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harrysfolklore · 3 months ago

Text

mini charles - cl16

summary: charles and his son. one and the same (just cute boy dad charles fluff)

folkie radio: I MISSED WRITING CHARLES SO MUCH!!!! and what's better than dad charles fluff??? enjoy!

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

liked by charles_leclerc, francisca.cgomes and 203,858 others

yourinstagram Nothing beats watching daddy race ❤️ We missed this!

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username1 MY HEART OMFG

username2 THE WAY HE JUMPS EVERY TIME THE FERRARI GOES BY 😭

lorenzotl Little man has Charles' entire energy from his karting days!

└ yourinstagram Don't remind me, he's asking when can he start karting already

pierregasly He's going to be faster than his dad soon enough

└ lando true

└ charles_leclerc Stop attacking me

username3 baby boy already knows more about racing than the entire ferrari strategy team

username4 THE LITTLE ALLEZ PAPA WHEN CHARLES PASSES BY MY HEART

username5 imagine when him and little max verstappen join f1

arthur_leclerc My favorite nephew mastering the racing lines already! Tell him uncle Arthur is taking him karting next weekend

└ yourinstagram He's asking if he can face time "uncle turtur" tonight

carlossainz55 Mini Charles giving me engineering feedback after the race again? 😂

└ yourinstagram He misses Uncle Calos over here

username6 DADDY CHARLES HAS MY ENTIRE HEART

username7 i can’t believe charles has a kid

kellypiquet Mini Charles and Penelope need a playdate at the next race!

username8 FUTURE WDC

iamrebeccad I miss my little bff!

└ yourinstagram He misses his pretty friend Becca too

username9 watching daddy race i can’t do this

username10 MINI CHARLES WE LOVE YOU !!

charles_leclerc My champion ❤️ See you both after all the media duties mon amour

└ yourinstagram We love you so much

liked by charles_leclerc, yourinstagram and 1,022,738 others

scuderiaferarri Our youngest strategy expert hard at work 👨‍🔧

Some say he already knows the perfect timing for pit stops 😉 #MiniCharles

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username1 MINI LECLERC OMFG

username2 finally someone who can fix Ferrari strategy 💀

username3 "Papa, you should box box now"

username4 mini charles probably making better calls than the entire pit wall 😭

username5 the way he's got Charles' focused expression when he's analyzing data 🥺

username6 little man already calculating tire degradation better than most

username7 "By my calculations, daddy should've won 5 more races" - Mini Charles Leclerc, age 4

username8 he headphones are bigger than his head I can't 😭❤️

username9 HIS CAP I CANTTTT

charles_leclerc My champion ❤️

yourinstagram My babyyy🥹

username10 Future Ferrari Team Principal right here

username11 when a 4-year-old understands race strategy better than... nevermind 💀

liked by username1, username2 and 19,544 others

f1updatesdaily Charles Leclerc was beaming talking about his son in the post-race press conference:

"He's already telling me where I need to improve my lines. This morning before the race he gave me a drawing of the perfect racing line. He made me promise to follow it exactly."

"He's quite serious about it actually - last race he told me my apex at turn 4 wasn't good enough. Sometimes I think he watches more onboards than I do! But it's special, you know... having him in the garage. He knows every single mechanic, everybody adores him..."

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username1 THIS IS THE CUTEST THING EVER

username2 little leclerc already following his father's footsteps.

username3 the way charles' eyes lit up talking about his son 🥺

username4 DAD CHARLES IS SOMETHING ELSE

username5 he’s giving charles racing advice at the age of 4 MY HEART CANT TAKE THIS

username6 "Papa you missed the apex" - a toddler dragging his F1 driver father, we love to see it 😭

username7 like father like son rn

username8 not charles having to explain to his 4yo why he didn't follow his racing line advice 💀

username9 I WANT TO HAVE KIDS NOW

username10 this is the most wholesome thing ever

liked by yourinstagram, landonorris and 2,976,896 others

charles_leclerc My toughest critic, biggest supporter, and favorite engineer all in one ❤️ Thank you for always telling me to push harder, even if sometimes it's just to race you to bedtime 😅 Je t'aime mon petit champion

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username1 MINI CHARLES MY HEART

username2 his little ferrari suit i can’t do this

carlossainz55 Still waiting for his feedback on my last lap 😂

└ charles_leclerc He said that “Uncle Calos was better in Red”

arthur_leclerc Best race engineer in Monaco, hands down

username3 IM SOBBING REAL TEARS

sebastianvettel This is what it's all about ❤️ Miss my little racing critic!

└ yourinstagram He keeps asking when is uncle seb coming to visit !

username4 he’s the cutest little thing ever i can’t

yourinstagram Like father like son... both perfectionists 🥰

└ charles_leclerc And stubborn like his Maman

alex_albon the new ferrari team principal looks promising

└ lando fred watch your back

f1 When's he joining the grid? 👀

username5 outsold charles already

username6 BOY DAD CHARLES IS WHAT THE WORLD NEEDED

username7 i’m glad to be alive to witness charles being a dad

username8 THE PADDOCK’S BABY

username9 i know i say this all the time but really i can’t believe charles is a dad

username10 wdc in 20 years

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by carlossainz55, yourinstagram and 2,938,547 others

charles_leclerc 5 years of teaching me how to be better, on and off track. Joyeux anniversaire mon petit champion ❤️ Je t'aime

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username1 HAPPY BIRTHDAY MINI CHARLES

username2 I CANT BELIEVE HES 5 ALREADY

carlossainz55 Happy birthday to the only person who can give Charles a proper strategy briefing

└ lewishamilton Agreed

maxverstappen1 Happy birthday Mini Charles ! Still waiting for that racing line analysis you promised me 😉

arthur_leclerc Happy birthday to my favorite nephew! The mini strategy meeting during cake time was 10/10 👌

└ charles_leclerc Your only nephew**

username3 HES SO BIG! time for another charles

username4 the ferrari themed party has me dying

pierregasly Bon anniversaire champion! Your detailed feedback on my qualifying lap was much appreciated 😂

scuderiaferrari Happy Birthday to our youngest strategist! 🎂

username5 i can’t believe mini charles is 5 remember his baby pics

username6 how long until charles puts him in a kart

username7 charles is the best dad in the world

username8 THE LITTLE FUTURE WORLD CHAMPION

username9 all the drivers love him so much my heart

username10 MINI CHARLES IS SO BIG

yourinstagram I can’t believe my baby boy is 5 🥹 We love you so much

└ charles_leclerc Thank you for giving me him ❤️

liked by username1, username2 and 10,937 others

f1news Spotted at Monaco Kart Track: The Leclercs doing Sunday practice! Mini Charles (5) was seen taking his first proper kart laps while Charles played race engineer. According to onlookers, mini Leclerc was explaining to his dad why his racing line suggestions were "pas correctes" 😭

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username1 like father, like son... but more intense??

username2 THIS IS SO CUTE

username3 mini charles is karting already i can’t do this

username4 charles creating a monster and we love to see it

username5 "Papa the racing line here is simple, you just..." - Mini Charles , 5, to his F1 driver father

username6 everyone talking about how he was faster in sector 2 than kids twice his age 👀

username7 charles trying not to laugh while getting a full technical debrief from his 5yo is the content we need

username8 FUTURE WDC

username9 project leclerc starts now

username10 HE TRULY HAS RACING IN HIS BLOOD

liked by charles_leclerc, leclerc_pascale and 205,673 others

yourinstagram His only birthday wish was "Maman, I want to race like Papa" 🥺

Now we have another Leclerc analyzing telemetry data over breakfast... The way he insisted on creating a "proper race weekend schedule" including briefings and debriefs 😅

Your Papa and I are so proud of you, mon petit pilote ❤️ Just remember - having fun is the most important strategy!

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username1 AWEEEEEE

username2 this is the cutest thing in the entire world

charles_leclerc He already told me my suggestions for turn 4 were "completely wrong, Papa" 🤔

└ yourinstagram He’s already miles ahead of you babe

arthur_leclerc The new family champion! Tonton Arthur is ready for coaching duties 💪

└ yourinstagran He’s dying to have you at the track!

pierregasly Mini Charles taking racing lines more seriously than half the grid 😂

└ lando speak for yourself

username3 MINI CHARLES WITH HIS LITTLE HELMET I CANT

iamrebeccad Look at that cutie 🥹

username4 this is the cutest kid i’ve ever seen

username5 i’m so parasocial about the leclerc family

scuderiaferarri Another Leclerc on track! The legacy continues 🏎️

lorenzotl The way he's exactly like Charles at that age... même esprit!

f1 We're keeping an eye on this young talent 👀

username6 the real predestinato

username7 watch him become wdc in 20 years

username8 max verstappen competition is here

username9 HIS BDAY WISH WAS TO START KARTING I CANT

username10 imagine when jack wolff and mini charles meet each other on track

liked by lando, yourinstagram and 2,089,544 others

charles_leclerc From explaining racing lines with toy cars to actual karting... my heart wasn't ready

But of course, he informed me that my suggestions for the hairpin were "completely incorrect, Papa" and proceeded to demonstrate the "proper technique" 😅

The best part? He insisted on having a proper engineers' meeting after practice. At 5, he's already more organized than me - he made his own notebook for track notes and demands proper debriefs after each session.

P.S. To the other parents at the track - I apologize for him stopping your kids to explain the perfect racing line. He gets that from his mother's side obviously 😂

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username1 AHHHH STOP

username2 mini charles is an icon already

sebastianvettel This brings back memories... except he's way more professional than we were!

└ charles_leclerc He’s in a whole other level !

maxverstappen1 Mini Charles taking racing more seriously than his father 😂

└ charles_leclerc Heyyyy

arthur_leclerc My nephew really said "racing or nothing"

└ yourinstagram And his Maman wasn’t ready at all

username3 i know a wdc when i see him

scuderiaferrari Future Ferrari driver in training 👀

lando Please tell me you got the traditional "this is how you should drive Papa" speech

└ charles_leclerc I did, and you’re probably getting it next race

f1 Like father, like son ❤️

username4 imagine the power in a few years

username5 CHARLES THE PROUD PAPA

username6 CRYING THIS IS BEAUTIFUL

username7 imagine charles freaking out with mini charles on track and he’s like don’t worry papa i got it !

username8 HES KARTING ALREADY IM SOBBING HE WAS JUST BORN YESTERDAY

username9 man they grow up so fast

username10 CUTIE

yourinstagram My baby 🥹

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by charles_leclerc, iamrebeccad and 389,625 others

yourinstagram When Papa had a tough day at work, someone prepared a special technical briefing with "guaranteed winning strategy" and "proper racing lines" to cheer him up 🥺❤️ His words: "Don't worry Papa, next race we fix everything!"

