantly grabbing your arm, hard and fast, gripping you just beneath the bicep.

The heat from his touch flared sharp beneath your skin, like a wire running directly to your core. Your chest jerked and you let out a sound that resembled half a pant and half a gasp.

You leaned into his touch before you even knew you were doing it and he felt the full weight of you press against his side. Joel guided you quickly, rougher than he meant to, toward a pair of dusty chairs behind a table.

You sagged into the seat with a rough, graceless thud, pulled down more by the arm than lowered carefully. He was bad, he knew, but you didn’t complain. You folded over yourself instead, elbows planted on your knees, head dropping into your hands. The chill of the room clashing with the inferno unspooling in your belly. It was impossible to ignore the tent in your pants, painful and throbbing.

Joel exhaled through his nose before taking a seat beside you, silent at first.

Your voice cracked when you finally spoke. “You…you probably shouldn’t be this close to me.”

Joel turned toward you, that line between anger and worry had worn thin over the last hour, and now it just looked like exhaustion and guilt.

“I might not know shit about that science crap,” he mumbled. “But even I caught the part where it ain’t contagious.” His voice was flat, throat working visibly when he swallowed.

He didn’t have anything else to say because his throat was a thick knot of worry, his brain couldn’t prioritize what to yell at first about how stupid it was to come down here, how he should’ve been watching you like a hawk or about how goddamn helpless he felt now, with nothing to shoot, nothing to kill, no way to stop what was burning you up from the inside out.

Joel’s jaw clenched, his eyes wouldn’t leave your face.

Christ, you looked wrecked.

Expression ached with something hot and helpless, lips twitching as if trying to form a word you didn’t know how to say. You were burning up in front of him with need and not once had you begged or pleaded or lashed out.

You were just taking it, shaking through it strong, even while falling apart.

And hell if you didn’t still look—

He cut the thought off before it finished. Wasn’t right. Not now.

The heat from you bled into his clothes and skin. He felt it in his ribs, in his neck and in his gut. Every inch of him screamed to get you somewhere safe, but nowhere was safe now. Not from this.

So he gave you what he could.

Joel shifted beside you for the chair to creak and the scent of him to wash over you, sweat and cedar. You hadn’t even realized you’d learned so far into him.

His hand came to rest on your waist, firm and grounding. You twitched at the contact, and yet didn’t pull away. His fingers flexed once against your side, thick and calloused and warm, and then you were being pulled closer into him.

The ugly squeal of your chair legs scraped across the floor.

Your hands gripped his shoulder, hard, desperate. You buried your face in the curve between his neck and shoulder, trying to hide the groan that clawed its way up your throat. His flannel scratched your cheek but you didn’t care.

“Shoulda kept my fuckin’ eyes on you,” he muttered into your hair, voice low and tight. “You wouldn’t be in this mess if I hadn’t…This’s on me.”

You shook your head against his collarbone and tried to talk to express how it wasn’t his fault, that it was all yours, but the words collapsed into a guttural hiss as his hand moved, gliding downward with terrible slowness.

Your whole body jolted when warm, thick and firm fingers cupped the bulge in your pants.

Your teeth sank into your lower lip until you tasted blood, your breath hitching into ragged whimpers. You couldn’t look at him.

“Joel—” you gasped, unsure what you were about to beg for.

But he didn’t stop, his thumb moved in a slow circle over the wet spot you’d soaked through your pants, so gentle it felt like cruelty.

He turned his face into your hair, breathed in slow.

“I’m gonna help you,” he said, voice gone hoarse, just a whisper now, like he hated himself for every syllable. “Ain’t right lettin’ you sit here like this when I can stop it.”

Your heart pounded so loud it drowned everything else, fingers tightening in his shirt, hips lifting to meet the slow pressure of his hand. Shame made your face flush to the roots.

His hand moved again, undoing your belt and working your zipper down. Every movement broadcast how much he didn’t want to scare you. There was a subtle catch in his breath when your cock sprang free, hard and leaking against your abdomen.

“You’re burnin’ up bad.” He breathed, low and reverent.

You nodded against his neck, eyes screwed shut. “Please.”

That one word broke something in him. His fingers wrapped around your shaft and you let out a ragged moan as your hips bucked into the heat of his grip. Your forehead pressed tighter to his neck.

“I got you,” he whispered, hands starting to work, twisting near the tip, pulling tight at the base and sending sparks up your spine each time.

He nuzzled the side of your face, beard scraping your cheek. “Ain’t right how pretty you look like this.”

You whimpered pathetically and his thumb circled your slit with the lightest pressure, smearing your precum.

Your hips rolled helplessly up into his fist, every stroke pulling the orgasm closer but never letting you fall over the edge and he kept going, whispering into your hair, murmuring gruff, sweet nonsense that shouldn’t have worked but made you shudder every time.

His forehead pressed into the crook of your neck, his hand pumping faster now, breath now shakier. His other free hand brushed your stomach, fingers splayed flat across your abdomen, grounding you and keeping you in place.

You cursed and sobbed his name over and over. Each time more broken and desperate as your cock throbbed wildly, precum soaking his fingers and your abdomen.

You shouted his name, hips jerking wildly into his hand as thick ribbons of cum splattered your shirt and his hand. You gasped and broke apart in his arms, the high so sharp it bordered on pain.

Joel held you the whole way through as your frame sagged into him, breath in ragged gasps. His hand finally let go of your twitching cock, cupping the back of your head instead and pulling you tighter into his neck.

The second the last spasm of your orgasm passed, a new wave of pain slithered its way up, that burning ache hadn’t left as your dick throbbed angrily.

Your breath caught again, this time not from pain, but the sting of need ripping through your belly.

Every inch of his exhale soaked into your skin, warm condensation painting the side of your throat, followed by the gentle, maddening scrape of his beard. A dry rasp that danced across the oversensitized line of your jaw and shoulder, each bristle dragged across the flesh.

Your brain was a fogged glass window, heat smeared across it in trembling streaks and you groaned as you pulled back only to climb him.

Your knees hit the outside of his thighs and you straddled him, planting yourself in his lap with a desperate moan, the shape of his big bulge now grinding flush against your ass through both of your pants.

A huff of shocked air left his lungs, half a grunt, half a curse.

No words escaped him as your mouth crushed his, your hands dove into the heavy bristle of his beard, fingers cupping the rough cut of his jaw as you forced your mouth against his while grinding hard against the thick bulge in his pants.

A grunt was ripped from his chest, rumbling up his throat from the sudden kiss, lips parting beneath yours before he even thought to resist. That first second he froze but the time to recover and he kissed you back like he was starved.

His hands came up hard, wide palms slamming against your back to pull you into him as chapped and rough lips moved with your own. There was a hunger in the way he tilted his head, letting your mouth press deeper into his, groaning again when your tongue slid along his.

He hadn’t expected this, didn’t think he’d get to touch you ever. Now you were straddling and kissing him like it might undo the agony inside you.

You moaned into him and he gasped again, pulling back to breathe but your lips chased him, eyes hazy and lost. You made a quiet, broken noise when he didn’t meet you right away, a whimper that cracked in the back of your throat.

He hated every piece of how this happened. This wasn’t how he wanted to earn you.

He wanted you to choose him because you saw him for who he was and wanted him anyway.

You kissed him again, this time down his throat. Your lips fastened to the rough column of his neck, soft and open-mouthed, tongue licking a trembling path to the notch of his collarbone, lavishing the path ahead.

The outline of his cock throbbed thick against your ass, and your body ground down even harder, seeking the friction with a rhythm that made you gasp while looping your arms around his shoulders to keep steady.

With a low growl, Joel’s hand slid down and hooked beneath your thigh, gripping tight to help you grind deeper against him. His voice rasped out near your ear, breath shaking.

“Y’keep movin’ like that and I ain’t gonna be able to hold back.” He murmured, lips brushing your jaw.

Your hands flew down, fumbling with his belt and he watched you with wide, dark eyes, chest heaving as your fingers yanked open the buckle and fought the button free.

He groaned the second your hand pulled him free, thick, hot and heavy. He was bigger than you’d even imagined in the loneliest of nights.

Joel’ broad palms dropped to your ass sliding inward with a warm smear of spit as he circled your rim with maddening slowness, then pushed one thick finger in without warning.

The stretch burned, but not enough to make you stop or even slow down. You rocked back onto him instinctively, greedy, grinding down to take him deeper.

His other hand came up to stroke your lower back, grounding you as he added a second finger. This time he slowed, watched your face, lips parted and trembling as the stretch widened and your nails dug into the flannel on his chest. The ache rode a razor’s edge with pleasure.

Joel twisted his fingers as he fucked them in and out of you, wrist flexing just so to press against that hot, shivering bundle of nerves inside.

You pulled back, his fingers sliding free with a wet sound that made your cheeks flush and when he reached for you again, you were already rising onto your knees, lining yourself up. One hand gripped the base of his thick and hot cock before slamming yourself down on it.

“Ah—fuck—” Joel choked out, his head snapping forward to bury in your neck, voice breaking against your skin as your tight heat swallowed him whole in a single motion.

Your hole stretched around him with brutal urgency. The burn was immediate, the ache sharp, your body seized again as you came with no warning, just an explosion that tore through your nerves. Your cock twitched where it was trapped between your abdomens, painting streaks of cum across Joel’s stomach and your shirt, your chest heaving as your walls clamped down hard, milking him with pulsing aftershocks of your sudden orgasm and he cursed into your neck.

“Goddamn—you came?” His voice was hoarse, near disbelief while his hands grabbed your hips so hard you thought he’d bruise you, holding you flush against him, buried to the hilt.

Your hole spasmed again, fluttering around him and drawing another groan from his throat as you cockwarmed him. He was panting now, breath hot and erratic against your skin.

Joel felt your still hard cock poking against his stomach, leaking slick again even though you’d just come.

One thick arm snaked down beneath your ass, the other sliding up to your waist, and with one solid motion, he stood.

“J–Joel?” you gasped, voice wrecked.

“Shhh,” he growled while holding you so tight and close that the angle didn’t change, you whimpered when he adjusted you higher against his chest.

Glass shattered, metal clanged, paper flew as Joel’s hand swept across the table near the center of the room, knocking everything to the floor in one vicious sweep of his arm.

It was impossible to care for any of those things when he dropped you down onto the now-cleared tabletop and pushed your thighs open wider, stepped between them, and rammed himself back in with the full force of his body behind it.

“F–fuck!” Your arms snapped tight around his neck, legs locking around his waist. You clung to him, body shaking as he bottomed out again with no warning or pause.

He pulled back and slammed back in again.

Your head fell back with a cracked moan, neck exposed, chest arched. His name poured out of you like a prayer. Joel grunted with every thrust, sweat dripping down the sides of his face, neck corded tight with strain.

You were gone for the feel of him fucking you, claiming and filling you up so completely you didn’t know where he ended and you began. The table shook beneath you with each savage thrust, the wood groaning in protest under Joel’s strength.

Your cock rubbed between you again, hard and wet and pressed to his abs. Each slam of his hips rocked it up your abdomen, drawing gasps and broken noises from your throat, dragging your insides with every inch it claimed and then retreated from.

His head dropped into the crook of your neck, beard rasping against your pulse, breath hot and heavy as it stuttered into your skin.

His voice cracked against your throat. “Still wonderin’ why Ellie swapped patrols with you?”

It was surreal hearing his voice cut through the fog now. You hadn’t even realized the fungus haze had thinned. Not gone, but faltering.

“I—yea—mmmf—” You tried to respond but it broke halfway into a moan when his cock sank back in to the base and stayed there.

“She Saw the way I was watchin’ you. Knew I was askin’ too many goddamn questions ‘bout how you were.” He said with a raw voice as he grounded into you.

“Kid gave me this week. Told me to stop bein’ a stubborn, miserable bastard and just make a move.”