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username1 IM SOBBING THIS IS TOO CUTE

username2 I FEEL SO MUSHY OVER THIS

charles_leclerc My best engineering briefing of the weekend ❤️ The racing lines are definitely more accurate than mine 😅

└ yourinstagram We love you, Papa

lilymhe the cutest little thing🥺

lewishamilton Already better technical drawings than our engineers

└ charles_leclerc True

francisca.cgomes My heart can't handle this 😭❤️

username3 not mini Charles being more supportive than the entire paddock

username4 this kid understands racing better than most adults

username5 HE LOVES HIS PAPA SO MUCH

username6 boy dad charles is my favorite thing ever

username7 cheering his papa up after the dsq i can't do this

username8 MY HEART CANT HANDLE THIS. WAY TOO CUTE

username9 chares and mini charles are one and the same

username10 MY FAVORITE FAMILY

liked by yourinstagram, lewishamilton and 1,099,482 others

charles_leclerc At the end of the day, this is all that matters. He waited up to give me his detailed analysis of what we need to improve for the next race... before falling asleep mid-explanation of the perfect racing line for turn 3 ❤️

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username1 this is the cutest thing i've ever seen

username2 WHAT IF I SON

carlossainz55 Did he finish explaining why my apex was wrong though? 😅

└ charles_leclerc He's going to tell you all about it in person

lewishamilton Next time bring him to the strategy meeting 👀

└ charles_leclerc None of us will be talking at all

lando the mini ferrari uniform kills me every time mate

username3 THE RAINBOW DRAWING IM SOBBING

username4 mini charles is such a cutie i cry every single time

maxverstappen1 Future World Champion in training 🏆

└ charles_leclerc You better watch your back

scuderiaferrari Already taking notes for 2035 💭

username5 AND FUCK FERRARI

username6 even sleeping he's probably dreaming about racing lines

username7 charles is such a good dad i could sob

username8 the leclercs have my entire heart this family is all about love

username9 the fact that mini charles made drawings so his papa could feel better after a bad race. TOO ADORABLE

yourinstagram My boys ❤️

liked by username1, username2 and 8,947 others

formula1news Spotted at Nice Airport: The Leclercs heading to Suzuka! Mini Charles was seen carrying his own "race engineer notebook" and apparently told waiting fans "we're going to fix the strategy this time" 💀

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username1 ferrari strategists seeing mini charles arrive with his notebook: 👁️👄👁️

username2 finally, the strategy department getting the reinforcement they needed

username3 "Don't worry everyone, I studied Suzuka on my simulator" - Mini Charles, probably

username4 ferrari about to get schooled by a 5-year-old with crayon drawings

username5 "Papa I already calculated the tire degradation" - Mini Charles at passport control

username6 IM SCREAMING MINI CHARLES COMING TO DRAG THEM ALL

username7 Mini Charles on his way to give Vasseur a presentation about proper strategy execution

username8 MINI CHARLES YOU'RE SO DEAR TO ME

username9 a 5 year old really said nvm i'll fix it myself

username10 CRYING

liked by charles_leclerc, yourinstagram and 509,684 others

scuderiaferrari Our newest technical consultant has arrived in Suzuka. We've been informed our strategy "needs work" and our racing lines are "pas correctes" 😅 #MiniCharles

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username1 WHAT A CUTIEEEE

username2 THE MINI SUIT IM SOBBING

charles_leclerc He already told Vasseur the simulation data was wrong 🤣

└ username1 IM DYING

lewishamilton Just got a 20-minute presentation about my racing line in sector 1...

username3 finally someone brave enough to fix ferrari strategy

maxverstappen1 The competition just got serious 👀

arthur_leclerc My nephew about to revolutionize Ferrari strategy

username4 the way he's standing EXACTLY like charles i can't 😭

username5 more organized than the entire pit wall

username6 that leclerc DNA is something else

username7 Charles created a mini strategy genius and we're here for it

username8 THIS IS WAY TOO CUTE HE'S JUST LIKE HIS PAPA

username9 MINI LECLERCCCC MY HEART

username10 that's it charles jr drag them

liked by username1, username2 and 5,968 others

f1updatesdaily ADORABLE: Mini Charles gave his first-ever interview at Suzuka! When asked about his karting, he went full technical advisor mode 😭

Reporter: "Do you like racing like your papa?"

Mini Charles: "Yes! But Papa needs to fix his racing line in turn 3. I showed him in my notebook. In karting, you have to take the perfect apex..."

Reporter: "Who's your favorite driver?"

Mini Charles: "My Papa is the best! But he needs better strategy. I help him. I make plans like this..."

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username1 I'VE BEEN CRYING OVER THIS FOR LIKE AN HOUR

username2 mini charles you're the cutest little thing

username3 the way he switched from adorable 5-year-old to full race engineer mode 💀

username4 "Papa is the best but his racing line needs work" I'M CRYING 😭

username5 not him pulling out detailed track notes during the interview

username6 Charles watching his son give better technical explanations than he does 👁️👄👁️

username7 HE'S NOT TAKING HIS HELMET AND MINI SUIT OFF AHHHH

username8 "I help Papa with strategy" We know sweetie, we know 😭

username9 charles trying not to laugh in the background while his son critiques his driving

username10 Mini Charles really said "I'm my Papa's race engineer now"

username11 "Sometimes Papa doesn't listen to my strategy but I'm always right" - Mini Charles, future Ferrari Team Principal

liked by charles_leclerc, lando and 398,584 others

yourinstagram Great weekend in Suzuka! According to our resident technical director, "Papa listened to my racing lines this time!" 😅 P4 for my love and a very detailed post-race analysis from someone who insists the strategy could still be "more optimal" 🤓 Love you so much my boys

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username1 AWEEEE MY HEART

username2 see how charles had a better race with mini charles there?

charles_leclerc Our post-race debrief lasted longer than the actual team debrief 😅 Thank you for your support mon amour

lewishamilton Still waiting for my detailed analysis of where I lost time in turn 13 👀

username3 not him giving vasseur strategy advice 😭

username4 more organized than the entire ferrari strategy department

username5 he's so proud that his papa followed his racing lines

username6 I LOVE THIS FAMILY SO MUCH

username7 charles created a mini racing genius and we're here for it

username8 petition to hace mini charles at every race

username9 THATS FERRARI WDC

username10 dad charles you have my heart

liked by yourinstagram, maxverstappen1 and 1,099,387 others

charles_leclerc P4 this weekend! According to my technical advisor, "much better racing lines Papa, but we still need to work on the strategy." Thank you Japan for an amazing weekend, looking forward to reviewing the very detailed race analysis someone prepared for me during the flight home... before falling asleep mid-explanation again 😴❤️

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username1 EVERYBODY SAY THANK YOU MINI CHARLES

username2 mini charles really said "i run this team now" and went OFF

arthur_leclerc Thats my nephew !!

lewishamilton Still recovering from yesterday's strategy meeting with him

scuderiaferrari Future World Champion AND Technical Director 👊

lando most thorough race engineer on the grid

maxverstappen1 Like father like son

username3 not him falling asleep with the notebook again 😭

username4 mini charles said fixed ur driving but the strategy still needs work and i'm CRYING

username5 THE MINI SUIT HAS ME DYING

username6 charles is the best dad in the world i swear

username7 no thoughts just mini charles in his matching ferrari suit giving detailed technical feedback

username8 "papa listened to my racing lines this time" PLS THIS KID IS TOO MUCH 😭

username9 mini charles is the ultimate boss

username10 BOY DAD CHARLES. THATS IT

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himbodruid · 4 months ago

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Draw The Line

Sylus x Reader

This was meant to be jealous Sylus, it turned into touch her and 💀

And i’m not even sorry for it

CW/TW: harassment, non-con physical restraint

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°⭑ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩⭑

“You know that Blake has a crush on you right?” Tara said, bumping her shoulder against yours to get your attention. You were wrapping up for the day, finishing your filing before clocking out.

“The new kid?” You ask, making a face. You thought he’d been hovering more than necessary, but you’d just chalked it up to being invested in his training.

“Kid? That’s harsh,” Tara laughed. “He’s our age, you know.”

“I refuse to believe that.” You scrunched up your nose, thinking about the ignorance Blake was prone to exhibit. You knew it was unfair to judge him so harshly, but training him had been anything but easy in comparison to others. You were almost certain that he weaponized his incompetence.

And sure enough, as you and Tara walked out the doors of the association together, you could hear him calling out your name. You pretended not to hear him, but could no longer ignore him the moment his hand fell on your shoulder. The cringe that tried to work its way up was pushed back in favour of a heavy sigh. You made sure to have a smile plastered on your face when you turned to face him.

“Blake. Hi. What’s up?” You couldn’t help the tightness that seeped into your voice, but Blake didn’t seem to notice it.

“Hey! I was..uh…wondering if you’d like to go get a drink? With me? Tonight?” The hand that had rested on your shoulder now went to the back of his head to awkwardly rub his hair. He also kept his gaze downcast, and you could see a blush spread across his face. It just made you feel all the worse for the lie that was about to spill from your mouth.

“Oh. I’m sorry, I’ve got a boyfriend and…I’m going out with him tonight,” you say, trying your best to fake an apologetic smile. Well, okay. So it was partially a lie, partially the truth. You weren’t entirely sure what to call the relationship you had with Sylus, but you had planned to have dinner with him. Whispers erupted around you as colleagues processed what you said, and you knew work was about to become an annoyance with these gossipmongers.

Blake’s head whipped up and his eyes narrowed on you. “But you don’t have a boyfriend, I already asked around to make sure.”

Unease sunk into you, noting the way his eyes turned calculating. You were notoriously horrible at reading people, but that sudden shift had you analyzing every interaction with him. Nothing you could think of would hint that the man standing in front of you posed any kind of threat.

“I’m sorry,” you say again in an attempt to ease the tension. “I keep my private life separate from my work life, so not a lot of people know. He’s on his way to pick me up, so I uh…gotta go.”

Blake called your bluff, by grabbing you by the wrist when you turn to walk away from him. Your heart stuttered, anxiety spiked, but even more you felt your temper flare. You turned back to glare at his hand wrapped tightly around your wrist, traveling up his arm before it settled on his face. The awkward blush from earlier was now an angry flush on his face. Fine, you could trade ire with him no problem.

“I’m giving you three seconds to let go, before I knock you on your ass and flatten you,” you say, voice low with the thinly veiled threat. He opened his mouth to respond, but his words were swallowed by the sound of a motorcycle revving loudly at the sidewalk. You, Blake, and everyone that stopped to see how the altercation would end turned towards the disruption.

And, like some miracle, there he was. You’d recognize that monster of a motorcycle anywhere, and the massive leather-clad frame of the helmeted rider sitting astride it. The tinted visor concealed his face, but you could feel Sylus’s gaze on you when he turned his head in your direction. Once he knew he had the attention of everyone in the vicinity, he killed the engine and kicked the stand out. His dismount was graceful and smooth, and everyone gawked as their gaze traveled up, up, and up to take in his full imposing height. You cast one final glare to Blake, before wrenching your arm from his slackened grip and hurrying away.

Sylus removed his helmet as you approached, brushing his fingers through his hair to fix it. His gaze remained on Blake until you were by his side, and then his eyes assessed you for damage. Your wrist was red from where Blake grabbed you, but it wouldn’t bruise. All the same, Sylus’s gaze narrowed on it and his jaw feathered as he clenched his teeth.

“I’ll kill him,” he growled, a threat you knew he was fully capable of following through on. Wisps of Sylus’s evol drifted from his fingers as he held your hand up to inspect more closely.

“No,” you said firmly, grasping his hand to turn his attention to you. “What you’ll do is explain to me why you’d risk coming to the association building. Especially at the end of shift when everyone is around.”

His response was nothing more than a dark chuckle, as if your concern was just a silly thing compared to the insult that reddened your wrist. He turned his attention back to Blake, and you could see his smile harden. Peeking over your shoulder confirmed that he was still standing on the sidewalk, seething.

“The risk is worth it just to piss him off, and make him learn his place,” Sylus said. He crooked a finger under your chin and tugged your face back to his. He slanted his mouth over yours in a kiss that was both hard and possessive. You knew he was staking his claim, right there in front of all of your coworkers, and you felt like you should be embarrassed by the display. Instead, you swayed into him, lost to the sensation of him devouring you. Anyone who remained invested in the situation whistled and laughed at Sylus’s audacity, and then continued on their way while whispering excitedly to each other.

When Sylus finally let you up for air, the crowd had dispersed and Blake was nowhere to be seen. But for good measure, Sylus kissed you again, a quick peck of assertive possession before he handed you the ridiculous cat-eared helmet he’d bought for you months ago.

Whispers followed you for weeks. Coworkers you never knew existed stopped you to ask about Sylus and how you managed to snag someone like him. They gushed about how attractive he was, about how romantic it was that he protected you against another man crossing the line. A few even asked you what kind of motorcycle Sylus rode. All of it was tiring.

Blake eventually transferred departments, and you never heard from him again.

#lads sylus #sylus fic #sylus x you #possessive sylus #touch her and die trope #lads fic #sylus qin #l&ds sylus #sylus x reader #lnds sylus #love and deepspace sylus #sylus #l&ds fic

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charliemwrites · 7 months ago

Text

Just had a vivid image of being 141’s collective GBF but not in the toxic way. In the genuine, these are my best friends, my brothers, and we look out for each other - but they especially look out for you.

You don’t walk anywhere alone on base, esp at night. They scowl at men that even look at you too long, hands straying towards their weapons to make a point. You can spar with anyone on base but if you end up bloodied, your opponent has a 1 in for 4 chance of guessing who his next opponent will be.

Youre their precious little sister figure. Combat with ghost, engineering with soap, tactics and strategy with Gaz, sniper with Price. At any given time you can lean on one of them, steal things out of their belts, feed them from your own hand, knick food off their plates or sips from their cups.

You’ve never had your own place to stay because you bounce around to their apartments. Usually end up with Ghost, but if he’s away on a mission, you’re happy to sleepover with any of the boys.

You’ve all seen each other asleep, sick, naked, half-dead, highs and lows and everything in between. You’re a unit. And they look out for you as if you’re blood to each and every one of them.

Right? Right.

So imagine the alarms bells when you’re separated from them on a covert op. You’re still on the radio, voice low, but you curse and tell them you have to go dark - someone’s coming.

Imagine the dwindling nerves when you don’t come back on comms. When they reach exfil and wait one minute… two… seconds drawing out and window to stay undetected closing.

Ghost goes back in to find you because it’s ghost.

Imagine the heart in throat terror when he finds a KorTac operative pinning you in a dark, too-quiet corner. Ghost can hear you breathing loud and fast from meters away, can see the whites of your wide eyes.

He draws a knife and throws it without hesitation, but you’ve seen him, which has drawn the enemy’s attention as well. The knife hits the man’s shoulder instead of his neck, but the distraction is enough for you to slip away. A high-pitched squeak in the back of your throat as you flee to the safety of your LT, an uncharacteristic weakness in your spine.

“Wha’ ‘appened?” Ghost growls, grabbing your shoulders, looking you over for obvious injuries. When you just shake your head, hand white-knuckled in the straps of his vest, he snarls. “I’ll fuckin’ kill ‘im.”

“There’s no time, LT, we have to go,” and it’s true but you’re nearly pleading. This isn’t a retreat this is an escape. It’s all wrong wrong wrong.

But you dig your heels in and tug sharply when he shifts as if to lunge at the KorTac operator - now watching you both with head tilted, flat eyes calculating.

“Ghost,” you practically whine, “come on.”

He shakes his head as if to dispel the suspicious cloud of anger overtaking his thoughts and follows you out.

The KorTac operator stands right where he was left, plucking the knife from his shoulder to stare contemplatively at the blood dripping from it. Shame you didn’t take it with you, a souvenir to remember him by. Well, there’s always next time.

#cod #thoughts™️#my writing #reader fic #dark fic #fanfiction #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost riley #captain john price

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drewswife · 2 months ago

Text

summary — spencer goes easy on you in a game of chess

pairings — s1!spence x shybaufem!reader

a/n — part 2 of this also requested so thank u! also when they talk they sound so nerdy so just smile and nod

The gentle hum of the jet engines had become a familiar soundtrack to these impromptu moments with Spencer. This time, the battlefield was a chessboard, the pieces miniature soldiers poised for strategic combat on the small pull-down table.

"Your move," Spencer said softly, his gaze steady across the board.

You considered your options, a nervous flutter in your stomach mixing with a spark of anticipation. He had a remarkable ability to make you feel both challenged and completely at ease, though the former often made your cheeks flush. You moved your knight, a calculated risk, your gaze flicking up to meet his shyly before quickly returning to the board.

Spencer’s eyes flickered over the board, a thoughtful pause before he responded. His move was swift and precise, countering your advance while subtly positioning his own pieces. You couldn’t help but notice that he seemed less intensely focused than usual. Almost indulgent.

"Interesting," you murmured, studying the new configuration. "Are you perhaps taking pity on my distinct lack of chess prowess, Dr. Reid?" The question was soft, laced with a hint of self-deprecation.

A faint smile touched the corners of his lips. "Pity? My analysis indicates that you possess a developing strategic mind. Though perhaps lacking in aggressive tendencies."

"Aggressive?" you echoed quietly, fiddling with the base of your queen. "I prefer a more cautious approach. Less confrontational."

He chuckled softly, a low rumble that made you jump slightly. "A pacifist on the chessboard. A novel approach." His eyes flickered up to meet yours, a hint of amusement in their depths. "Though sometimes, a well-timed offensive can be surprisingly effective."

"Perhaps," you conceded, a small, shy smile gracing your lips. "But I find a well-defended position rather comforting." You moved your rook, a safe, predictable move.

"Comforting, perhaps," Spencer replied, making his next move. "But comfort rarely leads to victory."

"Maybe not victory in the traditional sense," you countered softly, your gaze lingering on his thoughtful expression. "But perhaps a quiet draw has its own merits."

"A draw," Spencer echoed, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "An interesting proposition. Though I confess, I find the pursuit of a decisive outcome rather compelling."

"I can imagine you do," you murmured, your cheeks warming slightly. "You do seem to have a… decisive nature."

"I believe in efficiency," he corrected gently. "And in identifying the optimal solution."

"Even if the optimal solution involves letting me one across the board almost capture your knight?" you teased softly, your gaze finally meeting his with a touch more confidence.

A genuine smile now touched Spencer's lips. "Sometimes," he said, his voice softer than usual, "the optimal solution involves a more nuanced approach."

@sleepysongbirdsings @spencerreid66 @starrii-sturns @khxna @raysmayhem-72

#doctor spencer reid #dr spencer reid #spencer reid #spencer reid criminal minds #spencer reid fluff #sub spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x oc #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid fic #spencer reid x fanfiction #spencer masterlist⭑.ᐟ

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novaursa · 15 days ago

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Not Hers, Not His

- Summary: Married to Daemon as a second choice, Princess Y/N Targaryen fled across the sea to reclaim her freedom. Years later, her return reignites old wounds—and when she leaves again without goodbye, Daemon finally gives chase to the one woman he never meant to lose.

- Pairing: niece!reader/Daemon Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @idenyimimdenial @oxymakestheworldgoround @sachaa-ff @barnes70stark

The sun hung low over the Stepstones, swollen and red like a festering wound in the sky, its light breaking across the jagged horizon of splintered rock and rusting weapons left from too many forgotten skirmishes. Salt clung to the air like a second skin, seeping into armor, rusting blades, and settling in the joints of weary men. Daemon Targaryen stood upon the rise overlooking Bloodstone, the sea wind pulling at his dark cloak, streaked with ash and blood. The clamor of the men-at-arms echoed below—Velaryon sailors shouting orders as more siege engines were hauled into place, ballistae primed to fire again at the fortified Myrish encampments to the south.

Corlys Velaryon approached from behind, his gait slower than usual but not diminished. His armor was etched with sea-worn patterns, and though he had aged, there was no mistaking the fire in his eyes—the same fire Daemon had once seen when the Sea Snake first brought his fleet to these cursed waters.

“They’re digging in again,” Corlys said, his voice low, gravelly, and unmistakably irritated. “They know the tides better than most—wait out our thirst, our rot, and they’ll win without lifting a blade.”

Daemon didn’t answer immediately. His eyes traced the coastline like a hunter watching a wounded animal, calculating. “Let them rot in their holes,” he said finally. “If they’ve taken to burrowing like crabs, then we burn them out. Let their gods sort what’s left.”

Corlys snorted, but the sound carried little humor. “Easy to say when you’ve wings and flame.”

A slow smirk twitched across Daemon’s lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He looked thinner these days, lean and sharper around the edges. War had stripped him of the easy arrogance he once wore in court like a second crown. His silver hair was longer now, tangled and unkempt, curling around the base of his throat. Dark crescents lived beneath his eyes, and though Caraxes waited just beyond the cliffs, the dragon’s presence did little to lighten his mood.

The rider came at dusk.

He was young, pale with windburnt cheeks and a red cloak heavy with dust. The Velaryon guards let him through with mild disinterest, but the boy dismounted fast and bowed deep before Daemon and Corlys without waiting for breath.

“My lord, my prince,” he gasped, fishing out a sealed parchment bearing the sigil of House Targaryen—a three-headed dragon pressed into black wax. “Raven came from the capital. Urgent word.”

Daemon took the parchment with gloved fingers and cracked the seal immediately. His eyes scanned the contents in silence, the tension drawing tighter in his jaw with each line.

Corlys stepped closer, his brows furrowing. “What is it? Not Viserys again?”

“No.” Daemon’s voice was flat. He read the letter again slower, quieter. Then he folded it once, twice, and handed it to Corlys without ceremony.

The Sea Snake read it, eyes narrowing. “The Triarchy stirs again,” he muttered. “More ships spotted gathering off the southern coast—typical.” Then his voice shifted tone, like his tongue caught on something unexpected. “And...your lady wife has returned?”

Daemon said nothing.

“She’s returned to King’s Landing,” Corlys pressed, flicking his gaze toward him. “From Lys, it says. Without fanfare. No dragon. No escort. Just walked through the gates like she never left.”

The silence that followed hung like iron between them. The crash of waves against the cliffs became louder, crueler, more mocking.

Daemon exhaled through his nose. “Did Viserys send for her?”

“No mention of that. Just that she’s taken up residence again in the Red Keep. Your old quarters.”

Daemon’s expression didn’t flicker, but something in him bristled. He turned back toward the sea, fingers twitching at his side. “So she returns now.”

“She’s your wife,” Corlys said carefully. “You should be glad she’s come home.”

Daemon’s laugh came bitter and short. “She left because it was home. Because Viserys made her feel like a concession. Like I’d been thrown scraps after asking for the crown jewel.”

“You asked for Rhaenyra,” Corlys reminded, blunt. “And you married her sister.”

“Not by my choice,” Daemon snapped. “Nor hers. He married us out of spite, thinking he could bend us both into obedience.” He looked again to the sea, as if her face might form in the water. “And I let her go. Thought time would harden her. Temper her pride.”

Corlys crossed his arms. “Maybe it has.”

Daemon turned then, finally meeting his eyes. “Or maybe she returns only because she’s finished running.”

Corlys held his gaze. “Then what will you do?”

A gust of wind tore across the cliffside, salt and sand whipping around them like whispers. Caraxes stirred below, the deep rumble in his throat rising like thunder from the pit of his belly.

Daemon didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

The gods had already taken too much from him—his pride, his brother’s trust, the crown he once reached for with bloodied hands. But this? This woman Viserys gave him as punishment? She had clawed her way free of that insult, turned her back, and flown east like a storm waiting to be reborn.

And now she was back. In his city. In his rooms.

His queen of ash and fire.

“Prepare the sails,” Daemon said coldly. “We return to King’s Landing.”

The morning broke over King’s Landing with a brooding stillness, the kind that made even the gulls go quiet. The fog had rolled in off Blackwater Bay in a low, wet blanket, smothering the towers of the Red Keep and casting the harbor in a murky gray gloom. The city was only beginning to stir—fishmongers dragging their carts through the mud, the gold cloaks yawning at their posts, whores slipping out of back alley doors before the sun could shame them. No horns. No banners. No fanfare.

Just the sound of leathery wings splitting the clouds.

Daemon Targaryen had returned.

The sails of the Sea Snake’s swiftest longship had been furled before the ship could even dock, and Daemon, armor still clinging with the scent of Stepstones ash and blood, stepped ashore like a storm in the flesh. Caraxes was nowhere to be seen—left to circle above the cliffs beyond, for now—but that absence was no comfort to the city. Word spread fast. The Rogue Prince, the exile-turned-commander, had come back unannounced, and with no small measure of fury in his stride.

It was the sound of another dragon that truly sent the court into a frenzy.

A screech—high, furious, unmistakably female—split the sky as Daemon crossed the courtyard of the Red Keep. He paused, head tilting up toward the misted clouds. Through the fog he saw her—she—wings vast and violet-hued, like the dusk over Valyria before the Doom. A she-dragon of unnatural grace and fury, cutting across the sky with her jaws open and fire threatening at her throat. Not a docile beast kept to the Dragonpit. Not a creature of men’s cages. She was free.

“Vaelora,” Daemon murmured, lips parting as his eyes tracked the shape, awestruck despite himself.

She wheeled once above the Red Keep, a defiant cry echoing down into the capital, sending birds fleeing and hounds howling across the city. Then she turned, vast wings beating down against the fog, and flew out toward the open sea—chasing wind and freedom like the wild thing she had always been.

Daemon watched until she disappeared beyond the mists.

His jaw tightened. She had let her dragon fly unchained. Or perhaps, no one here had dared try to bind it.