You shivered, breath punching out of you with every thrust.

“Joel—” you moaned.

“Didn’t want this to happen this way but I ain’t lettin’ you suffer alone.” He groaned again, biting into your shoulder briefly.

Your mouth opened but only more gasps came out. Finally, between broken breaths: “I’d’ve said somethin’, Joel…if I’d known… I—I—fuck—I wanted you…”

That did something to him. His thrusts grew rougher and faster. The rhythm shattered and replaced by raw instinct.

Your lips crashed together, his tongue plunged into your mouth, devouring you as his hips slammed forward one final time as he came.

The heat erupted inside you, his cock pulsing thick spurts coming deep in your abdomen, his entire body shuddering against yours. He groaned into your mouth, voice wrecked, lost, the sound of a man giving up every defense he ever had.

Your cock jerked between you, untouched, and splattered hot release all across his abdomen and yours.

The air between your bodies steamed, heavy and thick with the scent of sweat and sex. Your face was buried against Joel’s shoulder, every breath a sharp drag of oxygen through your teeth, his beard scratching against your temple with each slight twitch of his jaw.

Joel let out a breath that landed heavy against the skin of your throat.

This fucked-up fungus was now fused to you now. Living in your system. You didn’t know when it would happen again but all you had clue of was what it meant it will do.

You felt your throat tighten from dread.

“I’ve got it in me,” you whispered. “I—fuck, Joel. I’ll have to live with this.”

“You ain’t alone in it,” he murmured. “I’m here. You hear me?” Voice softer and lower now.

He gave you a moment before handing you your wrinkled shirt. You slipped it over your head slowly, wincing with each movement before doing the same with your pants.

You both moved slowly through the same broken window.

The air outside was colder but clean and you paused near the horses.

“We ain’t tellin’ no one,” He said, tone flat and quiet, “when we get back to Jackson,” he continued, low and firm, “this stays between us. That lab, the spores, what it did to you.” A beat. “Ain’t nobody else’s business.”

He looked at you like you were already his to protect.

He stepped back, mounting his horse in one practiced motion, tone now taking a lower, husky edge to it as he spoke again. “Next time it starts again, you come find me. I don’t care what time it is, where we are. You don’t go through that by yourself, y’hear me?”

[astrologydray]

Astrology Indicators 4

Astrology Indicators of Someone Who’s Meant to Inspire Others ✨🌟

• Neptune in the 1st or 10th house – Others see them as a dreamer, visionary, or spiritual guide.

• Uranus in the 1st or aspecting the MC – Breaks norms and inspires people to embrace their uniqueness.

• Jupiter in the 1st or 10th house – A natural motivator who brings wisdom and optimism wherever they go.

• Sun conjunct MC or in the 10th house – Shines in the public eye and serves as a role model.

• North Node in the 9th or 10th house – Life purpose is tied to teaching, guiding, or uplifting others.

• Chiron in the 1st or 10th house – Inspires others through personal struggles and healing.

• Leo or Aquarius MC – Gains recognition for their creativity, innovation, or ability to influence society.

• Venus on the MC – Inspires through beauty, art, love, or their public image.

Astrology Indicators of Someone Who Attracts Intense, Life-Changing Relationships ❤️‍🔥

• Pluto in the 7th house – Attracts powerful, intense partners; relationships are full of transformation.

• Venus-Pluto aspects – Love feels fated and obsessive; others become deeply attached.

• 8th house placements (especially Venus, Moon, or Mars) – Passionate, karmic connections that change them.

• South Node in the 7th or 8th house – Relationships feel like past-life connections with unfinished business.

• Scorpio Venus or Mars – Experiences love in extremes—either all or nothing.

• Lilith in the 7th house – Draws in partners who are both fascinated and intimidated by them.

• Pluto aspecting the Moon – Deep emotional bonds that leave a permanent mark on both people.

• Juno in Scorpio or the 8th house – Meant for transformative, soul-level partnerships.

Astrology Indicators of Someone Who Has a Hypnotic Aura 🔮✨

• Neptune in the 1st house – Others project fantasies onto them; they seem ethereal or elusive.

• Pluto in the 1st house or aspecting ASC – Intense, magnetic presence that makes people both fascinated and intimidated.

• Venus in Scorpio or the 8th house – A seductive, mysterious charm that draws people in.

• Lilith conjunct ASC or MC – A rebellious, forbidden allure that captivates others.

• Moon-Pluto aspects – Deep emotional intensity that makes them feel like they can see right through people.

• Uranus in the 1st house – Unpredictable and intriguing; people never quite know what to expect.

• 8th house stellium – Naturally radiates mystery and depth, making them unforgettable.

• Pluto or Neptune aspecting Venus – Beauty that feels almost hypnotic, with an air of secrecy.

Astrology Indicators of Someone Who Shocks People Without Trying ⚡️👀

• Uranus in the 1st house – Unpredictable energy; people never know what to expect.

• Uranus aspecting the MC – Gains attention for being unconventional or rebellious.

• Aquarius Rising or Uranus conjunct ASC – A walking revolution; people are fascinated by their individuality.

• Mars-Uranus aspects – Sudden, impulsive actions that leave others speechless.

• Lilith in the 1st house – Naturally provocative, whether in appearance, attitude, or beliefs.

• Pluto in the 1st or aspecting ASC – An intense, transformative presence that people find intimidating or mesmerizing.

• Gemini or Sagittarius MC – Changes paths frequently, surprising people with their versatility.

• Mercury-Uranus aspects – Thinks in a way that challenges norms, often saying things that shock or awaken others.

Ty for reading!

[aleksatia]

✨Blind date with your ex-husband. You never expected it to be… Xavier.

Inspiration hit me going 100mph down the highway, and I took an unscheduled gas station stop just to write this down. My husband almost divorced me again thinking I’d lost my mind — so in a way, this series is dedicated to him. And to second chances. I know they exist. I’ve lived one. 🥀

An unplanned new series. Five ex-husbands. Same setup, different reactions.

❄️ Zayne | 🎨 Rafayel | 🏍 Sylus | 🍎 Caleb

CW/TW: Divorce / Post-divorce emotional trauma, Emotional suppression / avoidance, BDSM themes (consensual, explored through metaphor & mechanics), Restraint / bondage, Power exchange, Surveillance intimacy, Emotional vulnerability, Reconciliation themes, OOC (arguably — Xavier shows unexpected sides).

Pairing: Xavier x ex-wife!you Genre: Psychological intimacy wrapped in red velvet and cold steel. Trust tested through touch, control unraveled by confession. Slow-burn tension, mechanical honesty, sensual restraint. Lovers to estranged to exposed. Summary: You signed up for a curated escape room. You got Xavier — your ex-husband, your mirror, your unfinished sentence. As each room pulls you deeper into physical vulnerability and emotional truth, you’re forced to confront the version of him you never dared ask about. The one who still knows how to touch you like a memory and undo you like a lock. Word Count: 6.7K 🤓 A/N: I swear, I have no idea how I ended up writing this kind of story — but everything just fell into place so naturally, and even Xavier, surprisingly, felt right in this role. That said, I’d genuinely love to hear your thoughts — even (or especially) if they’re the complete opposite of mine.

You hadn’t meant for it to be anything.

No fresh start, no stitched-up romance, no symbolic gesture to “finally move on.” You just loved escape rooms. The logic, the tension, the quiet way a puzzle waits to be understood. And lately, there had been no one to go with.

So when the email popped up — Experimental Couple’s Room. 60 minutes. One blindfold. One chain. One way out — you said yes without thinking too hard.

The description was vague. Something about "sensory challenges" and "collaborative vulnerability.”  Whatever that meant.

You weren’t looking for anything serious. Not even company. But the idea of spending an hour in a space designed for intimacy — manufactured or not — felt… curious. And curiosity was more than you'd felt in months.

Now, someone was tying the blindfold just a little too tightly, fingers brushing behind your ears. A low, pleasant voice gave the instructions — stay calm, stay together, follow the prompts. You and your mystery partner would remain close. Intentionally close. You wouldn’t see him until the signal.

You hadn’t cared. 

But you’d also worn your favorite perfume, just in case. Not for him— for yourself.

The world went dark.

You hadn’t even stepped into the room yet when the air shifted — sharp and immediate, like static before a storm. There was someone just ahead. You couldn’t see him, couldn’t hear him move, but your body knew. A flicker of heat bloomed low in your stomach — tight, inexplicable. Not fear. Not quite. More like the moment before something fated. Something that knew your name before you said it aloud.

The organizer’s hand found yours, steady, and guided you toward the threshold. A subtle gesture, a nudge forward. The door hissed shut behind you.

And in the stillness — you felt him.

Not through sound or contact, but through something subtler. Atmosphere.

A silent weight, like gravity that only applied to your skin. A warmth pulsing beside you, not quite breath, not quite body, but unmistakably there. You had the sudden, irrational urge to tear off the blindfold and look. To see. To know.

You waited. Then came the beep.

You exhaled — sharply, unprepared — and reached for the blindfold.

Pulled it free. And turned.

Your stomach dropped.

The shock hit you like a slap of cold air across bare skin.

He was standing just beside you — still, composed, unmissable even in the low light. That posture. That precise, deliberate alignment of shoulders. And the eyes. Clear, bright, steady.

Xavier. Your ex-husband.

He didn’t flinch. Not outwardly.

But you’d known him once the way lungs know breath — instinctively, automatically. And something flickered beneath the surface.

Not surprise. Not confusion. Impact.

He looked at you like someone looking at an old photograph. Not just with memory — with weight.

You froze, mid-breath.

“…Hi,” you said, and your voice sounded like it didn’t belong to your body.

Xavier tilted his head slightly.

“Your perfume hasn’t changed,” he said.

His voice was calm. Too calm. As if the past year hadn’t happened. As if this was nothing more than an awkward meet-cute in a bookstore aisle.

You blinked at him. Your mouth moved before your brain caught up.

“Of course,” you said quietly. “You always show up where I least expect you.”

His expression didn’t shift much. But something flickered behind the stillness — an old tension, a familiarity laced with heat.

“I don’t plan it,” he replied. “But I don’t fight it either.”

You hesitated. Searched his face.

“You knew it was me?” you asked.

He paused. Then, “Only when you reached for the blindfold. You still hesitate on the inhale.”

You wanted to say something clever. Something cutting. Instead, you just stood there, staring at him. The room around you was silent, waiting.

“Shall we?” he asked.

And the way he said it — gently, plainly — made you want to cry and laugh and scream all at once.

You took a step forward. And stopped.

Red.

It hit you like a blush that spread across the entire room. Crimson velvet lined the walls. Leather — lots of leather — wrapped the furniture, the fixtures, the frames. A swing hung from the ceiling, too artfully constructed to pass as gym equipment. Stirrups. Padded cuffs. A mirror angled too deliberately toward the bed. And the bed — don’t even start with the bed — was a cathedral of implication. Silk sheets, gold trim, four posts, ropes coiled neatly at the corners like they were waiting for instruction.

“...Well,” you said.

Xavier stood beside you, hands calmly folded behind his back, as if they were in a museum exhibit titled ‘Repression Through the Ages.’

You turned your head, slowly.

“Did you know it was going to be this kind of game?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just looked around, calm as ever, like he was scanning for weak points in the architecture — not taking in what appeared to be a decorative wall arrangement made entirely of whips, a shelf lined with sleek, gleaming objects shaped like sins, and what looked suspiciously like a collection of tails. Where those were supposed to go, you didn’t want to guess. Not out loud, anyway.

“I assumed it was a trust exercise,” he said finally.

You blinked at him.

“Xavier, there are cuffs on every surface, a mirror aimed like a camera crew forgot to pack up, and what looks like a decorative whip display curated by Satan himself. This isn’t trust. This is foreplay reverse-engineered by a sadist with a God complex.”

He took a single step forward and gestured casually toward the nearest installation.

“Technically, that’s a fisting horse.”

Then he looked at you.

Not quickly. Not sharply. But with the kind of slow, analytical attention people usually reserve for blueprints. Or confessions.

There was no grin. No lifted brow. Just that unnerving steadiness you remembered far too well.

Whatever he saw on your face, it didn’t rattle him. 

It rattled you.

You stepped back instinctively —

And ran full-body into something that looked medically questionable and hydraulically ambitious. 

“Oh my god.” You rebounded with a startled breath and a nervous laugh. “You’re disturbingly calm. You do realize we used to have sex in silence with the lights off?”

He glanced at you, his tone perfectly even. “I didn’t want to morally traumatize you.”

That stopped you cold.

“I’m sorry — what?”

He finally looked you full in the face. “You seemed fragile about contrast.”

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

Fragile.

Contrast.

You suddenly needed air. And distance. And possibly therapy.

You pointed vaguely at the velvet swing in the corner. “So that’s been in you this whole time? Quietly judging my candle collection while fantasizing about harnesses and impact ratios?”

He didn’t flinch. “Not judging. Just choosing.”

You stared. “What does that even mean?”

He tilted his head. “You were already everything. Turned out I wasn’t that hard to please.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

And hot.

Not temperature-hot. Not yet. But something had cracked, and you weren’t sure which side of it you were standing on.

You stared at him, jaw slack.

What.

Was.

That.

“Who are you in here?” you asked.

He looked around the room like it was the most natural environment in the world.

“The same person I always was,” he said. “You just never asked the right questions.”

You shook your head — sharp, as if the motion could scatter the static building behind your eyes. Whatever questions wanted to form, you shoved them down. They could wait. Until they came out cleaner. Or at least… printable.

The clock was already ticking.

So you moved. Toward the first station.

Carefully. 

As if the rope might strike first.

A thick silk cord lay coiled on a velvet-lined pedestal. Next to it — a screen glowing softly with scrolling instructions. A stylized animation of binding points on a human body flickered in slow, deliberate motion. 

Ankles. Wrists. Hips. Chest.

"The Knot of Trust."  Of course.

You crossed your arms. “Absolutely not.”

He glanced at you. “Then bind me.”

You stared.

“If you’re confident you can follow the pattern,” he added smoothly, “without compromising circulation or breath control.”

You squinted at him. “Are you seriously challenging me to a bondage competition?”

“I’m offering you agency.”

You exhaled. “God, I hate when you weaponize consent.”

Still, your fingers twitched toward the rope. You knew full well you had no idea what you were doing. You were not about to kill your ex in a place that looked like Freud and the Marquis de Sade co-designed it.

You shoved the rope toward him. “Fine. Just — make it quick.”

“I never do,” he murmured.

You stiffened. But he was already reaching for the cord, the movement so fluid, so gentle, it felt like it had already begun before you’d agreed.

He guided you backward — light touch on your elbow — and sat you down on a padded bench angled toward the mirror. You didn’t mean to glance at your reflection, but you did.

Still you.

Jeans, soft tee, slight flush to the cheeks. But as the rope slid around your arm, looped with exacting care beneath your ribs, you saw something change.

The tension of the knots drew your body into sharper lines — curves lifting under pressure, breath held just slightly shallow.  Everything still covered. Everything suddenly... obvious.

His fingers worked in silence.

Loop. Pull. Anchor. Glide.

He kept a palm pressed at the small of your back — not for balance. For calibration. Each new knot adjusted the way your body curved under his touch, the way your shoulder tilted or your neck stretched in compliance. He didn't grip — he guided, always with that maddening calm.

When he reached your waist, he leaned in — not to touch, but to read. His breath skimmed against your throat, unhurried, like he was studying your pulse by feel alone. His hand slid behind your knee, lifted, pressed — your thigh rotated outward, aligning you to the diagram like a mannequin in a boutique window.

He stepped back, and you met your own gaze in the mirror. That wasn’t just pressure. That was poetry.

Your shirt clung to your chest from where the rope framed you, perfectly emphasizing shape where before there’d been softness. One knot sat low on your pelvis, right at the seam of your jeans, cinched just tight enough to make you swallow.

And still — he hadn’t done anything wrong. Just... precise. Devastatingly precise.

He circled you once. Twice. Studied the pattern like an engineer checking for fault lines. Then bent low again — his lips inches from your collarbone, his voice barely a whisper:

“Dot.”

Another knot.

“Dash.”

A third.

He continued tapping the code into the panel, murmuring part of the sequence aloud — low, rhythmic. You barely registered the pattern until the last few. He leaned closer to your chest, his fingers grazing the fabric just above your heart.

“Dot. Dash. Dot.”

Silence.

You swallowed.

“What is it?”

Your voice came out thinner than you meant.

He didn’t look at you at first. He looked at the mirror. Then back — steady, unreadable.

“Bench,” he said.

You blinked. “I—sorry, what?”

“That’s the word,” he replied simply. As if it wasn’t the most loaded syllable in the room.  “It’s the keyword for Station Two.”

And before you could say another word, he reached behind your back, caught the tail of the rope —

— and with two swift pulls, every knot slipped loose.

You gasped as the whole structure dissolved around you like silk falling through air. He stood calmly, re-coiling the rope with clean, quiet efficiency.

Your limbs felt like water. Your throat, dry.

He looked at you over one shoulder, utterly composed.

“Shall we?”

You didn’t trust your voice, so you nodded, rising on legs that didn’t quite feel like yours. The ghost of the rope still lingered across your skin — your ribs remembered the shape even as your shirt settled back into place. You could swear your breath still caught on the knots that were no longer there.

The next station was impossible to ignore.

A curved bench upholstered in oxblood leather, smooth and gleaming under the low golden light. At first glance, it could’ve passed for an avant-garde lounge chair — until you noticed the straps at the base. The stretch of space between the floor and the arch. The deliberate placement of the interactive mirror directly in front of it.

As you approached, the mirror flickered to life. A voice — soft, sultry, genderless — spoke from hidden speakers.

“Synchronization required. Match the forms. Mirror will confirm accuracy. Full sequence reveals your key.”

A ghostly figure appeared in the glass: androgynous, stylized — fluid as ink in water. It moved into the first pose. You blinked.

“Oh,” you said, voice flat. “This is a yoga class now?”

“No,” Xavier replied, eyes already fixed on the display. “That’s the Yawning Lotus.”

You turned slowly. “That’s the what?”

He was already stepping onto the platform, holding out a hand for you like this was completely normal behavior.

“Xavier —”

“We’ll be faster if you follow my lead.”

“I can’t even tell where the legs go in that one — wait, how do you know this?”

He paused. "Reading."

You stared at him. “You read Kamasutra?”

“I read a lot of things.”

“Since when?”

He met your gaze with that same unbothered neutrality that made you want to scream and kiss him in equal measure.

“Since always,” he said. “You never asked.”

Heat crawled up your neck.

You climbed onto the bench because there was nowhere else to go.

The first pose had him kneel behind you, one knee between yours, his arms sliding under your arms and around your ribcage. Then — he lifted. Just enough to draw your spine flush to his chest, your thighs parted by the pressure of his leg.

The mirror caught it. Glowed green.

One down.

The second had you straddling him face-to-face, his hands low on your hips to stabilize the balance, your forehead nearly brushing his. He didn’t blink. You wanted to.

The third… well, the third was no longer pretending.

You were angled back over his arm, one leg lifted, your shirt riding just slightly too high, and his breath ghosting across your neck as he adjusted your position with slow precision.

He was quiet. So, so quiet.

Which is why it hit harder when he said, almost absently:

“I always wanted to try this one. With you.”

Your breath caught.

Your eyes snapped open. “With me?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Yes.”

“As in, specifically?”

“As in, exclusively.”

You tried to laugh. It came out shaky. “When? Somewhere between bleeding out in the field and writing mission briefs?”

He didn’t smile, but his hand slid slightly higher on your back, grounding you.

“Not everything I wanted fit into the version of me you liked.”

That landed like a slow detonation in your chest.

The next pose required you to lean forward over the bench, elbows braced on the leather, hips slightly raised as he adjusted your legs with clinical grace. Except it didn’t feel clinical. Not at all.

Not with his fingers curling under your thigh to reposition it. Not with his palm brushing the small of your back like it remembered you.

The mirror chimed — another ping.

You turned your head, catching your reflection.

Fully clothed. And yet you had never looked more undone.

The tension in your core. The arch of your back. The way his frame fit behind yours with unshakable precision. Your body looked sculpted into wanting.

Your mouth opened to say something — anything —

But he leaned closer, breath warm against your ear.

“Spreader bar,” he said.

“What?” you whispered.

“That’s the keyword.”

You blinked.

He stepped away. You didn’t even feel him untangle from you — he just... vanished from the contact like he’d never been pressed against every inch of your back. The mirror dimmed. The bench cooled.

You sat there for a second, still catching up. Still shaking.

He turned, already walking toward the next station.

You hated him. You hated him so much. And your body ached with the memory of his hands.

The bar gleamed dully under the golden light. Polished metal, black padding at the ends, a hinge like a secret waiting to snap shut.

You frowned at it, arms crossed. “Okay, but… how is this even supposed to work? Like in the real world.”

You regretted the question instantly. Because he turned to you like he’d been waiting for it.

He stepped in. Close enough that your breath hitched on reflex.

“It holds the legs apart,” he said softly. “Keeps control of range. Of motion. Of access.”

Your heart thumped.

“Access to what, exactly?”

He didn’t smile. He didn’t have to.

Instead, he lifted the bar and held it, weightless, between you. “Sit.”

You didn’t move.

“Now,” he said.

And your knees obeyed before your brain caught up.

The mattress dipped beneath you — soft, cool silk under your palms as you steadied yourself. He stepped forward and knelt, positioning the bar with clinical ease — one ankle, then the other.

It clicked into place. Spread you open.

Not uncomfortably. But deliberately.

He looked up once, just once, as his fingers grazed your calf on the way down.

Then, still crouched between your legs, he rested one palm on the inside of your thigh, just above the knee.

Not moving. Not asking. Just letting you feel it.

Where you were. What you were. And how easily he could choose what came next.

“Still curious?” he asked.

You opened your mouth — something witty, maybe even flippant, already rising to the surface —

But then his hands moved. Not again. Just... continued.

Sliding from the bar, up along your calves with maddening patience — like he was drawing the outline of control, one inch at a time.

By the time he reached the back of your knees and pressed — gently, deliberately — your breath caught, and your body arched without asking for permission.

He watched that reaction. Closely. Quietly. As if memorizing it.

Then leaned in and placed his palm low on your stomach.

“And here,” he said, voice low, “is where you start to feel the shift. Where control becomes awareness.”

You swallowed. Hard. He didn’t move quickly — he never did.

His hand slid up, slow and flat over your ribs, the heat of it bleeding straight through the cotton of your shirt. His fingers paused just beneath the edge — not beneath the skin, but close enough to make you forget the difference.

“This,” he murmured, “is how it works.”

His thumb dragged lightly across the curve where your bra pressed through the fabric — just enough to remind you it was there.

Just enough to make your breath hitch in your throat.

Then he withdrew.

Not all the way. Just enough to leave a ghost where his hand had been.

You shifted, testing the bar between your ankles. It gave only slightly, the metal groaning in protest.

“This is… uncomfortable,” you muttered, looking away from him. “Like I’m not sure what part of me belongs to me anymore.”

He didn’t move. Just watched.

“That’s the point,” he said.

You frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Discomfort sharpens presence. Makes you conscious of everything — every inch of skin, every breath. You stop pretending you’re in control.”

You looked at him, suddenly colder. “Is that what this is to you? Control?”

“No,” he said simply. “It’s honesty.”

You opened your mouth to argue — but the words caught somewhere behind your tongue.