He moved through the gates of the Red Keep like a blade being drawn, fast and direct, ignoring the startled gasps of the court ladies, the hushed whispers of the pages and handmaidens, the hurried bowing of stewards who scrambled aside with clumsy reverence. His boots echoed against the stone floors, dragging half the Keep into alert before he even reached the throne room. Ser Harrold Westerling was the first to meet him at the base of the steps, face drawn in disbelief.

“Prince Daemon—your return was not announced.”

“I was not inclined to send ravens,” Daemon said, brushing past him.

“His Grace is indisposed—”

“I doubt that,” he snapped. “He’ll be quite disposed once he learns I’ve come.”

The door to the throne room groaned open. Inside, the great chamber was quieter than usual—less bustling with sycophants and flatterers than in years past. But the man on the throne was unmistakable: King Viserys I, aged more than Daemon remembered, thinner, paler, with lines of grief etched deeper into his once-noble face. His crown sat heavy on his brow, and he turned slowly when he heard the approaching steps.

His eyes went wide.

“Daemon.”

The name fell from his lips like a dropped goblet.

“Brother,” Daemon said with a thin smile, stopping at the foot of the Iron Throne. “You look well. Older. But not altogether dead. A miracle.”

Viserys didn’t rise, but his fingers gripped the arms of his seat as if the iron beneath him might suddenly melt. “You were in the Stepstones.”

“I was.” He removed his gloves one finger at a time, each movement deliberate. “But I heard a curious bit of news. A raven spoke of things I could not ignore.”

Viserys shifted uncomfortably, but kept his tone composed. “We received no word you intended to return.”

“I didn’t intend to. But imagine my surprise when I learn that my wife is nesting again in the Red Keep—without so much as a word to me.” Daemon’s eyes gleamed. “Imagine how that might feel.”

The silence that followed was thick as oil. Viserys looked away, his expression unreadable. “She was free to return. This is her home.”

“Oh, now it is?” Daemon said coldly. “Strange, I remember you treating her more like a mistake. A punishment to be bound around my neck.”

“That is not what I intended,” Viserys muttered, but even he didn’t sound convinced.

“You intended to wound me. You succeeded. But you wounded her worse.”

A muscle jumped in Viserys’s jaw. “Daemon, do not twist my words.”

Daemon stepped closer. “I’m not here for your words. I saw Vaelora in the sky. She flies like she hasn’t tasted chains in years. Which makes me wonder—has anyone even tried to leash her since Y/N returned?”

Viserys’s silence was telling.

Daemon’s gaze narrowed. “Good. Let them be afraid of something. If they won’t fear you… they’ll fear what you brought back into your gates.”

And with that, he turned and walked from the throne room, his black cloak flaring behind him like wings.

The Red Keep’s lower halls were strangely silent as Daemon passed through them, his boots soft against the stone. The corridors were still familiar, despite the years—tapestries unchanged, the same dust gathering in corners no one dared sweep. He moved like a shadow beneath the high-arched ceilings, keen-eyed and silent, ignoring the stares of courtiers too cowardly to do more than whisper behind their hands.

It wasn’t until he passed through the royal cloister and emerged onto the outer terraces that he was stopped—by none other than the Hand himself.

Otto Hightower stood like a crow in his fine green robes, that insufferable pin gleaming against his chest. His face was drawn tight with suspicion, not fear—Otto did not fear Daemon, but despised him, and Daemon had always found that far more entertaining.

“My prince,” Otto said, his voice low, disdain barely masked. “I trust your arrival was sanctioned. Or shall I presume you’ve simply decided the laws of courtesy no longer apply to you?”

Daemon didn’t pause, didn’t slow. “They never did.”

Otto moved to intercept him, jaw tightening. “She has returned here in peace. Do not disturb that peace with your temper.”

Daemon smiled, razor-sharp and false. “My temper? Seven Hells, Otto, don’t strain yourself pretending to care for her well-being. You’d have seen her shipped to Oldtown and wed to one of your milksop cousins if Viserys hadn’t bound her to me instead.”

Otto’s lips thinned to a cold line. “You are not the only dragon in this castle, Prince Daemon. Tread carefully.”

“And you are not the only snake,” Daemon murmured, brushing past him like smoke. “But unlike yours, my bite leaves fire.”

He didn’t wait for the response—there was none worthy of hearing.

The gardens were heavy with the scent of late summer roses and damp soil, a tangle of green and gold overgrown in the absence of a queenly hand to tend them. The sun pierced through high boughs and latticed leaves in shifting rays, casting light like bars upon the stone paths. Somewhere a fountain murmured, drowned under the chirp of sparrows and the low hum of bees. And there—among the foliage, beneath the arching canopy of flowering myrtle—was she.

You.

You sat perched along the curved lip of the dry fountain, legs crossed beneath flowing violet skirts, hair pinned carelessly with silver combs that caught the sun. Your dragon’s colors were echoed in your eyes—those unmistakable lilac irises that had haunted Daemon across battlefields and fever dreams alike. You didn’t look at him as he approached. Not as a wife would. Not as a woman who had once shared a wedding bed, or crossed oceans to escape the shadow of a throne.

Daemon stopped a few paces away, folding his arms. “No kiss? No welcome? I thought I might at least earn a glare.”

You exhaled through your nose, expression unreadable. “If you came for performance, go to the mummers on the Street of Silk.”

“You were always better than any mummer,” Daemon said dryly. “Even when you weren’t trying.”

Still, you didn’t look at him. Your gaze remained fixed on a cluster of wilting irises near the edge of the fountain, as if they held more meaning than his entire existence.

“I didn’t come back for you,” you said finally, voice flat. “If that’s what you think.”

“Then why are you here?” he asked, quieter. “I thought you were content hiding behind the sea. Or have the brothels in Lys lost their charm?”

You turned to him now—sharp, beautiful, wild-eyed. “I came because mother’s ashes are being moved to the crypts. No one thought to tell me. Grand Maester Mellos sent a letter two months late. Apparently they assumed I wouldn’t care. They were half-right.”

Daemon blinked. “I didn’t know.”

You shrugged. “You don’t know much about me, husband.”

He studied you—how your jaw clenched, how your fingers toyed with the edge of your sleeve like you were reining something in. “You could have told me. You could have sent word.”

“And you could have let me go when I asked.” You stood now, straightening, letting your words slice clean. “You could have refused Viserys. You could have chosen no one, but you asked for Rhaenyra and got me instead. So don’t act wounded now, Daemon. I spared us both the farce. You should be grateful.”

He took a step toward you. “Is that what you tell yourself? That I was never going to want you?”

You gave a bitter smile, eyes like wildfire just before the burn. “Wanting me would’ve meant wanting something you didn’t ask for. That’s not in your nature. You take what you want. And you didn’t take me.”

There was a pause. The air hung thick with too many unsaid things.

“I’ll be gone again soon,” you added before he could answer, tone clipped. “Vaelora hates the city. I don’t care for it either. Just a few more days. You’ll be free of me again.”

Daemon’s expression twisted, but he said nothing as you turned from him, violet silk trailing like smoke as you walked back through the myrtle arches and away toward the upper steps of the garden path.

And as your silhouette vanished between the flowering trees, another figure entered the clearing from the opposite side—graceful, silver-haired, and wearing a smile too warm to be unknowing.

“Uncle,” Rhaenyra said, approaching, her eyes bright. “I heard you’d returned.”

Daemon didn’t turn to her yet. He was still watching the spot where you had stood. His silence said more than he wished.

“I see you found her first,” Rhaenyra added softly.

Finally, he turned to greet her, though the smile he gave her was strained, and far less triumphant than it once might’ve been.

Rhaenyra watched Daemon closely as she descended the final steps into the clearing, her skirts whispering over the flagstones, hands folded before her like the proper lady she was meant to be. But there was nothing proper about the way she looked at him—eyes drinking him in, searching for something familiar beneath the soot-stained armor and war-worn scowl. Daemon Targaryen had always walked like he owned the world, chin high, gaze bright, daring the gods to strike him. But now there was something quieter in him, something pulled taut behind the eyes, like a blade too long unsheathed.

“Uncle,” she said again, gently this time.

He turned to face her, and for the first time in her life, Rhaenyra didn’t feel the spark of mischief or the teasing heat that always lingered in his presence. There was no sly smile tugging at his lips, no mocking tilt of his head. His eyes were shadowed, unfocused, still caught somewhere in the wake of your voice—still haunted by it.

“Rhaenyra,” he answered, and even his voice was different—rougher, hollow around the edges.

She frowned, stepping closer, her brow furrowing with cautious familiarity. “You’ve changed.”

Daemon scoffed lightly but didn’t deny it. “War tends to do that. Stepstones are not courtly games.”

“And yet you’ve always loved war.”

“I loved winning.” His eyes flicked to her at last, and the look in them made her still. “But some battles aren’t worth the cost.”

She studied him—truly studied him. The Daemon she remembered from before had always danced along the edge of madness and charm. Now he seemed like a man who’d seen something in himself he didn’t want to recognize. A dragon that had flown too close to fire not his own.

“You came back for her.” The words left Rhaenyra before she could second-guess them. They were not accusatory, nor soft. They simply were.

Daemon didn’t answer immediately. He looked past her, toward the empty garden path you had vanished down. The silence stretched between them, weighted with more than time.

“She didn’t even look at me,” he said finally, voice low. “Like I was a ghost.”

“You are, to her,” Rhaenyra said plainly. “She was never what you wanted. And she knew it.”

“She’s everything Viserys didn’t want for me,” he muttered, dark amusement flashing for a breath. “Too wild. Too proud. Too much fire, not enough obedience.”

Rhaenyra raised a brow. “And now?”

“Now I see he was right to fear her.” His eyes sharpened. “And I was a fool to let her go.”

Rhaenyra's lips parted, then shut again. The look on her face flickered, an old wound rising beneath polished calm. “You asked for me,” she said softly. “You stood before our father and asked for me.”

“I thought I was making a move,” Daemon said. “I thought claiming you was how I’d force Viserys’s hand. I didn’t care how much damage I caused. But marrying her wasn’t punishment, Rhaenyra. It just took me too long to see that.”

She looked away, chin tightening. “She bled for you. You never looked back.”

“I look now,” he said. “And she doesn’t want to be seen.”

Rhaenyra was quiet for a long moment. When she finally looked at him again, her expression had settled into something older than her years, something that reminded Daemon—painfully—of Aemma. “She’s not like the rest of us. We were raised to twist, to kneel when it served, to hide the worst of ourselves behind courtesy and titles.”

“She never hid a fucking thing,” Daemon muttered.

“No,” Rhaenyra said. “She never did. That was the first thing you loved about her. And the first thing you tried to break.”

Daemon flinched—just slightly.

Rhaenyra stepped past him then, her fingers brushing his arm in quiet parting. “Don’t chase her unless you’re willing to burn. She’s not waiting to be claimed. Not anymore.”

She left him there in the gardens, surrounded by sunlight and the scent of dying flowers, while your ghost lingered in every breath he took.

The skies above King’s Landing wept ash and sun the morning you left.

The city stirred beneath a bleary haze, thick with the scent of brine and hot stone. From the high terrace of Maegor’s Holdfast, Daemon stood still as a statue carved in blackened steel, one hand resting on the stone balustrade, the other clenched so tightly at his side the knuckles blanched white. Beside him, King Viserys leaned heavily on his cane, the weight of years and regret pressing down into his hunched frame. His breath came slower now, more labored than even Daemon remembered, but it was not illness that sickened him this morning—it was sorrow.

Above the rooftops, you rose into the sky atop your dragon, the she-dragon Vaelora screaming with pride as her wings cracked the wind. Her violet-hued scales shimmered like a living bruise against the dawn, silver light catching the ridges of her spine as she beat a wide circle over the Red Keep. Below, smallfolk gathered in awe, the guards paused mid-march, and even the ravens quieted in their cages. No fanfare. No escort. No farewell.

Just you, flying alone—again.

“She didn’t even say goodbye,” Viserys said, his voice thick and wavering as he followed the dragon’s ascent with dulled eyes. “Not to me. Not to her brothers and sister. Not to her king.”

Daemon’s jaw flexed. He didn’t speak.

“She was always too proud,” Viserys murmured. “Too wild. Like her grandmother. I tried to make it right, binding her to you—” His tone faltered as if he heard the foolishness of it in real time. “I thought it might calm her. Anchor her here, with family. She was so young then. And you…”

Daemon turned his head, slowly.