He stepped in again, slower this time, as if the conversation required a physical counterpart. His fingers brushed the inside of your knee, lightly. Not sensual — just… grounding.

“You asked what this is like in real life,” he said. “It’s like this. You agree to the rules. You consent to the dynamic. And then, sometimes —” his hand grazed your thigh, just enough for you to feel the tremor it left behind, “— you realize you hate the feeling of being stretched open, but it’s too late to change the game. You’ve already given it your name.”

The silence between you trembled like a taut string.

“I felt like this,” he added, lower now. “When you left.”

You looked at him — sharp, sudden. But he didn’t stop.

“Caught in something I agreed to. But didn't know how to move inside. Didn’t know how to shift without making it worse.”

You let out a shaky breath. “That’s not fair —”

“It wasn’t,” he agreed. “But it was accurate.”

You dropped your gaze. The bar was still between you, keeping you open, exposed, utterly unable to close the space between your knees  —or between the two of you.

“It’s not that I hated you,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“I hated that you didn’t try.”

His voice stayed quiet, but firm. “I thought not pulling was a form of respect. I didn’t want to fight you like an enemy.”

“But you didn’t love me like someone you couldn’t lose.”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he shifted back on the bed, fingers sliding along the length of the bar still locked between your ankles. He reached beneath the padding with calm precision, found something — pressed.

A soft click.

The bar extended. One clean, deliberate notch wider.

And from within the central hinge, a slim panel popped open — silent and smooth. A curled slip of paper slid out, like breath exhaled from between clenched teeth.

He took it. Unfurled it. Read the single word on the card.

He didn’t say it yet. Instead, he looked back at you.

“You can move,” he said gently, reaching for the cuffs.

But as he unlocked them — slowly, deliberately — his fingers lingered just a little longer than necessary against your skin.

And in the space where the bar had held you open, nothing filled the void. Only the awareness that you’d been there, and he’d seen everything.

You swallowed, pushed to your feet — weak-kneed and sore in places you couldn’t name. He handed you the card without a word. It read: Cross.

You both turned at the same time. And there it was, against the far wall.

Black leather. Polished metal. Straps. Angled restraints like an invitation no one sane would ever send.

You stared. Then turned your face toward him, expression flat. “Absolutely not.”

He tilted his head, unreadable. “Why?”

“Because first you have me spread wide like I’m about to compete in erotic gymnastics, and now you want me to pass the qualification for a depraved crucifixion?”

His brow quirked—just barely. “You're exaggerating.”

“Oh really?" You gestured toward the cross. "You're seriously going to stand there and pretend this isn't the BDSM version of execution?”

He said nothing.

You sighed and pointed at the console next to it. It lit up the moment you approached.

“Find the five. The body will tell you what the mouth won’t. The sensors know. The threshold is yours.”

You turned to him. “Please. Be my guest. The chances of injuring you on that thing are slim, even for someone as much of a novice as I am. I’m sure I can handle it without breaking anything important.”

He didn’t argue.

Just began unbuttoning his shirt. That — somehow — was worse.

No fanfare. No drama. Just quiet hands and clean movements, until the fabric slid off his shoulders and revealed everything you'd spent the last year trying not to think about.

He stepped up to the cross with that same calm, meditative certainty. Turned his back to you. Offered his wrists.

You stared for a second too long. Then fastened him in  — tight. He didn’t flinch. Not once.

There was a small table beside the console. On it: tools. Leather paddles. A soft flogger. A thin cane. A wand-shaped massager. Some objects you knew by name. Some you didn’t. And one you were afraid might actually buzz if you breathed on it too hard.

You raised an eyebrow. “Helpful suggestions?”

He glanced toward the table, just enough to take in the tools, and let a crooked half-smile play on his lips.

“Try memory,” he said. “You’re capable of more than you realize.”

You hated that that sent a shiver down your back.

You stood behind him, eyes tracing down the line of his spine. The muscles there were sharp and patient — coiled like a held breath.

You chose your hand first. Just fingers. Because you wanted to know where the heat lived now.

You started at the nape of his neck. No reaction.

Downward. Shoulder blade. Stillness.

Lower—ribs.

Then, on the left side of his waist, just above the hip —

A flicker.

His breath hitched, so subtle most wouldn’t notice. But you knew him. You always had.

You pressed there again, softer this time. Watched his fingers twitch against the leather.

One.

You moved around him, slower now. Let your hand trace a lazy line across his chest.

Nothing.

Until the edge of your palm grazed just under his collarbone — his left side again.

Another breath. Sharper.

Two.

He still didn’t speak. But his body was no longer neutral. The muscles along his stomach had gone tight. His lips pressed together.

You felt a strange triumph twist under your skin.

You reached for the soft flogger, testing the weight. Not to hurt. Just… to contrast.

A slow drag down his back. The leather strands whispering along his spine.

Then a light stroke across his inner thigh.

There. He tensed, full-body, the chain at his wrist clinking once.

Three.

You circled back in front of him. His eyes were closed.

You raised the wand vibrator — not on, just pressed it flat to the hollow above his pelvis. He inhaled sharply through his nose. Head tipped back for just a second.

Four.

And then, finally, you used your hand again — bare skin, palm pressed low and firm just over his heart.

It wasn’t even sexual. It was something else entirely.

Intimate. Final.

He opened his eyes.

You looked into them and realized — his mask was gone.

Every expression he’d ever hidden lived in that one look: grief, heat, guilt, surrender, longing so sharp it cut both ways.

The console beeped. The restraints clicked open.

He didn’t move. Neither did you.

And somewhere, far behind your sternum, you felt something come undone.

He stood there for a second, unmoving. Breath steady, but only barely. His chest rose with more tension than air. You could see the muscles in his stomach locked — as if holding still was the only thing keeping something inside.

Then — he moved.

One step forward. Deliberate. Weighted.

And then another.

You didn’t back away.

His hand came to your waist — not gentle, not rough, just decisive. His grip closed like memory.

You sucked in a breath.

He stepped into you, one arm sliding fully around your lower back, the other bracing the space between your shoulder blades, fingers curling around your spine with impossible accuracy.

And just like that, he turned you, pressed you into the cross, your body against the leather that still held the heat of his skin.

You gasped.

His hand moved from your waist to your hip, gliding, slow, unapologetic, as though mapping pressure points. His palm settled at your side. The weight of it grounded you more than the wall behind your back.

And then — his face was inches from yours.

His breath grazed your cheek. His nose brushed yours.

His lips hovered. So close.

Not touching. Just… there. Waiting.

And you — God — you tilted your chin, parted your lips, reached for something you weren't sure would even happen.

And then — his hand slid back up to your sternum, pressed you into the cross again, firmly.

“Don’t move,” he said.

Soft. But unignorable.

His eyes locked on yours. Not blinking. Not speaking. You weren’t even sure he was breathing.

It was like standing inside a held storm. If you moved — even a breath — it would break.

And then —

A voice shattered it.

“Please retrieve the clue to proceed.”

The mechanical voice came from the console beside you. Cheerful. Empty.

He stepped back immediately. Too fast. Too clean.

The warmth of his body vanished, replaced with air that felt… wrong.

He reached into the now-open compartment. Pulled out the slip of paper. Read it.

Then glanced at you.

“The Cage.”

He buttoned his shirt without hurry. Every movement too composed, too precise. And then turned toward the next zone.

You followed, still silent. Only when you were sure he couldn’t see, you reached up and wiped the sweat from your temple.

The hallway narrowed as you moved forward, swallowing sound with every step. The walls were darker here — brushed steel and cold stone — and something in the air made your shoulders tighten before you even reached the next chamber.

The room opened abruptly.

It was colder. Starker.

No velvet. No red. No warmth. Just gray metal, deliberate silence, and in the center — a cage.

Not decorative. Functional.

Iron bars, floor to ceiling. Smooth locking mechanisms on the hinges, a narrow entry, barely wide enough for two. Inside — two small seats facing each other, and above, a recessed light that flickered low, almost like a heartbeat.

Xavier didn’t pause.

He stepped in like this was nothing more than the next square on a board game.

You followed — one beat behind — and the moment your foot crossed the threshold, the door slammed shut with a heavy metallic finality that echoed through your spine.

A chime. Mechanical, hollow.

Then the voice:

“Apply the sensors. One on each wrist. The cage will read your truth. Five questions between you. Only honesty will unlock the door.”

Two thin wristbands extended from a hidden panel near the floor. Sleek, black. Unassuming. They might’ve passed for wearable tech in any other context — except for the way your heart dropped when you took them.

You fastened yours. Quietly. Slowly. Felt the hum beneath the surface — a subtle, pulsing heat, like it was waiting to catch your pulse.

Xavier mirrored you, wordless.

He didn’t sit. Neither did you. The silence between you wasn’t awkward anymore.

It was expectant.

He met your eyes.

“Ask,” he said.

Not a suggestion. A beginning.

You stared at him for a second too long. The way the dim light caught the edge of his jaw, the fine tension in his throat, the steadiness in his eyes that always made you feel like he could wait forever.

It made asking the first question harder. But you did it anyway.

“Why were you never… with me?” you asked. Your voice came out thinner than you expected. “I mean, you were there. But never really. Not fully. I always felt like I was living beside you, not with you.”

He didn’t blink.

He just breathed once, slowly, and answered like the truth had already been waiting at the back of his tongue.

“Because if I let myself fully be with you,” he said, “I was afraid I’d lose control of it. Of myself. That if you ever saw all of it — everything inside — you’d run.”

He glanced down, just once, jaw tight. “You loved my light. I know that. But I didn’t know what you’d do with the dark.”

The band at his wrist pulsed. A low green flicker. A mechanical lock clicked behind you, out of view.

You didn’t speak right away.

The space between you wasn’t wide, but suddenly it felt harder to cross than ever.

He watched your expression carefully, like he was trying to track if the words had hurt you. Or reached you.

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

Then said, quieter, “You could’ve just… told me.”

His silence held the weight of a thousand chances he hadn’t taken.

You exhaled, chest tight. Let your palm graze the smooth metal at your side, grounding yourself, before lifting your gaze again.

He studied you, brow furrowed — but not from defensiveness. From restraint.

Then, quietly, he asked:

“Why did you leave?”

There was no heat in it. No edge. Just raw, open space.

You looked at him — and this time, didn’t look away.

“Because our marriage stopped feeling like a home,” you said. “And started feeling like a task. A duty.”

Something in his expression shifted, just barely — like a muscle tightening beneath skin.

“It became another assignment to you. One more system to manage. A routine to optimize.” You laughed once, without humor. “We were efficient. Structured. Strategic. But not… alive.”

The sensor at your wrist blinked green. Another lock clicked loose behind you.

He didn’t speak. So you kept going.

“You fought beside me like the perfect partner when we were out there. You covered me, you trusted me. But at home?”

You shook your head, voice softening. “I didn’t know where the hunter ended and my husband began. I started waking up next to a uniform, not a man.”

And still — he didn’t interrupt. So you went deeper.

“And the nights you disappeared into the no-hunt zones,” you said, more steadily now. “Without warning. Without even a message.”

Your eyes didn’t waver.

“I got used to it. That was the worst part. I learned how to move around your absence like it was furniture — just another part of the house.”

He flinched then. Almost imperceptibly, but it was there — the barest recoil in his shoulders, like your words had landed somewhere that still bruised.

The sensor at your wrist blinked green. Another lock clicked free behind you.

You shifted your weight, one hand curling reflexively around the edge of your seat.

“And then there was that day,” you said. “That stupid quiet day, walking past the park. That little kid on the scooter almost ran into us.”

He nodded, barely. You could tell he already knew where this was going.

“You looked at him like he was noise. And then said — ‘I don’t really like kids. They’re chaotic. Pets are simpler.’”

A silence stretched between you.

“I smiled. Said something meaningless. Laughed, maybe. You didn’t even notice. But I couldn’t unhear it.”

You felt your throat tighten — not with panic, but with grief so old it had been carved smooth.

“I didn’t cry then. I didn’t even react for weeks. But later… later I realized that in the back of my head, I’d always seen us — somewhere in the future — with children.”

You looked at him now. Really looked.

“Not because I was desperate to become a mother. But because I wanted to build something with you that felt permanent. That breathed. That belonged to us.”

Your voice cracked then, and you hated it, but you didn’t stop.

“And that day? I realized you hadn’t pictured it. Not once. And I couldn’t make myself ask. I didn’t want to hear you say it again.”

His eyes shimmered — but he didn’t speak.

So you did.

“I wasn’t mourning the idea of children. I was mourning the fact that you didn’t want them with me.”

The sensor blinked, steady and green. The fourth lock disengaged.

He hadn’t looked away once.

And when he finally spoke, his voice was different. Low, rough-edged — but soft in a way that sounded like something inside him had finally broken free of the armor.

“I would’ve loved them,” he said.

You blinked.

“I would’ve loved our child,” he repeated, slower. “Even if we’d had ten — I would’ve loved each one like the breath in my lungs. Because they would’ve been part of you.”

His gaze lowered for a second, almost reverent. “You should’ve told me. Not held that alone.”

His voice was warm, not blaming. No sharpness in it — just sorrow. Like he was grieving something that had never had a chance to be real.

The light above flickered, just once — casting his face in fleeting gold. For a moment, it looked softer than you remembered. Younger, somehow. Or maybe just open.

You let the silence hold for a beat. Then said, quietly, “And you should’ve told me what scared you.”

He looked back up. You didn’t stop.

“I wasn’t asking you to be perfect. I was asking you to be present. To tell me when you didn’t know how. To say, ‘I don’t think I can be a father yet.’ Or ‘I’m afraid I’ll get it wrong.’ That would’ve been enough.”

Your hands curled in your lap.

“I wasn’t expecting you to be ready. I just didn’t want to feel like I was the only one imagining them.”

His eyes glinted — moisture or light, you couldn’t tell — and the cage felt tighter now, not from space, but from everything unsaid finally rising to the surface.

He shifted slightly. Not closer, not further. Just... aware.

And then, gently — so gently you nearly didn’t register it —

“Do you regret it?” he asked. “Leaving.”

The question didn’t land like a blow. It landed like gravity — pulling something out of you you’d been carrying too long.

You let your eyes close for a second, let the breath fill your chest.

When you opened them again, the words came without hesitation.

“I regret it every day.”

A pause.

“I regret walking away from what we built. I regret not knowing how to reach you. I regret that I let silence grow roots where there should have been hands.”

You looked at him fully now, and your voice trembled — not from fear, but from truth that had lived too long in shadow.

“I replay it constantly. What if I had stayed. What if I’d said the right thing. What if I’d stopped listening to all those people who said, ‘If it doesn’t feel good, just leave.’ As if that’s wisdom.”

You laughed once, dry and small. “It’s not wisdom. It’s cowardice, dressed up in self-help quotes.”

Another breath.

“If something breaks,” you said, “you don’t walk away. You go back. You find the place it cracked. And you fix it.”

The last sensor on your wrist blinked green. Final click.

A hiss of compressed air broke the silence, and the cage door swung open — but this time, the lights in the room shifted.

Not toward another chamber. Not toward the next trial.

Behind the bars, through the now-open door, you saw it clearly: the exit.

Not a trick. Not a simulation. The end of the line. The threshold between the game and the world beyond it.

The voice didn’t speak. No instructions. No congratulations. Just silence, cool and final.

But the air between you didn’t move. The distance stayed.

He looked at the opening. Then at you. His expression unreadable, but his hands — his hands weren’t clenched anymore. Just open. Steady.

You thought maybe he’d turn. Maybe he’d nod and walk out. Instead, he stepped toward you.

One slow pace. And then another.

When he stopped, you were close enough to see the softened pulse in his throat.

“I know I wasn’t good at asking for things,” he said. His voice was rough again. Careful.

“I told myself I didn’t need to. That if I stayed steady, you’d stay. But that’s not love. That’s control.”

His hand lifted, hovered — then settled at your side.

“And I don’t want control. I want us back. If you still want it too.”

You swallowed, too fast. But didn’t pull away.

He took a breath.

“So if pride is the only thing keeping you from trying again... I’ll set mine down first.”

He held out his hand. Palm open. Nothing performative.

Just... him. Finally reaching.

Your own fingers closed around his before you even realized they’d moved.

And the second they touched, your body folded forward, gently, into his chest. Your forehead found his shoulder like it remembered the way there. His arms pulled you in, quiet, strong, grounding.

“When it comes to the heart,” you whispered, voice muffled against his shirt, “there’s no room for pride. Only honesty. Only love.”

You paused. Pulled back just enough to meet his gaze.

“Do you still love me?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“More than I ever have,” he said. Then softer, into your hair: “More than I ever thought I could.”

The sensor on his wrist blinked once more. One final green pulse. Like the truth was finally complete.

You lifted your face to his. Tilted slightly, searching — but just before your lips reached his, his hand came up, warm and firm, fingers resting along your jaw.

He smiled, just barely.

“Not here,” he murmured. “Not like this.”

He leaned in — kissed your temple with aching care.

“I don’t want to love you in passing. I want to love you properly.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said.

He smiled again, fuller this time. The kind of smile he hadn’t worn in a long, long while.

Hand in hand, you turned.

And stepped through the open door—  not out of the game, but toward whatever came next.

Together.

[hoshigray]

𝐇𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞, 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐇𝐨𝐥𝐝 | satoru gojō

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: Is it possible to wish to be in the embrace of someone who makes you want to throw them off a cliff? You seem to think so, and the same goes for Gojo. But alas, good things always come to an end, even when not meant to be...

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: Gojo x fem/afab! reader - explicit content; minors DNI - modern + college AU - frenemies to lovers + mutual pining - Gojo and reader are at least age 20 - implied fwb relationship - catching/awakening feelings - oral (m! receiving) - ball massaging + sucking - sex in a shared room; college dorms (alone) - cowgirl position on a chair - breast fondling + sucking + nipple play - protected sex (psa: wrap it up, or get tf up) - pet names (baby, cutie, pretty, princess) - heavy depiction of a blowjob - cameos: Haibara and Ijichi - fluff + angst; misunderstandings - humor bc i'm [not] funny.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7.6k

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: second part, let's goooo!! i loved ur support and comments from the first story, so hope y'all are excited for this part :DDD and ty so so so MUCH for 5.5k like??? i kiss you on cheek, every single on of you, hehehe~

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“If you’re not gonna help, then leave my dorm!”

“Ehhhh, hell no! It’s cold as fuck outside; you want me to freeze to death?”

“They’re…still going at it.”

“Yeah…give it a minute, and we’ll just go to the library without them?”

It’s coming down to the last week of January; university students are finally settling in with their new schedules and getting used to the groove of the spring semester. Or some run around trying to keep up with the new semesters and the change of weather already getting on people’s nerves, wanting nothing more than spring to come quickly.

Three weeks in, and you already have stuff to do, one of them being an argumentative presentation assigned by Professor Yaga in your Contemporary Issues class. You and three other people are tasked to find sources for a topic issue you find interesting and then present a discussion-based presentation on two sides of the topic (two people in favor and two people against).

Unfortunately, the groups were to be randomly assigned. Luckily, two friends you knew in the class, Haibara and Ijichi, were picked to work alongside you! However, the bad part was that another person you knew was assigned to work with you, and he happens to be the guy getting on your last nerves right now, sitting on your couch while clicking through the television channels with the remote. 

Your roommates weren’t home today. The club fair was occurring at the quad, so Mei Mei and Utahime had to go out and represent their clubs for the afternoon. Shoko is having an intense study session with Geto for an exam on the first of February, so they’re at the library now. 

That leaves you alone at your dorm, using this as a perfect opportunity to invite your group over to work on the project. 

“You can freeze your nuts off and become the next Jack Frost for all I care; if you’re not going to do your part of the work, get out!”

Well, minus you yelling at your partner, who clicks his teeth before turning to you. His round sunglasses shone from the light reflected from the living room windows.

Satoru Gojo was your number one nemesis within these campus grounds; this was a known fact to everyone, especially the other group members who nervously examined you two bicker. Being in the same space as him is enough to make you wish you could pull your hair out or put him in the nastiest headlock you could do. Worse, being assigned to the same group as him for your project almost made you want to rip your ears off. 

But you had to suck it up; at least you were the first group to start a presentation. Better now than worry about it later, right? 

“Pssh, fine, I’ll get up and—Oh! Wait, you guys have Digimon on Hulu? Ahhh, sick!” 

Nevertheless, you can’t say that when your supposed partner acts like a child glued to your TV screen instead of doing the work he promised to do. You grit your teeth with a twitching brow, “Why you…”

Across from the common area was the kitchen, where Haibara and Ijichi sat at the dining table. The two sophomores could do nothing but feel the tension between you and Gojo grow with every passing second, suffocating the younger duo. Haibara eyes Ijichi from across the table and whispers, “Wanna make a run for it now?”

The black-haired second-year didn’t reply, only a hurried nod before the two grabbed their coats and stuffed their laptops back into their backpacks. The sound of their zippers alerts your ears, turning to them to question, “Huh? Where are you two going?” 

Haibara takes it upon himself to deliver a half-lie as he zips up his jacket. “On second thought, Ijichi and I are thinking of taking the shuttle to the library to work instead.”

Huh? The library? Were they leaving because of the belligerence between you and Gojo? God, you hoped not. “Wait, you guys don’t have to do that. I already made you guys walk all this way here; it’d be rough to have you leave for somewhere else…”

Ijichi comes with the assist after putting the sling of his messenger bag around his shoulder. “It’s okay, Y/n. We found material from the library we could use as sources, so we’re heading up there to take some notes while they’re there.” 

“Yup!” Haibara exclaims in agreement, and the two walk past you to put on their shoes by the front door. “Maybe you guys can find sources of your own while we’re gone, and then we can converse and share what we found when we come back. Sounds good?” 

“I suppose so…” you couldn’t shake the feeling that they were leaving to avoid being in the same room as you and Gojo. The guilt is hard to endure since you didn’t mean to make the younger boys uncomfortable. “See you guys, then.”

“Cya!” And with that, the door closes on their way out, leaving you and Gojo alone in your apartment. 

Well, this is just great; you’ve driven your group members and friends away and are now stuck with the nuisance of a partner who still keeps his attention on the television. It takes everything in your power not to pop a vein. But with one calm breath, you steady yourself and stand tall. 

You walk in front of the TV, blocking it from Gojo’s view. The white-haired boy throws his hands up in exasperation, but you couldn’t care less. “What’s the big idea?” He questions you as if he has a right to at this moment. 

You cross your arms across your chest with narrow eyes. “Haibara and Ijichi just left.”

“Uhh, yeah, I heard the door,” he maneuvers his body to try and see the children’s show blocked by your figure. “Doesn’t have to do with me—“

“It does have to do with you.” You interrupt him, taking two steps and bending to stare him down. Your face is a foot away from his. “You’re supposed to be here to work with Haibara on the ’no’ part of the argument while me and Ijichi do our part. You’ve only been here for thirty minutes, and the only thing you’ve done successfully is take off your shoes at the door and read your manga books on the couch. 

Gojo chuckles – oh, how you hated his laugh – as he puts his hands behind his head, spreading his long legs from their crossed form. “You heard them, no? They’re going to research on their own and then come back. Besides, you know I’m not one to start stuff right away. I’m a procrastinator, remember?”

“You’re annoying; that’s what you are.” You straighten up with a heavy sigh.  God, I wish Utahime and Shoko were here. They’d help me out with this white garbage…

“Ahhh, lighten up, Y/n. It’s not like the presentation is on Monday; we got until Friday to come up with everything.”