Viserys trailed off.

Your dragon banked toward the open sea, wings carving through mist, then surged forward, vanishing into cloud and light.

Daemon’s breath left him in a sharp exhale.

“Daemon,” Viserys said behind him, quietly now, almost pleading. “Don’t.”

But Daemon was already walking.

“Daemon—”

He didn’t answer. His cloak snapped behind him as he descended the tower steps in quick, precise strides. Servants scattered in his path, startled by the look in his eyes. He moved like a man possessed—lean muscle coiled beneath the layers of black and crimson, expression locked in something between fury and desperation. The Red Keep blurred past him. He crossed the yard in silence, reached the stables without a word, and threw the reins off the nearest saddled horse without waiting for assistance.

The beast neighed at the sudden command, but Daemon mounted in one motion and dug in his heels.

Hooves cracked against the stone as he tore down the hill road, out past the Gate of the Dragon and toward the black maw of the Dragonpit.

The city’s morning song grew faint behind him. The wind roared in his ears. His heart pounded like war drums, each beat echoing one name—Y/N, Y/N, Y/N.

By the time the Dragonpit gates loomed, the keepers had barely thrown them open wide enough for his passage. The great domed structure rose like a mausoleum, the bones of old stones etched into the very foundation, but Daemon did not slow. He dismounted while the horse was still moving, letting it stumble to a halt as he strode forward.

Caraxes waited in the shadowed inner court, crouched low, his crimson wings curled like a sleeping serpent.

The dragon raised his head before Daemon spoke a word.

Daemon reached him, one hand on the scarred flank, and the old wyrm huffed smoke from his nostrils in greeting—ready, always ready.

“You saw her,” Daemon said softly, stepping closer. His voice was different now. “You felt her go.”

Caraxes snarled in answer, wings twitching.

Daemon climbed the saddle. The stirrups were cold iron, the grips worn smooth by war and wind. He settled himself like a man returning to his throne, then leaned forward, whispering through clenched teeth.

“We’re going after her.”

#house of the dragon #hotd #game of thrones #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #fire and blood #hotd x reader #hotd x you #hotd x y/n #daemon targaryen #hotd daemon #daemon x reader #daemon x you #daemon y/n #x reader #reader insert #f&b

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sixeyesonathiel · 3 months ago

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bet on blue — f1driver!gojo x gf!reader

fluff, meant to parallel free throws & figure drawings. there's just something so fine about gojo satoru going bonkers once the love of his life bets on him <3

you weren’t supposed to say it.

not like that.

not now—when the air still hums with anticipation, when the scent of engine oil and tire polish settles thick on the back of your tongue, when your heart’s already pounding like it knows what’s coming, trying to match the rhythm of countdowns and pit crew drills.

but you do.

because you can’t keep your mouth shut around him. because your skin still buzzes from watching him tear through the track like a man possessed. because there’s something so sharp and untouchable about the way he moves—fast, unrelenting, devastating—and it makes your chest ache with something too big to name.

because satoru gojo is the most terrifying and beautiful thing you’ve ever seen when he’s racing. and you were never any good at playing it safe.

“i bet on you.”

the words leave your mouth without ceremony, unpolished, tumbling clumsily into the space between you.

he's got his back to you, adjusting the straps on his helmet, his focus sharp as he readies himself for the race. the top of his fireproof suit is already unzipped, the fabric clinging to his torso as he shifts, every movement deliberate and calculated. the suit, darkened in spots where the sweat's started to settle, emphasizes the lean muscle of his frame. his hair is messy and damp, wild strands of white falling into his eyes, evidence of the heat and pressure he’s already been battling all morning.

his shoulders go still.

you don’t see his face at first, but you see the shift in him—like the gears in his head lock suddenly. like the whole world slams on the brakes. he turns slowly, glancing over one shoulder with narrowed eyes, the pale blue of them catching the light like fractured glass.

“what?”

you fold your arms, shifting your weight onto one leg, trying not to let your nerves show. your tongue presses hard against the inside of your cheek.

“like... sports betting,” you say, and your voice is too light, too nonchalant to be casual. “on today’s race. i put everything i had in savings on you.”

his jaw drops.

literally.

you watch the whole thing unfold like a slow-motion scene—the way his mouth opens slightly, the way his brows lift, how the color in his face flickers between confusion and horror. he looks like he just got slapped with a wet towel.

“you’re joking.”

you shake your head, biting down a grin. “nope.”

one beat. then another.

you can practically hear the static between you.

“you—are you insane?”

there’s genuine panic in his voice now, laced beneath the disbelief. he takes a step forward, then another—hands half-extended like he doesn’t know whether to shake you or pull you into his arms. finally, he grabs you by the shoulders, fingers curling into your jacket like he’s trying to keep you from evaporating.

his palms are hot. a little sweaty. a little trembling.

“you bet how much?”

you tilt your chin up, pride and nerves fighting for dominance. “ten thousand.”

his reaction is immediate and dramatic—his eyes widen, his lips part in shock, and he makes a noise that can only be described as a strangled gasp-scream hybrid. he spins away from you like he’s trying to physically escape the consequences of your words, dragging his hands through his hair until it’s sticking up in all directions.

“you WHAT—”

you dissolve into laughter. his horror is tangible, full-bodied, like it physically hurts him. he paces in frantic, looping circles, muttering to himself as if trying to rewrite the last thirty seconds.

“baby—do you have any idea how bad that is?” he finally exclaims, spinning back toward you with wild eyes. “what if i crash? what if the brakes lock up? what if some asshole takes me out on turn two again?”

you shrug. “then i go broke. and i sell feet pics.”

his face twists in agony. “NO!” he shouts, like you just proposed a blood ritual. “no, no, no—i’m going to win. i have to win now. i have to—i’m going to destroy everyone. i’m going to lap verstappen.”

“don’t think that’s possible on this circuit.”

he points a finger at you, accusatory. “i will make it possible.”

his eyes are blazing—like holy fire. and his hair, still spiked in wild directions, makes him look unhinged. like a beautiful lunatic.

you snort, watching the way his chest rises and falls with quick, shallow breaths. you reach up and touch his face, the pad of your thumb brushing just beneath his cheekbone. his skin is flushed and sticky, a thin sheen of sweat catching the light. he flinches slightly at your touch, like the gentleness startles him, then leans into it.

just for a second.

“you’re cute when you’re feral.” you murmur.

his eyes flutter shut briefly. like it grounds him. like you ground him.

you always do.

but he’s not cute on track.

he’s terrifying.

when the lights go out, he launches off the line like a missile.

you watch with your heart in your throat as he threads through corners with razor precision, faster than physics, faster than common sense. lap after lap, he pushes the car like it’s an extension of his will, shaving off milliseconds with each turn.

“manage pace.” his engineer warns.

he doesn’t even pretend to listen.

“you’re purple sectoring too aggressively.”

his voice crackles back, tight and low—“she bet ten thousand. i need more purple.”

the commentators laugh, but it’s a nervous kind of laughter. the kind that comes before something historic.

by lap fifteen, he’s broken the lap record. by twenty, the race record. by twenty-five, he’s leaving the field in the dust, overtaking cars like they insulted his ancestors.

he crosses the finish line thirty seconds ahead of p2.

the stands erupt. the commentators go breathless. the scoreboard lights up like a war won.

but none of that matters.

he’s already moving—yanking off gloves, hands shaking, helmet off and thrown somewhere onto the pit wall. his hair is soaked through with sweat now, sticking to his forehead and temples in wild strands.

the moment the car stops, he climbs out like it’s on fire. his boots hit the ground, and he’s running—ignoring the team, the cameras, the crowd.

you. he’s only looking at you.

amidst the roar of the crowd and the crackle of radio chatter, it’s like the rest of the world disappears. your eyes lock, and time stretches, the chaos around you fading into a blur. you’re still by the barrier, hands trembling against your mouth, eyes wide in disbelief. you can’t move, frozen in the instant. his gaze is all-consuming, like he's pulling you into his orbit.

he reaches you in four strides, swift and confident, the tension in his muscles unmistakable as he closes the distance between you.

“you—” he starts, voice hoarse from exertion, but then the words cut off, and without another word, he lifts you off the ground.

your feet leave the earth. your heart does too.

his grip is firm, his hands at your waist, and for a moment, you feel weightless. the adrenaline still vibrates through his body, and it sends a ripple of warmth through yours. his eyes, wide with disbelief, are only on you. there’s a mix of awe and frantic joy in his gaze as if he can’t quite believe this is real.

“ten thousand dollars!” he shouts, voice louder now, and then—without warning—he pulls you into him. his lips crash against yours, messy and desperate. it’s like a collision of everything—teeth, tongues, breathless gasps, and all the tension of the race exploding in a kiss. it’s uncoordinated, a beautiful chaos, and it tastes like victory. like danger. like home.

he pulls back just enough to catch his breath, his forehead resting against yours, his hands still clutching you like he can’t let go, even if he wanted to. “you fucking gambled on me,” he murmurs, his voice ragged with emotion. “what kind of insane, gorgeous, genius idiot are you?”

you laugh, breathless and caught in the aftermath of his kiss. your fingers curl into the collar of his half-unzipped suit, your knuckles brushing against the damp skin on his neck, feeling the heat still radiating from him. his pulse thunders against your chest, the rhythm in sync with yours.

“the kind who knew you’d win.” you whisper, and the words feel like the truth. you always knew he would.

he stares at you for a beat, his mouth twitching into a crooked grin. “you’re not allowed to bet on anyone else ever again.”

you raise an eyebrow, trying to act like you’re considering his request, but you know it’s a losing battle. “what if i bet on you every race?”

his smirk is cocky, his eyes gleaming with mischief. he presses his forehead to yours, the contact grounding. his breath is still ragged, and his smile is utterly smug. “then i’ll win every race. world records be damned. i’ll win everything.”

there’s that unwavering confidence in his voice. and you know—he means it. he will win everything. but right now, all he cares about is you. and you can’t help the warmth blooming in your chest.

when he finally sets you down, it’s with reluctance, like he’s dragging himself away from something he doesn’t want to leave. but he doesn’t let go of your hand—no, he tangles his fingers with yours, his grip firm and possessive, pulling you along with him through the pit lane, through the chaos of the crowd.

his body language is effortless, his movements commanding, as if he’s always in control. but there’s something in the way he holds your hand, the way he keeps you close, that says more than any words could. he’s not just the fastest driver on the planet. right now, in this moment, he’s completely and utterly yours.

the media swarm as soon as you make it to the front. flashes of cameras blind you both, the noise overwhelming. satoru’s got you tucked under his arm like a prize, and he doesn’t seem to mind one bit. you’re still trying to steady your breathing, but all you can focus on is how he’s still wearing that grin, the one that makes him look like he owns the world. his hair is a mess, damp and wild from the race, and his fireproof suit is half-unzipped, barely clinging to his chest. he doesn’t care about any of it. all he cares about is you.

the flash of a camera catches you at just the wrong angle, and you wince when you feel the lipstick smudge along your lips. your heart skips when you catch sight of it—a small smear on the corner of his mouth, and a dark streak of color against his cheek from where you kissed him so urgently. it's messy, but the evidence of the kiss only makes him look even more alluring.

“this win’s for her,” he announces into the mic, all charm and teeth, like he’s not sweating, like he didn’t just push his body to the limit to win. “she believed in me. also, she bet her savings on me, so if i lost, i was gonna have to start an onlyfans.”

the press laughs, but you can’t find the strength to smile. you bury your face into his shoulder, mortified by the lipstick smudge on his face that you’re certain is going to become a headline. you feel the warmth of his skin against your cheek, and then, you feel his chuckle rumble in his chest. his fingers brush the edge of your face, gently adjusting your hair, before he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. it’s like he’s claiming you all over again. “don’t worry,” he says, voice teasing, “i’ll make sure no one notices.”

you’re still in a daze, trying to recover from the whirlwind, but the thought of everyone seeing the mark you left on him has you cringing. satoru, of course, doesn’t seem to mind at all. if anything, it seems to amuse him.