“Yeah, I’m aware of that, smartass. And you’re right: I do know you. And I know you tend to do things at the last fucking minute. But not this time!” You watch him try to put his feet up on the coffee table, and you quickly intervene by kicking them off. 

“Tch. Look, you knew what you were getting into being partnered with me. And relax; those two said they’ll be back to discuss the material later. They already left – nothing I can do about it.”

Your hands rest at your hips, tapping your foot with visible frustration. “Oh? And I wonder why they left in the first place, Gojo. Mind telling me how?”

He quirks up a brow with a smug grin — a telling sign that you’d get ticked off with whatever he’s about to say. “I don’t know, Y/n. Why not ask the nagging control freak talking to me right now, huh? Maybe their short height and angry temper are affecting the mood of those around them to be miserable like them.” 

You almost did it — your hands nearly gave into your intrusive thoughts and were about to lunge at the snow-haired guy’s neck to wring around like a rag doll. But you played it off with a clap, rubbing the palms together to distract your temporary violent thoughts.

You sucked your teeth and turned on your heel. “Forget it. I’m gonna go take a nap.”

He scoffs, “Good, maybe your tiny brain needs it to calm down.”

“Choke and die, Gojo!” You say down the hall, already at the door of your shared bedroom. Before slamming the door shut, Gojo’s patronizing laughter can be heard to your dismay. With gritted teeth, you march to your bed to throw yourself on the mattress. 

“Ughhh. That Satoru Gojo,” you curse his name under your breath as if he’d hear you through the walls. “So unserious…”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

To be quite honest with himself, Gojo doesn’t necessarily hate you.

The white-haired boy lies on his side on Utahime’s bed, watching you nap. He did knock on the door – believe him, he did. He even gave you the good old ten-second rule, waiting for your response. But then you didn’t, which gave him the initiative to waltz in and see you in your slumber.

You slept so peacefully; your face at peace, and your faint snores were the only things his ears picked up on. It was as if your little nagging show from earlier was hard to comprehend when seeing your tranquil state in front of him. It used to be rare to see you like this. Keywords: used to be.

For the past two to three weeks, your relationship with Gojo has become more…intimate. Ever since he took your first kiss and drew your virgin curtains, the two of you have gotten a little closer than before — both platonically and physically. Something that Gojo never thought he’d experience with you, his tiny, cute frenemy. 

Gojo has known you since freshman year; you were two in the same enrichment group to prepare you to transition into college life. Personally, he wasn’t much for the program; he found it a waste of time, a mandatory prerequisite that he felt he didn’t need. He’s all about experience, wanting nothing more than to get on with his day, go to classes, hang with friends, and repeat. 

“Hello, my name is Y/n. It’s nice to meet you all!”

And then came you, the person sitting across from him at the round table your group would always meet at. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t enamored by you the second he saw you. Gojo rarely finds someone who could easily pull his eyes to them — not saying the girls who’d usually crowd and admire him weren’t pretty. There was something about you that kept him wanting to know more – to engage more – about you. 

One thing he knew from you was that you carried your character with pride. Your achievements, your personality, your kindness, and your mannerisms — all of which were displayed elegantly and were a breath of fresh air to look at. You stood out to him more than all the other kids in the group, his eyes always finding a way to steer from the professor’s advice to your alluring, listening face. 

Another thing Gojo liked about you was that you weren’t afraid to stand your ground, especially when discussing with your peers or him. Sure, you were always respectful and would respect other people’s arguments. But, God, the way you said things so constructed and nuanced, it had the tall other glued to you whenever you spoke.

He’s not going to lie; he’ll admit that he’d try to tick you off and get you to get a little angry with him when it came to arguing. He couldn’t help it. He just liked the thought of you layering out of your poised appearance to the point you’d glare at him whenever you saw him in the halls. And it had him giddy knowing he’s the one that made you angry because you looked cute. 

And that was the other thing he really liked about you. The more you two interacted, argued, hung out with his friends, or attended classes together, the more Gojo’s fascination for you turned into that of a school-boy crush. He wouldn’t admit to anyone of this (minus Geto and Shoko if his life depended on it) because it certainly wasn’t something to be known. He was okay with what you two had right now, being the friend who loves to push your buttons to see you nag at him. 

That was until you two started sleeping together. Because holy fuck, the past weeks you two have been sneaking time to have each other’s bodies close made Gojo’s mind go crazy. So fucking crazy like the feeling of you on him is borderline addicting. Your whiny cries calling out to him when he scrapes your sweet spots, your nails scrape on his chest, your half-lidded eyes when you look at him, or how you whisper his name only for him to hear.

This was the kind of relationship you two brewed, a secret thing only between you two. And Gojo was satisfied keeping it like this because it was what you wanted. No need to flaunt it around; it was no one’s business. Besides, he likes having you to himself, seeing a side of you that only he could imagine and experience.

The sensations of your body under his touch, the various tunes of your voice, and the beauty exhibited in your gaze. It was all addicting. You were addicting.

“Who told you to lie on my roommate’s bed? You know she’ll kill you if she ever saw you.” 

It was so addicting that he didn’t even notice you awake until you spoke to him, the erotic memories of you clouding his brain dissipating at the indication of your voice. He smirks, “Oh, I’ll be fine; not like she can hurt me with her tiny self.”

You’re too groggy to roll your eyes, sighing as you turn to your side to face him from across the room. “How long was I out for?”

“Almost an hour,” he replies, switching to sit criss-cross on Utahime’s bed. “I got bored watching TV and knocked.”

“How long have you been in here?”

“Maybe twenty minutes?”

“Just watching me sleep?”

“Yeah.”

You let out a scoff, shaking your head. “Weirdo.”

He snickers at you for recognizing his silliness. “Whaaat? There’s not much to do aside from looking at you. I got bored of the TV.”

“What about your manga?”

“Got bored of that, too.”

“Anyone on your socials that you’d wanna talk to? Girls? Friends? Your teammates?”

“Mmm, nah, none I’d wanna talk to right now.”

Your brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Hmm?”

“What do you mean ‘right now’? You make it seem like I’m keeping you from interacting with your outside life. If you’re bored, talk with whoever you want. Maybe bother Geto…No, nevermind, he’d probably be annoyed since he’s studying.”

Gojo examines you, silently removing himself from your roommate’s bed and treading towards yours. He takes off his sunglasses and places them on top of your dresser before sitting on his knees on the floor. He rests his hands and chin on the edge of your bed, his sky-blue eyes locked in with yours. God, you were so beautiful to look at. 

“I meant that I don’t want to talk to anybody.” Now that he’s closer to you, his voice dials to a whisper. “Not when I got you here to myself.”

He notices your brows drawing upward at the sentence. “To yourself?”

“Mhmm,” he hums, bringing a forefinger to trace your brow. A sensual touch not to startle you. “Just you and me.”

You give him a look as if you think he’s trying to pull something. “Don’t tell me you were making me mad at you earlier just so Haibara and Ijichi could leave, and I’d be stuck with you.”

His smile broadens with every word, his dimples out to see. “No, although I hate that I didn’t think of that myself.” His hand goes to your cheek for his thumb to stroke gently. “Would it have been a bad thing if I did?”

You don’t reply, only placing your hand on his. Your eyes are still on his blue orbs, and – you don’t know this because Gojo has the perfect view of you – the light from the window made them shine charmingly as it highlighted your face. 

“No…I don’t think so,” you murmur, gaze gradually venturing down to his lips. “I like being around you…Satoru.”

He heard his name leave your lips, an invitation to what he wants to do, his eyes fixated on your lips before closing them and drawing in closer. “Me too…”

The kiss was soft and gentle like he always starts with, waiting for you to give him the okay to kiss you again. And when you meekly lick his bottom lip, he gives in to your request and claims your lips again. 

Your moans were so sweet to his ears — his favorite thing to hear — especially when he becomes a little devilish and sucks on your tongue to make you whimper a little louder, turning him on even more. It serves as the perfect distraction for him to snake a hand into your shirt, his hand already making itself home and cupping your breast in your bra. 

You break the kiss with a gasp, and massages to your mound make your breath shaky. “Mmmah…you sneaky pervert,” you name-call him sweetly. 

“Can’t blame me; I just know that you like to have your tits played with.” Gojo sneers, tweaking your nipple to hear you gasp again. “Hey, remember you said you’d suck me off next time?”

“Huh?” The question threw you off before you could fall deeper into a euphoric haze. 

“Don’t ‘huh’ me, you promised!” He whines to you like a hurt puppy. “After I ate you out for twenty minutes straight last time, can I just have your mouth on my dick once?”

“I never told you to eat me out for twenty minutes!”

“You crying and telling me not to stop said otherwise!” He stands his argument, even if you warn him with a glare. “Just suck it, please. I haven’t felt your mouth in a while.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. You didn’t expect to deal with his childish tendencies, but it is Gojo we’re talking about. You sigh, “…Fine, Satoru.” And then the white-headed boy beamed at the confirmation, immediately standing up and heading to your desk. It was an abrupt change of pace for a second until he brought your desk chair out. 

With glee, Gojo flings his jeans and boxers with ease, his half-hard cock out for you to see. He sits on your chair with spread legs, “I’m ready~.”

You roll your eyes, yet the smile on your face sneaks without you knowing while leaving your bed and crouching between his legs. “You’re such a big baby sometimes…”

Your hand finds its way to the body of his dick, gliding it up and down to feel the veins under your palm and fingertips. Gojo hums to your cold fingers, hitching his breath when you tease him with a blow of air. 

Your free hand comes to his balls, massaging his testicles in a way that has his leg jerk. He tries to fight it, but the squirm on his legs says otherwise. “Hahhh, fuck…quit it…”

“Hmm? What, you don’t like it when I tease you?” You peer up at him with a smug grin before using your tongue to lick on the glans slowly, and he covers his mouth before a gasp comes out after lapping on his frenulum. “But when you do it to me, it’s not a problem, huh?”

“Mmmph, shiit, Y/n—Ohhh…!” Another jolt of the hips after you lick and kiss one of his balls, teasing the skin with a kiss and tiny chews that would have him choke on his breath. “Jesus, fuck! Y/n, baby, you’re driving me crazy….Aishhh!!

“Oh, really?” God, you were such a fucking tease. But he fucking loved that so much. “What should I do?” You ask him before sucking on his balls again, and a hand comes to your shoulder to grip. 

“Mmmm…Blow me off, princess,” shivers crawl up his spine as you place kisses from the base of his cock towards the tip. “Please, I wanna feel you…” 

You giggle at his reply, finally taking in his cockhead to your pretty lips and sighing through your nose as you hollow your cheeks to take in more of him. 

Gojo sighs at your licks and sucks on his girth, his erection becoming accommodated to your oral cavity wonderfully. You unhurriedly prompt yourself to take in more of him until your lips reach his pubes, your throat now full of him, and the warmness of your gummy walls makes him squirm more. 

Bobbing your head at a moderate pace, you suck him off to that of a pleasurable cadence. You still use your hands to stroke him, Gojo melting to your touch even more. He throws his head back when you attack his tip again with the onslaught of licks and laps, the hand on his balls roughly kneading them jerks him to moan aloud. 

Fuck, it feels so fucking good having you suck him off like this. How your tongue moved up and down on him was so dangerous, prompting him to place a hand on your head for support. As if that would help, you don’t show him mercy when you suck him harder and faster. The noises coming from your mouth sounded so erotic and pornographic, the heat on his face brewing out more. 

“—Khhmm, fuck, man, I can’t…Ahhh! Y/n, I’m gonna cum if you keep licking it like that. Stop, st—Ahhaaa!!” 