“anyway,” he grins, pulling back just enough to look at you. “guess it’s her turn to buy dinner now.”

the crowd erupts in cheer, but you’re barely aware of them. all you can hear is the sound of your heart thundering in your chest and the warmth of his lips still lingering on your skin. maybe this is it—maybe this is the moment when everything shifts. because as satoru’s hand tightens around yours, you realize that the win he’s really talking about isn’t the race.

it’s you.

and to satoru gojo, that’s the only victory that matters.

a/n : you then get banned to five betting sites for insider trading 💔 dont nitpick about the race pls i did my best😔 if u saw the wrong version of this earlier no u didn't🩷 did i ever mention transferring my works from my drafts to tumblr is hell?🤗 IT HAD TO ESCAPE MY DRAFTS WHILE I WAS STILL EDITING TOO. i feel like i would implode from embarassment every damn time this typa shit happens😭

anyways this my apology to satoru for reader only betting the minimum on his team at free throws and figure drawings LMAOOO.

#gojo fluff #gojo satoru #gojo x female reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #jjk x reader #jjk fanfic #reader insert #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #౨ৎ — filed reports

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frmisnow · 5 months ago

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ㅤ▌ ͟CHERRY LOLLIPOPS & CHEAP MOTELS! ‎⠀⠀⎯⎯⠀⠀ ♬᭢ 𝟐.𝟔𝐤 smut . nsfw

SUMMARY in which jungkook picks you up in his shitty car, takes you to an even shittier motel, and makes you forget why you ever said you wouldn’t do this again.

the parking lot outside your boyfriend's apartment, if you could even call it that, smelt like piss and burnt rubber. no, another correction ⎯⎯ the parking lot outside your exe's apartment complex smells like piss. you shake your head, one of your heels clicking against the hard ground in an effort to distract yourself; you keep on having to remind yourself that he cheated.

i mean how horny does one have to be, getting a blowjob at the exact time when you were supposed to have the date. 'the date' is an abomination and an overstatement. by that you mean overglorified sex meeting, or whatever, that you had planned.

you roll your eyes, one of your nails digging into the cigarette that you then put out, your heel digging into the little butt. your fingers work on unwrapping one of the cherry lollipops that he liked so much. now you had a whole pack somewhere in your basement, for no damn reason. you didn't even like cherries.

your brows furrow, as you taste the oversugared candy just as your ears pick up the low, rough engine approaching from your left side. you'd recognize that shitty sound from everywhere. if that ain't love.

jungkook pulls into the dirty street, like he owns the whole thing. one hand slung over the wheel, the other resting against the worn out gear shift, ink-dark tattoos flexing under cheap fluorescent light. while his confidence was certaintly cute, his car was everything but such. scratches and dirt adoring the most likely decade-old car.

the window’s already rolled down, but he doesn’t say anything at first. just lets his gaze drag slow over your frame — your bare legs, your mascara which was ruined well just a little, the slight pout of your lips around the lollipop. it's not even sexual, he's looking over you like he's observing a situation, figuring you out, where you stand, how you're feeling. calculated.

“don’t,” you say before he can open his mouth.

jungkook’s smile curves, the kind of expression that makes you want to throw your lollipop at his face. “don’t what?”

“don’t.” you punctuate it with a click of your tongue, the sharp crack of candy between your teeth. your mood is just a tad bit rotten, and jungkook is the very last person you need needling at your pride.

still, he gestures toward the passenger seat with a flick of his fingers. “get in.”

you hate how fast your body moves before your brain can catch up, your hand reaching out to open the car door, which opens with another sharp noise, barerly. and you hate how the seat smells like him, warm leather and cigarettes, that one perfume that he still wears, no.97 april cotton. it firmly recks, of it all. of familiarity and something you once considered mellow.

but most of all, you hate how he can tell. how he witnesses you lean back into the seat, were anyone else would see it as you getting more comfortable, he could tell it was you chasing the comfort that it itself provided.

his palm settles on your thigh, warm and familiar, like it belongs there. his thumb brushes absentmindedly over your bare skin, just once, just enough to make something tighten low in your stomach.

you should push him off. should cross your legs, turn toward the window, pretend you don’t care. but you don’t. you won’t. instead, you sink further into the seat, pressing into the scent of his cologne like it might drown out the bitterness sitting in your throat.

“so,” he muses, casual as anything, drawing out the vowel, like he wanted to see you squirm under the pressure of what his question awaits. his sadist ass would probably enjoy that. “are we gonna talk about it?”

you roll the lollipop between your teeth., before you let it go with a soft pop, anything to distract him from your heartrate. could he feel your heart through your thigh? god, you hope not. “nothing to talk about.”

he snickers, but it's dim, faint, gentle, there's no real malice. other then the fact that he expected just that answer, and those actions, in that exact order. why was he so smart? it seriously freaked you out, all you were left to resort on doing was continue on with the lollipop.

cherry all over your tongue. rotten.

“you want me to fuck him up?”

you sigh under your breath, lifting one of your legs to rest on your other one, his hand ultimately falling off as a result, "no- i," you pause, eyes out the window, focusing on the bright neon signs and eventual car that drives by, "he didn't promise me anything. i didn't promise him anything either, it's- really." you hate, absolutly despise, how your voice flatters, unsure and uneven, "nothing."

jungkook's fingers drum against the wheel in a steady rhythm, letting your words settle into the thin air. before he echoes your words, "nothing." and you see a muscle in his jaw twitching, before he smiles, though it's all half-lidded and lazy in execution, bit forced perhaps, "you're a shitty liar."

"you used to be better."

you do your best to ignore him, his words and presence all together. just twist the straw of the red candy which by now, has probably painted your tongue in a similair shade, starr out the window because that was all you could fathom doing. stupidly. naively.

being confronted by the past stung because you haven't changed, really. it's the similar sting of sugar against your tongue.

his hand moves again. not to your thigh this time, but to the lollipop stick, tugging it from your lips without asking. the candy snaps from your teeth, cold air replacing it before you can protest.

he licks what was left of the little red circle, as the car stopped at a red light, now his tongue was red as well. just one more thing on the long list, tying you both by fate. his brows furrow only slowly, before his eyes settle on you, thumb gently gracing your lips that carried the same taste which was now between his very own.

"i thought you didn't like cherries."

your tongue darts out instinctively, tasting the sugar still clinging to your lips, "no. no , i don't like cherries." the car behind you honks, sharp and impatient. the red light had long since turned green.

total silence fills the practically broken car as he continues driving, the lollipop lazily rolling on his tongue as you shift in your seat, one leg folding over the other, skin still buzzing from where he touched you. your heel dangles off your toes, threatening to fall, and you wonder if he’s watching, you could never quite tell with jungkook.

“you wanna tell me why I’m driving you to a motel?”

you blink. once, twice, thrice, before it was to unnatural as to not respond.

“you picked me up.”

“you told me to.”

“you didn’t have to listen.”

jungkook huffs, something close to a laugh but not quite. “that’s cute.” god, dimples. beautiful little dimples on both sides of his face.

the lollipop clicks against his teeth when he bites down, cracking the hardened sugar like it’s nothing, as if to break the tension, or worsen it.

you sit still, legs crossed for the rest of the two minutes. before you can clearly witness the motel sign in front of you, one of the lights clearly broken. MTEL, charming.

his voice cuts through the tense air while he's turning the car off, "do you want to be alone tonight? i'll let you."

you'd say you hate how you don't hear your own voice, your lips mouth or don't feel any physical reaction for that matter, but that'd be a lie. because you wanted it, wanted him, the real craving to repeat the past just once more.

the room he gets is upstairs. third door on the left. the hallway smells like cheap lemon cleaner, and there’s a buzzing light that flickers overhead, casting long shadows yet it highlights his tattoos as well, the pretty ink you used to lick and trace patterns off. you want to burry yourself into the grey carpet beneath you.

he steps inside, flicks on the lamp, and tosses the key onto the nightstand. the light casts his face in amber, warm and unreadable. he’s watching you again. that same slow, calculating gaze from the car as the door falls shut, with a tiny click.

“take your shoes off,” he mumbles, arms leaning back onto the dark brown desk, he just tossed the keys onto.

you don't move, a little pout adoring your face, the one you do whne you were unsure of.. well.. what to do.

his gaze flicks down to your heels, then back up, slow. “you wanna fuck on a motel bed in six-inch stilettos?”

you huff, a little defiant, but the heels come off. you bend, slip them off slow, and he watches. of course, he does. that same hooded gaze, tracking the movement like it’s something to be studied.

“pretty girl,” he murmurs, pushing off the desk, and you barely get the chance to straighten before his hands are on you. firm, sure. the rough pads of his fingers skim over the fragile skin of your face, thumbs tracing over your flush cheeks.

his mouth is hot against your throat, dragging slow kisses down the sensitive skin. he lingers just below your ear, exhales long, lets you feel it. then, his teeth — just a little.

“always got an attitude,” he mutters, hands smoothing down your back, “m' gonna fix that,” he rasps, pushing you toward the bed, turning you so you stumble back onto the mattress.

the mattress creaks under your weight. the air is thick, humming with the heat between you. his eyes are half-lidded, burning, dark.

he pulls his shirt over his head, lets it drop to the dirty motel floor, then his belt clinks, the soft shift of a zipper. his cock slaps against his stomach, flushed red, thick, leaking at the tip.

your mouth goes dry.

“spread your legs.”

you do. you don’t think. you just do, and he groans, a deep, pleased sound that makes you squirm.

he grabs your thighs, drags you closer to the edge, and just — sinks in.

you choke on a gasp.

no prep. nothing but how soaked you already are. it’s too much, just right, stretching you open in a way that makes your head spin.

his hands settle on your hips, grip unforgiving, and he doesn’t move. not yet. just sits there, thick inside you, like he’s letting you feel it, making sure you know, making sure you remember. how it was like, how it used to be.

“jesus,” he breathes, looking down at where you’re stuffed full of him. “tight fuckin’ cunt. always so good for me.”

then, he moves.

slow at first, measured, like he wants to see how you take it. then, rougher. faster.

the headboard knocks against the wall. the slap of skin fills the room, slick and obscene.

your nails bite into his forearms. your back arches.

“oh, fuck—”

he grips your jaw, forces you to look at him.

“you have the prettiest fuckin' eyes,” he rasps, thumb pressing into your cheek, "fuck— look at me." and it's practically a whine which you can't help but comply to.

his hips snap into you, deep, brutal. his hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing quick, teasing circles.

your legs shake. your thighs clench around his waist, body tensing.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, watching you unravel beneath him. “c’mon, baby — fuckin’ come for me.”

you do. hard.

“gonna fill you up,” he pants, grip tightening on your hips, pinning you in place, chasing his own high. “bet your fucking pussy remembers everything, remembers who i am.”

his hips stutter as you clench around him. a sharp inhale. then, warmth. deep.

he doesn’t pull out. doesn’t move, just breathes, dragging a hand up your stomach, up between your breasts, stopping at your throat.

your heart pounds against his palm.

his lips move barerly, a small smile while leans down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips, pulling out just enough to let his cum drip between your thighs.

he lets you breath for about a minute, before he flips you over like you weigh nothing. like he’s got all the time in the world to manhandle you, spread you out over the mattress just how he wants.

your cheek presses into the sheets, legs bent under you, ass up. you barely get a second to breathe before his palm cracks against the curve of your ass, sharp, hot.

“fuck,” you gasp, fingers digging into the sheets.

he just hums, rubbing over the sting, soothing before landing another — harder this time.

“too fuckin’ pretty like this,” he mutters, palming at your waist, dragging his cock through t he mess between your thighs, nudging against your clit. “can’t get enough of you.”

he grips your hips and pushes back in, one slow, aching stroke, stretching you open all over again.

“shit,” he rasps, watching himself disappear inside you, shaking his head like he can’t believe it. “always so fuckin’ tight.”

your fingers fist the sheets. your back arches. he’s deeper this way, heavier, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress as he starts to move.

slow at first. taunting.

then, he grips the back of your neck, pinning you down, and snaps his hips forward.

you moan, high pitched, wrecked, and he groans in response, fingers flexing over your skin.

“that’s it,” he breathes, pace quickening, slamming into you hard enough to shove you up the bed, the headboard banging against the wall. “take it, baby.”

his other hand sneaks under you, pressing against your stomach, feeling the way he’s deep inside you, grinding in hard, slow circles.

“can feel me, huh?” his voice is rough, almost teasing. “fuckin’ you so deep—”

you whimper, clenching around him, and he hisses, dragging you back onto his cock, fucking you harder. the room is filled with noise — the wet slap of skin, the creak of the mattress, groans of the both of you.

“gonna come,” you gasp, fingers slipping against the sheets, weak, small bits of sweat glistening on your skin. your vision whites out while he fucks you through it, his own release hitting only seconds later.

jungkook collapses beside you, pressing a gentle, open-mouthed kiss against your shoulder. you’re just a tad bit ruined, limbs useless, but you hum in contentment when he continues pressing lazy kisses up your spine.

you can firmly feel that signature smile of his against your skin, pressing another kiss to your shoulder before pulling back. the bed dips as he stands, leaving you feeling cold for all of two seconds before he’s back with a warm cloth.

the first press of it between your thighs makes you shiver. he’s careful, gentle, murmuring soft praises as he cleans you up.

“so good for me.”

“always take me so well.”

when he’s done, he tosses the cloth aside and climbs back into bed, dragging you against his chest. his fingers trace slow circles against your bare back, lulling and soothing.

“you want water?” he asks, lips brushing your temple.

you nod, still half-asleep. he reaches over to the nightstand, pressing the bottle to your lips, "c'mon drink." carefully watching as you take a few small gulps before pushing it away.

his fingers move through your hair, once again lulling you into soft sleep.

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iconbyunghun · 5 months ago

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Pretty doll

Pairing: Jin Hyun Pil x Fem!Reader

Summary: You are his pretty assistant, who has no right to refuse anything he orders you to do.

Warnings: Smut 18+, age gap (early 20s/50s), oral (m recieving), power dynamics, degradation, exhibitionism (kinda)

Word count: 1.2 k

a/n: I watched "Master" a few days ago, and I didn’t have a single pure thought about this man. This is a quick one shot, but I promise there will be many more to come! :)

The deafening cheers and applause of the crowd faded into the distance as you walked down the hallway toward the exit. The echo of the ovation still vibrated against the walls, yet inside you, there was only a tense silence.

At your side, drawing every gaze, walked Jin Hyun Pil. His perfectly tailored suit accentuated his imposing figure. He radiated authority with each step, flanked by his security guards, while you, his pretty assistant, kept pace with precise coordination.

Gone was the charming smile, the image of One Network Inc.’s charismatic leader. Now, his face was something else, serious, cold, calculating. Since you started working for him, you have been captivated by his duality.

"You're coming with me." His voice was an unyielding command, accompanied by a gaze that raked over you from head to toe before he stepped into the car. One of the men accompanying him held the door open to the waiting vehicle.

Without hesitation, you followed him inside. The door shut with a sharp click, and the engine purred softly as the driver received the signal to start moving.

Inside the car, the atmosphere was thick, charged with a tense silence. You sat beside him, a small distance between you, gripping your notepad like an anchor. You were his personal assistant, but from the very first day, he had made it clear that the exorbitant salary and privileges he granted you were not a gesture of generosity for your pretty face and intelligence. He needed you for other things. Things more… intimate.

"How was I today?" he asked with a half-smile, raising a hand to slide his fingers through your hair, idly playing with a loose strand. His tone was light, almost amused, but his dark eyes studied you with an intensity that kept you on the edge of submission.

"Impeccable as always, sir," you replied with a small, timid smile, forcing yourself to maintain composure.

His expression hardened instantly. His fingers closed firmly around your chin, tilting your face toward him.

"I've already told you how you should refer to me in private." His other hand tugged gently at your hair, forcing you to meet his gaze.

A soft gasp escaped your lips. The slight pull wasn’t painful, but the combination of his tone and touch sent a shiver through you. You briefly averted your eyes toward the driver, an older man whose expression remained impassive, as if nothing beyond the wheel existed in his world.

You swallowed.

“Sorry, Daddy…” you whispered.

His smile returned, full of satisfaction.

“Good girl,” he murmured against your ear before capturing your earlobe between his teeth, biting slowly, enjoying your reaction. His hand moved down your body with exasperating slowness, sliding under your skirt.

Your breathing hitched.

“Daddy’s had a rough day,” he murmured in a deep voice, his lips brushing your skin. “Why don’t you use that cute little mouth of yours to help me relax?”

Your body tensed.

“Right now?” you asked in a shaky whisper, all too aware of the driver’s presence. “Why don’t we wait until we’re alone?”

His response was immediate and abrupt.

“Are you stupid or what?” His voice turned cold and sharp. Before you could react, he yanked you suddenly, causing you to lose your balance. Your body hit the carpet of the car with a thud.

“I pay you to follow my orders when I give them, not to question me.” His gaze was ice-cold, his patience gone.

Your chest rose and fell with force, the weight of his words settling heavily on your skin. The car continued moving forward, the driver silent, as if the scene behind him was nothing more than a void in the rearview mirror’s reflection.

“I'm sorry,” you hurried to say while your hands moved tremblingly to the zipper of his dress pants. You felt his excitement tightening the fabric and his darkened gaze fixed on you.

He ran his fingers through his grey hair, a mocking smile playing on his lips, before tilting his head and fixing his gaze on you with intensity. He relished how docile you were and how easily he could control you, turning you into a complete mess.

He helped you pull down his pants along with his boxers, revealing his prominent erection. You wrapped your hands around it, caressing him up and down.

“Hey, Dong Ik,” he said loudly, his voice raspier than usual as he addressed the driver. “Could you put on some music?”

“Of course, sir,” came the calm response.

Soft notes of a song you hadn’t heard before filled the car. The volume was set to a reasonable level for everyone inside. You couldn’t help but wonder if he did this with his previous assistants, as both men seemed completely at ease with the situation.

“Are you feeling calmer now?” he asked, running his hands over your cheeks before gripping the sides of your head tightly. You nodded.

“Open that pretty little mouth.” He demanded, guiding you straight to his cock, and without warning, he thrust it deep into your throat, making you choke and suppress a gag before he pulled you away with a laugh of pure enjoyment. “Sorry, baby, but having you on your knees makes me lose a bit of myself control.”

Without answering him, you continued on your own, starting with a lick along one of the veins that ran along his erect member. With your right hand, you held him, while with your left, you massaged his balls. In the short time you had been doing this, he had taught you quite well, and the hard way, how he liked to be touched

When you reached the tip, you tasted his essence concentrated in tiny drops. You took him into your mouth, descending slowly while your tongue danced around him before ascending with intense suction. His breathing became erratic, and a growl escaped his lips.

“What a good little doll I have gotten myself,” he praised, throwing his head back and letting out more gasps.

You continued pleasuring him, and you couldn't help but feel your center wet and in need of his touch. You would never openly admit it, but it excited you to be humiliated by him.

“That's right, my precious slut, just like thaaat.” He commented especially loudly when you took him completely in your mouth all the way to the back of your throat. His hands went back to your head, and he held you like that for a few seconds that seemed like an eternity. Tears were present in your eyes. Looking at you, he only wanted more of that expression on your face.

He held your head, and as if it were his sex doll, he began to fuck your mouth, your saliva mixed with his own liquids escaping from your mouth, in the car the music mixed with the sounds of wetness, gasps, and your muffled complaints.

When he finally felt that he was about to finish, he pulled out, and you automatically opened your mouth to receive his essence; he caressed himself for a few more seconds before emptying himself on your tongue and face.

He smiled proudly when he saw his work of art, your teary eyes, totally disheveled hair, and swollen lips with drops of his essence all over your face.

“I think you deserve a raise” he commented happily, leaning down to give you a chaste kiss on the forehead.

#lee byung hun x reader #lee byung hun #lee byung hun imagine #lee byung hun x you #jin hyun pil x reader #hwang in ho x reader #in ho x reader #hwang in ho #squid game #squid game 2 #English is not my native language so I'm sorry for any mistakes #jin hyun pil #master 2016

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buckets-and-trees · 18 days ago

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Point of No Return [Fine Line Collection]

Characters/Pairings: mean Alpha!Bucky x curvy Female!Omega!Reader Word Count: 4.5k Summary: Bucky has continued to honor your tentative new arrangement, allowing your presence while he conduct business, this time with the men he's selected to be part of his inner circle. (not a stand-alone read)

Content/Warnings: omegaverse: scenting, alpha-omega bond, attention to bond mark; power dynamics; some manipulation; explicit smut: oral (female receiving), vaginal fingering, vaginal penetration, male ejaculation/insemination; beefy and voracious Bucky (is a warning)

Author Notes: I thought I'd be writing something else for this week of HBS, but here we are! Tried two other ideas, but this was what the muse wanted to work on! So this is my offering for WEEK THREE of @buckybarnesevents' Hot Bucky Summer - "Now now!" and exhibitionism.

Previous: Under Siege | Series List

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

The first thing General Levinson does, upon entering Bucky’s office, is drop an unsealed manila envelope on the desk and say, “You’ll want to see page five.”

Bucky only briefly glances up. He flips the envelope on one corner and extracts the neatly typed dossier, his thumb running briskly through the pages until the one marked “5.” He scans it in silence, eyes flicking left to right so fast you’d swear he wasn’t reading at all, but you know better.

You watch Bucky’s face for the telltale sign of news—amusement, irritation, the faintest raise of an eyebrow. But he betrays no reaction until the very end, where his tongue presses against the inside of his cheek, and he hums, “Interesting.”

Levinson sits—slouches, almost—legs crossed at the knee, hands steepled. He seems as comfortable behind enemy lines as he does in a penthouse drawing room. You remember, from your father’s own muttered warnings, that this was always the most dangerous sort of man: one who didn’t believe in sides at all, only outcomes.

“Page six will interest you as well, but I’ll save you the suspense: your favorite little mayor has someone feeding her intel, and it’s not any one of the council rats who pissed themselves at last week’s performance.” Levinson flicks his gaze to you, but not in the way an alpha looks at an omega, or even a man looks at a woman. It’s a look of evaluation, the kind you’d give a high-value asset in an unreliable package. His gaze slides off you as quickly as it landed, but not before you register the calculation there: a curiosity about what you might know, or be, that no one else does.

“Apparently, there’s enough chatter on the localized bands that she pulled at least three standing council members out of the territory before your men locked down the southern highways,” Levinson continues, voice bone-dry. “They’re regrouping in the Crescent District. Not an organized counter-offensive yet, but it’s only a matter of time.”

Bucky closes the folder and drums his vibranium fingers against the lacquered desk. The sound is sharp, metronomic. “Who’s on the bankroll?” he asks.

Levinson smirks, the barest twitch of his mouth. “If this were the old territory, I’d say probably Gowan, but the new seat of operations is running leaner than you’d think.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything for a moment, letting the silence expand—punctuated only by the measured taps of blue steel. Then he turns the folder so it faces you. “Tertiary sources?” he asks you, almost bored.

You take the folder, or rather accept it as he slides it closer with one finger. The spine of the document is still warm from his touch, and as you begin to read, you’re aware of both alphas regarding you with identical, flat attention.

The information is better than you’d expected: Cross-referenced wiretaps, heatmap overlays of encrypted comms, some social engineering so careful it could only be Levinson’s hand. You can feel your pulse quicken as you recognize names of old allies, family friends, people you thought had been cowed into irrelevance. But it’s the pattern of communication that draws you in—the subtle signals, the breadcrumbs of a resistance effort so careful it would have gone unnoticed had someone not been looking for precisely the right thing. There’s a kind of taut, ugly hope that blooms behind your ribs when you realize some of your father’s most trusted advisors are not dead, nor in exile, but embedded, alive, already building something.

You bite back your reaction, keep your posture slack and your expression politely inquisitive. “If these contact points are accurate,” you say, tracing a column of numbers with your finger, “they’re not just regrouping. They’re triangulating.”

Levinson raises his eyebrows, faintly impressed. “Exactly my thought. Most of the signals are low-velocity, until about two days ago. Then it’s all careful relays, little jumps from node to node, but always returning to one locus.”

“The Ridge Market,” you say without thinking.

“Bring in the others,” Bucky says. “We clearly have some priorities to discuss.”

General Levinson stands and moves to the wide double doors, opens them with a casual, proprietary ease.