But like he said before – you’re a tease (if not worse than him). You remove Gojo’s dick from your mouth and throat at once, the groan he exerts fueling the fire in your body. You stand to withdraw your shirt, bra, and panties to the ground, knowing Gojo’s watching every move. “Don’t get mad at me; I know how much you wanna cum inside.” 

You pull out the condom from the pocket of your skirt, placing the rubber on his cock after removing it from the wrapper. He couldn’t help but laugh, “Seems like you’re more of a pervert than me if you had that ready while those two were here earlier.” 

“Shut up,” you playfully kiss him with a sneaky bite to his bottom lip. Then, you mount and align your cunt on his dick, the glans kissing your wet labia. “Hmmm, fuck…”

“Relax, cutie,” he kisses you on the cheek while his hands fondle your breasts. 

You slowly descend your slit onto him, the tip of his cock pushing into the entrance of your vagina. A couple of exhales and inhales keep you steady when inserting him into you, not letting the pain distract you from the task at hand. And the both of you moan in unison when it makes it in, your hips leisurely coming down on him until your ass rests on his thighs. 

You grind on him with the roll of your hips, evoking choked intakes of air from him as a hand goes to your ass with vigor. His face to your chest while the other hand plays with one mound. His lips found a nipple to pop into his mouth to suck on. 

With a slow pace, you rock your hips onto him. Your legs bent for your feet to be on his knees, the chair solid enough to withstand you bouncing on Gojo’s dick with repetition.  

“Hoohhh, ohhhh, mmmm,” your hums are expressed in tunes. The curve of his cock is so fucking good, scraping your insides with precision. You couldn’t help but increase the speed just a little bit. 

Gojo keeps sucking on your nipple; the grazes of his teeth and pushing the bud up to the roof of his mouth only fuels more quivers to travel down your bouncing figure. Both of his hands now under your skirt to feel the flesh of your ass under his hungry grasp. He kneads your asscheeks with every thrust to your chasm, and your shrieks get louder by the second. 

“—Mmmph! Shit, shit, you feel so good, pretty,” he finally lets go of your hardened nipple, burying his face to your chest. “So fucking good for me…fuhuuuucck!

You could feel your cunt contract around him; every graze to your sensitive spots prompted your walls to grip around him. He hisses, looking up to see your expression as you ride him out. Fuck, you looked so good on top of him like this. He’ll add this position to the list of things to do again with you.

You peer down to see that Gojo is staring at you, and you quickly bring a hand to cover his eyes. “—Ahhahhn, d-don’t look at me like that! Yer soo embarrassing…!” 

He only chuckles at your shy demeanor, especially during this. But he humors you, not fighting your makeshift blind for him to see you wholly. He’s seen it all already — felt it all, too. And he could never get enough. 

“Ooooh, Satoruuu—Nnaaahh!” He loves how you say his name, your hand traveling to his hair to grab in tuffs. “Oh, fuck, ‘toruuu, I’m gonna cummm…!”

“—Hnngh! Yeah, baby?” Oh, he knows. The way you’re grinding to and fro on his pelvis tells him so. “Go ahead, princess. Clench on me and ride it out.”

And with that, your hips go to an erratic pace that has the both of you holding for dear life. The squeeze of your inner walls clenching on him almost makes him choke on his spit, the nails of his fingertips forming crescents on your skin. And you scream at it, slamming your ass onto him as you both climb up to orgasm. 

Within seconds, it hits the both of you like a train. This had to be Gojo’s favorite part of the entire thing, experiencing having your folds clamp and flutter around him as you cry for him. It took everything in his power not to come with you because he wants to have you on him a little longer. You just felt too good to let go — too addicted to your body to be done with one round.

When the contractions subside while your slurred howls get quieter, Gojo gives you a few minutes to let your body be free from the aftershocks. He knows your body is extra sensitive now, rubbing circles on your back and placing chaste kisses on your clavicle. You hum under his lips, letting the wave of your crescendo exude out from you quietly. 

However, since you wanted to be such a tease, why not be a tease back? At least, that’s what Gojo thought before he threw your cunt another snap of the hips, his cock jabbing into your delicate walls that haven’t recovered yet. A sharp cry comes from your puffy lips, the hand covering Gojo’s eyes finally freeing him to see you. 

He grins with hooded azure eyes, “Sorry, cutie, but I didn’t get to finish. Wouldn’t be fair if I didn’t get to have fun of my own, right?” 

You chew on your lip with trenched brows before bringing your face to his. “Don’t you get carried away like last time, Satoru.”

“No promises, princess~” he sings to your ear before humming into your lips. 

As mentioned before, Gojo doesn’t hate you — he just hates that he can’t fully express liking you. 

But having you on top of him like this, in his embrace, is a nice change of pace he’ll happily get used to.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

“Okay, everyone, class dismissed! Thank you for your time, and see you all on Friday.”

Professor Naga closes up the last class for today, and the students all get up from the seats of their elevated rows to pack up and leave. The clock is ten minutes before seven o’clock, the winter darkness already claiming the sky with a sheet of night. Students are either famished and heading to the dining hall for food, going straight to their dorms or homes, or staying behind for last-minute conversations.

Gojo was one of the latter, deciding to stay behind to chat with the group for a bit. After packing his backpack and putting on his coat, he slings from the table to jump to the row below him, where you were talking with Haibara and Ijichi. 

You watch his stunt, ready to lecture, “Jesus, Gojo, what’s all that for? You could’ve just walked around.”

“Ehhhh, why would I do that? That’s so lame.” He comes and bends close to you enough to slang his arm around your shoulders. 

But you click your teeth and try to maneuver away from his tall figure. “You’re lame,” you mutter under your breath.

However, Gojo’s ears perked with furrowed brows. “What did you say?”

“You heard me, you lame white furby!” You repeat yourself with a huff and the snow-haired student gawks at your brazenness. 

The two of you argue again; students passing by silently exit the class, others stand and watch, and Professor Yaga can only sigh at yet another altercation between you two. 

However, it quickly dissipates when Haibara laughs from his seat. “You two, there’s never a dull moment.”

You and Gojo blink at the dark brunette before removing Gojo’s hand from your shoulders. “Hmph, it’s not like it’s my fault; he’s the one who starts it.”

“Oh, what could I possibly do to make Y/n so upset with me this time?” He pushes up his sunglasses, snickering at the scowl you send him. 

Ichiji, being the passive second-year he is, meekly changes the topic from the row below you three. “On some brighter news, at least we did well on the presentation.” 

“That’s right!” Haibara happily agrees with the statement, leaning against the chair with his hands behind his head. “Professor Yaga seemed really pleased with our arguments; I don’t think he intervened even once. Plus, he said many good things about how we handled the topic. Nice one, team!” 

The raven-haired one hums at the other’s exclamation. “I think most of it goes to how Y/n and Gojo bounced off each other’s arguments. How you two pulled up examples from the articles yet remained dignified with your viewpoints was cool to witness. I even saw some students be engaged with the conversation, many amazed with how Y/n refuted Gojo’s arguments elegantly and respectfully.”

But most of all, what the two sophomores wanted to mention was that there was no yelling. To them, the professor, and all the students of this class, you and Gojo presented your presentation without a single tone of malice, no pointless teasing, no name-calling, nothing! It was a civil conversation between two opposing sides. To everyone’s surprise — and thankful stars — today was a success.

You chuckle nervously at the praise. “Oh, come on, you two, don’t let me and Gojo take all the credit. You guys did your part. Especially you, Ichiji; you were an exceptional help for my side and finding sources I could build off from.”

Gojo, on the other hand, rolls his eyes. “Psssh, don’t butter them up like that; without us, they would’ve failed this presentation big time. No offense.” He was forced to say that when you called him by his last name and hit him with your elbow.

None taken, the two younger friends say to themselves unbeknownst to each other. 

The tall one continues, “Besides, you were the one who did most of the work. I slacked off until the last minute when you whipped me into shape.” Gojo brings his hand on top of your head for a pat. The action surprised you enough to flinch a bit. “Nice work like always, Y/n.”

Were the stars aligned differently, or did Gojo just compliment you? It certainly took you aback, especially the two others who silently kept their observation to themselves. 

You could only look at his complacent look for a few seconds before you realized the warmth of your cheeks became stronger. Averting your eyes, you remove his hand from your head. “Thanks, Gojo…” you express gratitude. “You weren’t so bad yourself.”

A cheeky smile, his dimples prominent to blind you. “Awww, would you two look at that? They’re complimenting me, too~” Another bump to the chest has him cackling like a child, and you shake your head with rolled eyes.

The two younger students observe the scene before Haibara forcibly stretches and yawns to catch the two’s attention. “Man, I’m so hungry; I skipped lunch to prepare for this presentation. Me and Ijichi are gonna meet up with Nanami at the dining hall. You guys wanna come?”

You instantly beam at the proposal; who are you to refuse a dinner with your friends? “Sure! I’d love to…Oh! Wait, let me use the restroom and fill my water bottle.”

You rummage through your backpack for your water bottle before exiting the classroom. The boys watch you descend from row after row, and Gojo says, “Don’t take too long; I’ll convince them to leave without you.”

“Hmph, go ahead and try! They invited me; I don’t know who told you to invite yourself.” You stick your tongue out at him before opening and closing the door behind you. 

Gojo watches you with a smile still plastered on his face for a few seconds before Ijichi makes a tiny cough to catch his attention, the sunglasses-wearing junior turning to look back down to the other two. He notes the albeit cheesy-smiling faces they harbor, and he lifts a brow. “The hell are you two smiling for?”

The raven-haired sophomore squeaks at the sudden firm tone, “N–Nothing!”

“Pfft, oh come on, Kiyo; let’s not act like we didn’t see what we just saw.”

Gojo catches the nuance of Haibara’s comment. “Saw what?”

“You’re over here talking about our faces, but you’re the one who’s smiling at Y/n as they leave the door?” The brunette sophomore sends a wink to his junior, whose face doesn’t change at the comment.

“And your point is?”

“Well, it seems — to me, at least —  there might be something going on with you and Y/n?” 

Gojo was prepared for that, opening his mouth to interject quickly. However, the dark-haired other beat him to the punch. “Now that you mention it, Gojo and Y/n have been kind of…stable? There's still the usual arguments, but those haven't happened as much since last week…”

“Right!?” Haibara points at Ijichi with exclamation, making the other second-year flinch. “For some reason, things seem to be a little quieter with the two of them now, not to mention them hanging out way more often. Everyone’s been talking about it; even Geto and Shoko asked if Gojo had done anything that made Y/n passive?”

“I asked Nanami about it on Monday; he thinks maybe Y/n finally knocked some sense into Gojo’s childish brain to have him be so civil to engage without yelling their head off.”

“Pffthaha, I wouldn’t go that far. Y/n did just kick him in the shin yesterday for scaring them from behind.”

“Ahh, yes, well, that was deserved.”

“You two realize I’m still standing right the fuck here, right?” No, they hadn’t because the two discerned the twitch of Gojo’s brow after conversing about the tall, white-haired boy. 

“But it’s true!”

Another voice enters the set, making Gojo raise his head, and the other two turn to their left. It was some girl and her friend. Gojo knew of her; she sat next to him during class. Again, he knew of her, meaning she had no significance to his knowledge.

And yet, she speaks to the three boys. “You and Y/n have gotten a lot more close these past weeks compared to previous semesters—“

“Real close, too!” Their friend adds on from behind. “It’s as if you two are like a couple.”

“So…Are you two….a thing?”

Gojo could tell from a mile away what this was. Obviously, the first girl has a thing for him — he can see the anxiousness from the twiddle of her thumbs and avoidant eye contact. Although he wasn’t interested, he couldn’t even answer the question the way he wanted. What the hell could he say: that you two are in a secret relationship? He knows you’d have his grave ready before he could finish that confession.

And he can’t say the two of you are in any relationship either; it’s not what you would’ve told them. To everyone else, you and Gojo are friends who would preferably be caught dead rather than lying in bed together. So, might as well keep that facade up.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” he starts with the push of his sunglasses. “Y/n is a pretty good friend, and I’d like to keep it at that.”

Haibara and Ijichi turn from Gojo to look at each other and shrug. Before turning back, something caught their eye that caused the two sophomores’ skin to turn white.

Ijichi tries to prevent Gojo from speaking further. “G-Gojo—“

However, the tall one doesn’t listen. “I mean, sure, they got a nice personality and are independent…Kinda pretty, too, not gonna lie. But they’re not really my type. I mean, have you seen them? Just a little person who likes to find trivial stuff to yell at me over. Angry at the world around them, I’d say.“

“Go. Jo.” Haibara says the junior’s name through gritted teeth, bringing his hand up by his neck and drawing an imaginary horizontal line back and forth — a gesture for Gojo to not say anymore. But unfortunately, the sign wasn’t seen, and the words kept pouring out.  

“And to be honest, can you imagine? Me and Y/n, a couple? Jesus Christ, that would be fucking exhausting to deal with, especially with someone so boring and too uncute like them. I’ve seen prettier, been with better. I feel sorry for the poor bastard who does end up with them—“

“SATORU GOJO!”

Now — that sudden burst of yell from a loud, masculine voice — that was what got Gojo’s attention. It’s what got the attention of everyone else in the room. The snow-haired student jerks to look at the professor standing at the front, the older man with a deep frown. “What?

The professor doesn’t answer him. Instead, he points to the left of him with his chin with a huff. With common sense, Gojo turns behind him to see where the older man points. And at that moment, he felt his very being drop to the soles of his feet. Haibara and Ijichi took a slow breath in unison at the immediate tension.

Behind him stood you, a lone figure holding their water bottle within three arm’s length away from the group. But that was sufficient enough for you to have heard everything said. 

Breathing suddenly felt impossible for Gojo; his entire body was stiff under your gaze. His shades could hide his eyes, but he wasn’t sure it could shield the instant shame that slapped him across the face from you. 

And that was another thing: the look you harbored was indecipherable — the true definition of disengagement. There were no widened eyes, quivering lips, or shaky hands. You stood plainly and looked as though you were detached from the entire situation. And that was what scared him the most.

This was strike one.

He dared not move when you began walking up, and your eyes then shifted to ignore his presence. “Hey, Yu,” the brunette straightened his posture at the use of the first name. “I think I’ll have to decline on that dinner offer. I’m a little tired and have a paper I need to work on…Maybe next time?”

“Uhh, yeah, sure, no problem.” He answers with a sweat.

Wait a second. Gojo tries to call for you, “Y/n—“

“Ijichi,” but you immediately shut him down and directed your attention to the other sophomore friend as you put on your coat and stuffed your water bottle back into your bag. “Be sure to submit the presentation template and sources to the course site before the end of the day, please.”

“U–Uhh, already done, Y/n.” He squeaks while reassuring.

Wait, please. The tall one tries again, “Wait, Y/n—“

“Good.” You sling your backpack on, refusing to look at the person trying to talk to you. “Well, I’ll be seeing you, then.” And with that, you turn on your heel and head down the row to leave.

No, wait, stop— “Y/n, wait!” This was strike two. 

Gojo doesn’t hesitate to call out to you. At that moment, he follows you to the class steps where you were a row down left from the door. He grabs your hand without thinking, the size of your palm captured by his slender fingers. He knew it was a risky move, but he had to — he had to get you to talk with him right now, if not ever. Because the latter is something he isn’t ready for, something he didn’t think would be a possibility.

And yet, he will learn this lesson of being prepared for the impossible when you rapidly turn to him. Strike three.

SLAP!

Have you ever seen someone get smacked in the face so hard that their sunglasses come off? The remaining two girls who witnessed it know for sure now. Haibara and Ijichi won’t admit to it as they immediately turn to the other side of the room when they saw your hand move. But please believe they winced at the sound of the impact. The same goes for Professor Yaga, who was too stunned to speak, yet it was a valid outcome. 

Gojo didn’t move a single limb, allowing the stinging feeling on his cheek to course through his facial muscles. His eyes were glued to the carpeted ground; he knew that’s where they were supposed to be. And you snatched your hand away from his grasp, leaving his fingers to suffer in forced loneliness.

“You…you think it’s all fun and games to say stuff like that when I turn my back for a few minutes, huh?” He can see your hand palpitate from his peripheral; the anger depicted alone was enough to interpret. And the tremble in your voice? It felt like an arrow to his being. “…Look at me.”

He’d be a fool to have you repeat yourself; he has lost that right to toy with you now. With a slow inhale, Gojo rotates his head at you, azure eyes tracking up your figure to your face. And when it lands at that destination, his heart is shot down.

Tears stream down vexed, watery eyes. Your brows furrowed, and your bottom lip chewed in a terrible attempt to stop it from quivering. The rise and fall of your shoulders as you moderate your breathing, trying so hard not to let your temper dwell into a deeper phase of ugly. It was bad enough you’re crying in public, in front of your peers, your teacher — and it was because of him. 

“From this day forward,” you fight your sniffles to say your statement as clearly as possible. “Don’t you ever talk to me, Satoru Gojo. Enjoy your life without something as boring as me.”

And with that, you dismiss yourself from him and the class altogether, the room silent even after the slam of the door closed. No one says anything, too shocked from the event to utter a letter. 

The silence aids the ringing in Gojo’s ears, his breathing still having trouble maintaining a balanced front. The cheek you slapped burned with pain; he’s sure the skin is as red as a cherry. 

Oh, fuck.

He brings a hand to his face, his body fighting the trembling. The ringing in his ears worsens, along with the pounding in his head that beats like a drum. His eyes stuck to the ground below him, choosing to focus on something inanimate and not living. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck—

All he could think of in this time and place was you. Memories flashing right before him, of you and only you. He can hear the way you say his name, both in vexation and in sweet tunes. Your smiles, your frowns, your huffs, your whispers. When your eyebrows scrunch whenever you express worry for him, how you’re never afraid to stand up against him when making a point, the smile that’s been blinding him for many days and nights — the smile he wouldn’t mind seeing for eternity.

All those memories were one stab to his heart after another. And every time a recollection ended, a flash of your crying face would return to haunt him. Tears that weren’t meant to be there but were, and warm feelings you expressed with him were gone the moment he saw your eyes void of feelings for him. At least, that’s what he saw.

He hurt you. That was the only revelation that haunted him where he stood, making his voice falter from confidence. It was a revelation he never meant to bring about. And now that it exists and he sees the damage, nothing would be better for him now than the ground beneath him swallowing him whole.

“What…the fuck…”

© 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐲2024 ❤︎ reblogs + comments are appreciated wholeheartedly ☆ dividers by @/cafekitsune & @/animatedglittergraphics-n-more.

[luvvcharxo]

HELLO KITTY & KISSES.

pairing ─ ⋆ mark grayson x gn!reader.

warnings ─ ⋆ none.

summary ─ ⋆ in which mark goes to his partner's house after a fight to be pampered.

notes ─ ⋆ no use of yn! this is just fluff tbh.. also i am not good w titles so pls give me ideas. this was a request by a lovely anon n ty for everyone whos requested!! ill do my best to get most of them done <3

“Mark?”

The shocked note in your voice was unmistakable. You were confused. It wasn’t like this was a strange occasion, you and Mark had been together for a while. It was just that he was usually less… bloody when he came to visit you during the dead of night. Less bloody and less looking like he had just gotten the absolute shit beaten out of him.

Which, to be fair, he probably had.

In response, he manages a tiny wave, before immediately wincing in pain and gripping his hand. That, in turn, makes him flinch again, a pained whimper leaving his mouth.

The first thought that came to your mind? Hot. The second? What the fuck is wrong with you.

You shook your head, clearing your mind from those messed up thoughts, opting to open the window for him instead. Mark glides in, before immediately collapsing onto your bed.

“Mark, you’re staining my sheets.” You whine, closing the window and drawing your curtains before walking over to him, your footsteps muffled by the thick socks you have on. What? You need to stay warm.

Your boyfriend only groans, rolling over. He lifts his head up, craning his neck to look at you. The sight of you, clad in shorts paired with one of Mark’s shirts you had stolen, brought a goofy smile to his face. “Hi, baby.”

Unable to help yourself, you smile back, gingerly sitting down next to him. Once you catch sight of his injuries again, the smile drops. “Babe, what the fuck happened? Are you okay?”

Mark groans, his head flopping back down on your sheets. “Remember that villain I told you about? He’s stronger than I thought.”

You stare at him before leaving your bedroom without a word, walking to the bathroom.

Your boyfriend immediately rises, a pouty look on his face. “Where are you going? Don’t leave me.”

Fumbling through your closet, you yell back. “I’m just getting the first aid kit, stay still.”

Once you get the right equipment (at least, you think it’s right) you return to your room. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, you pat the empty space in front of you for Mark. He gingerly sits down in front of you, and your hands gently find their way to the bottom of his mask, lifting it up and removing it.

Seeing his face, even though cuts and bruises litter his perfect skin, you can’t help but smile.

A tinge of pink rises on his cheeks at how you look at him and he laughs softly. “What?”

“You’re so pretty.” You murmur, resting your palm against his warm cheek. He winces, and you realise you must have touched one of his injuries so you begin apologising and retracting your hand. Mark reaches out, his own fingers wrapping around your wrist as he looks at you with his big puppy-dog eyes. “It’s fine.”

You gently remove your hand. “No, it’s not. Let me patch you up.” Opening the first aid kit, you let out a giggle. Mark’s eyebrows furrow slightly in confusion. “What are you laughing about?”

In response, you hold up the plasters in the kit.

“I’m so sorry, baby, but I think I ran out of the normal band-aids.”

In your hands were plasters, but not the ones Mark probably would have preferred. You see, you weren’t exactly prepared to ‘heal’ Mark, so you only had the ones you usually use. Which were little hello kitty plasters.

Ha.

Your boyfriend merely stared at it, then at you. “Babe.”

You get out antiseptic and a wipe, pouring it onto it. “It’s all we have, Marky.”

He sighs. “Fine.”

You beam, before wiping at the most obvious wounds on his face with the wipe, to be immediately rewarded with a pained hiss. You deadpan at Mark, a sympathetic yet slightly amused look on your face. “Baby, you can literally knock down buildings with one hit. This can’t be that painful to you.”

He pouts at you, only to be met with you cleaning out a cut again. “Ow!”

“Pussy.” You smirk, continuing the cleanse.

Once you had finally finished the washing and had done the application of your cute Hello Kitty plasters, you had a proud smile on your face. “Hey, babe, look in the mirror.” You grab Mark’s hand, dragging him into the bathroom.

He does. “Oh, fuck.”

His reflection stares back at him. His pretty face, adorned with even prettier pink and white band-aids. Mark whines. “I don’t look intimidating at all.”

You smile up at him. “Yeah, because you’re not. You’re just a big softie, and I think everyone should know that.”

He tilts his head at you, but can’t resist the urge for his own small smile. You lead him back to your bed and lay down, and he immediately flops on top of you, knocking the wind out of you.

“Mark, you’re heavy as shit!” You grumble, but you cup his face so he looks at you.

Seeing the stupid little decorations on his face, and the general cuteness of him, you begin peppering kisses all over his face. Literally everywhere.

On his nose, his forehead, his cheeks, his chin.

When he closes his eyes with a laugh, you even kiss his eyelids.

“I love you so much.” You murmur, one hand raking your nails through his hair while the other keeps his face still so you can continue your affectionate assault on his face.

Mark chuckles, enjoying the feeling of your soft lips on his face. “Love you too, sweetheart.”

notes ─ ⋆ i honestly dk what im doing but yeah hope u guys enjoyed!!

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