Nick Fowler, head of intelligence, is first through the door. He wears a perfect three-day stubble and a suit that, for all its perfection, appears to have never known a tailor. His eyes, pale as melting ice and twice as quick, land immediately on the folder in your hands, then flick to Bucky, who gives him a single, shallow nod.

Andy Barber, the new attorney general, lingers just behind him, hands deep in his pockets.

Press secretary Ransom Drysdale rounds out the pack, today in a powder-blue blazer and gold watch, mouth already twisted into the preemptive smirk of a man who plans to lose no argument.

The chairs scrape, the men settle, and Bucky—who does not stand for ceremony—simply waits them with a lazy crook of his finger. Levinson remains at his shoulder, half a shadow, half an extension of will.

"First order," Bucky says, his voice a weaponized monotone, "is this." He lays his palm over the folder. "Fowler, you’re lead on the Ridge Market situation. Devote as many assets as you need. Don’t burn them. I want to see what it grows into."

Fowler nods, already two moves ahead in his head. "Soft touch, then. You want the inside of it, not just the edges?"

Bucky glances at you. "She’ll consult on this. Knows the players and enough of their communication patterns." It is not a request.

Fowler’s eyes slide to you, and there is a visible recalibration, the shift from considering you a liability to seeing you as an asset.

“So, Governor,” Drysdale says, “what’s our position, and has anyone told you lately you really need a chief of staff?”

Barber grunts, “If you ask me, that’s the real fire under your ass. Not the mayors or the market or even the threat of a counterforce. It’s the day-to-day. Things are running fine, but you will be able to do more with a chief of staff who can carry out your campaigns and keep things moving.”

Bucky gives Drysdale and Barber a look so flat and cold it would stop the hearts of lesser men, but these are the alphas Bucky has hand-picked to surround himself with particularly to have an inner-circle of strength. They wait for him to speak.

“I already know who it’s going to be,” Bucky says, voice low, “I simply need him to agree to it.”

He doesn’t say the name, but you see the flare of amusement in Drysdale’s eye, the slight tic at the corner of Barber’s mouth. Whatever this private joke is, you are not yet party to it.

“There’s a bigger issue, though,” Levinson says, already on to the next battle. “With the territory stabilized, you need to address how people see you. The people expect the typical paradigm—Alpha as strongman, Omega as well-bred ornament. Half the territory saw their Omega heir offer herself up to you to save the people, and some of them liked the idea of her defeat. Some of them are angry as hell. Some of them don’t know how to read the new developments over the past few days with her by your side. If you want to keep the next wave quiet, you have to set the expectation of what an Omega is, and what a bonded pair looks like.”

Fowler, who has been intermittently sketching something on his notepad, looks up and says, “He’s right. You can rule by fear, but you won’t get loyalty unless you give them something aspirational. The last three takeovers we’ve seen overseas, the territories that survived were the ones that adapted the fastest.” He glances at you, then at Bucky. “If you’re not going to put her in a box, you have to sell her as a new kind of asset. Otherwise, you’ll get the worst of both worlds. Everybody’s anxious.”

“We need to reshape what they aspire to, we need to make being an omega in this territory - this administration - look like a privilege. We need people to hunger for it, even as they fear it.”

Bucky’s metal hand opens, closes. The sound is like a slow gun cocking. "You want to sell her," he says, voice so mild you almost miss the threat. "As what?"

Fowler shrugs, a minimalist gesture. "The First Omega becomes an asset to the sitting governor. The only one with a real voice. You give her just enough leash that she’s not a hostage, but everyone is always watching for when, or if, she’ll snap it. This is how you recruit the next generation of loyalists."

Drysdale jumps in, "We can script it. It’s the oldest playbook in the world: dynasty, virtue, the taming of a prize. Public appearance with the both of you, minimum three minutes of live footage, no scripts. Let them see the bond. Touch her.”

“We do know,” Barber adds, “that the public display of her bonding initially and then the double bonding ceremony sent powerful ripples of perception through those who saw and additionally those who heard of it. The whispers about your recent council meeting are equally as alluring.”

The muscles in your chest are tight as you sit just off to the side of the circle, but you try to project as much impassivity as possible as Fowler, Barber and Drysdale discuss your fate like it’s any other marketing campaign.

Bucky leans back, the sound of his chair creaking the only sign of his tension. "We'll do it. Schedule the public engagement for tomorrow at noon." He turns to you, a question in his eyes so brief only you catch it: Are you ready to play this part, or will you try to defy him with the world watching?

Bucky doesn’t wait for an answer. He crooks two fingers, summoning you to his side. The men around the desk barely pause. If anything, their attention sharpens, as if this, too, is part of the brief.

You stand, approach, and he pulls you onto his lap without ceremony. You land astride his thigh, skirt riding up, the bare skin of your legs pressed against the wool of his suit. Bucky’s flesh hand settles on your waist, his vibranium palm spanning your entire upper thigh. The heat of his touch is a warning and a promise.

“This is what they’re talking about,” he says, not to you, but to the room. “The public doesn’t care about my policies or security protocols. They want to see us. To see her.” He runs his hand up, up, until his thumb is nearly under the hem of your skirt. “They want to see the bond. They want to see an omega who can take what’s coming, and stay hungry for it.”

You sense the performance in his touch. His hand trails even higher, the blunt edge of his thumb now grazing so close to the apex of your thighs that you hold your breath, waiting.

Bucky’s voice is slow, deliberate, as he continues. “We learned something in that first week,” he says, his hand moving with lazy certainty ever closer, but not touching your clothed cunt yet. “She likes an audience. I like her like this. Everyone gets what they want, but, gentlemen, if we are smart, we figure out how to use it beyond the two of us. We need something for the masses, but we cannot be on display so freely, we have to be the rarity.”

His hand slides under the edge of your underwear, the pads of his fingers merciless as they slip under the waistband of your underwear and find your cunt, already slick and growing wetter by the second. The cool vibranium of his thumb settles on your hipbone, pinning you in place, while his two flesh fingers part your folds and begin to stroke, slow and unhurried, both a violation and a benediction. You gasp, the sound embarrassingly loud in the hush, and your other hand grips his shoulder, clinging to composure.

The scent of your arousal blooms in the room’s warm air, and the men around the desk catch it. You register it in the minute adjustments of posture, the softening of conversation, the way Fowler’s lips part and Barber looks away and then back, unable not to.

You can feel how Bucky registers their reactions to. He noses at your throat, his breath hot against the mark at the base of your neck. You feel the wet drag of his tongue as he licks it, sending a pulse of heat through your body. There’s a deliberate showmanship in the gesture; he holds your eyes for a fraction of a second, then flashes his gaze around the table, daring anyone to flinch.

He finds your clit and presses, circles, until your hips twitch against his hand in a silent plea. His lips graze your ear, intimate and low for you alone: "Good omega."

He doesn't slow, doesn't shield it from view. The men around the table do not look away. The pull of what's happening is gravitational, inescapable. You become the locus of the room, the axis of power and desire, as he works you with an exquisite, infuriating patience.

"The new order," Bucky says conversationally, as though he is discussing the weather, "is not about fear or brute force. That's old thinking. It's about making something so compelling no one wants to tear it down." His fingers move more insistently, and you bite your lower lip to keep from whimpering. "You put a real omega in the public square, bonded to the Governor, not just a trophy but a weapon. You show them a pair as volatile and as bound as any mythology. They watch for the cracks, for the moment she breaks, and it never comes. The absence of failure is its own propaganda."

"You want her to be a martyr," says Barber, his tone flat.

"Not a martyr. A miracle," Bucky corrects. "She survives everything. Every humiliation, every pleasure, every blow. That's how you teach a territory to crave order. You become their darkest appetite."

Levinson studies the tableau, his head tilted. "No other region has ever pulled that off, not for a generation. Old world, maybe. Here? It's a dangerous bet."

Bucky's hand never leaves your cunt. By the way he holds you, you think he could make you come right here, right now, with the whole room watching, and all you'd be able to do is arch against his hand, because your omega instincts purr with satisfaction at being so thoroughly possessed, at being the focus of such raw, possessive desire. There's power in this submission, you realize - in knowing that the most dangerous alpha in the territory wants you so badly he won’t wait for privacy.

“We are the bright opening, but we manufacture this,” he explains, ”rarity. A singularity. You make it clear the only way to aspire to what we have is through total loyalty to order. To me. To us.”

He slips his fingers out, and you whine at him leaving you empty. Then he brings his wet digits to your lips as though offering communion. “Open,” he rasps, and you do, parting your mouth so he can swipe your essence across your tongue in full view of the assembled men. Your taste is sharp, salt and want, and for a queasy instant you wonder how it must feel to be the living center of a cult, adored, sacrificed, remade again and again.

His hand rests heavily at your throat. “This is how we win forever, not just for a year or a decade,” Bucky says. “We reprogram the appetite of the territory until even our enemies cannot imagine another way of wanting.”

Drysdale leans back in his chair, and for the first time since he entered, he looks you straight in the eye. “You’re going to make her the center of envy.”

“Not just envy. Obsession,” Fowler says, untwisting his pen and rethreading it in slow, thoughtful turns.

Bucky locks eyes with you, and you feel the raw current of his need, not just to possess you but to make your bond an epoch. “This is about the animal in everyone. Give them something to fixate on, and their unrest will stay all teeth and no bite.”

You feel a spike along your bond, some mixture of anticipation and heat, and you realize Bucky is as close to the edge as you are. He wants to push you, to make you shatter, but to do it in a way that will become legend, a story retold in every district until even the most resistant omega dreams of being you.

He stands with abrupt, predatory grace, lifting you with him. Your skirt is bunched at your hips. He slips out of his suit jacket and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, exposing the gleam of vibranium and the roped muscle of his right arm. His flesh hand presses your chest down onto the lacquered wood, pinning you with the effortless strength of a war god. The cool air hits the exposed backs of your thighs.

You sense every eye in the room: the generalized hunger, the predatory curiosity, the inescapable knowledge that you are about to be shown, again, exactly whose you are.

He doesn’t bother with your underwear; he simply rips it, the elastic popping against your skin. His hand spans your lower back, pinning you down, and without warning his cock—already hard from the spectacle—pushes between your legs, breaching you in a single, blinding thrust. A cry wrenches from your throat, sharper than anything you’ve made for him before, and the men around the table shudder in answer, an audible ripple of breath and muscle contracting.

He fucks you at a brutal, unhesitating pace, each drive of his hips jarring your body forward, forcing your abdomen against the unforgiving edge of the desk. There is no gentleness, no pretense; he is using you, claiming you in an act of pure theater, and you sense the precise calculation in every movement. You are a weapon and a message. You are his.

Your eyes blur with the force of it, pleasure already cresting inside you, and somewhere in your mind you feel the atmosphere in the room change: a tightening, a collective focus that neatly telescopes down to the hinge of his hands at your hips and the point of his cock spearing you open.

There’s a howl somewhere—it takes a moment to realize it’s your own voice, torn raw as he pounds into you. There’s nothing left of the careful, self-possessed woman who started this meeting. You are shaking on the edge, bent to the shape of his will and the angle of the desk. Every thrust drums the breath from your lungs, every wet slap of skin is punctuated by the guttural rumble of his satisfaction.

He doesn’t break rhythm as he twists your head to the side—his vibranium fingers gentle for only this, maneuvering your face so you look out, directly at the audience of men with their masklike faces, their barely leashed hunger. Some of them have their hands fisted in their laps, cocks swelling obvious behind the thin wool of their trousers. All of them are breathing too fast, eyes wide.

You come, and it’s not quiet, not contained, not modulated for the benefit of civilized company. It’s a noise from the animal core of you, a breaking of all protocol, a shudder that garlands the room with the velocity of your need. You think you might black out for a second, so total is the pleasure, so shocking the shockwave as your inner muscles seize and clamp around Bucky’s cock.

He does not stop. If anything, he intensifies, using the leverage of his hands to wrench you against him, an exultant violence that makes your soul shiver. You are aware, distantly, of the men at the table, how their rigid silence has given way to a kind of seizure—rubbing, shifting, the rasp of wool and the pop of a button as someone’s restraint shreds under the force of what they’re seeing.

You’re still spasming when Bucky slams in, his cock driving so deep it feels like he’s fucking the soul out of your body. You are nothing but light and wetness and his name scraped raw from your lungs.

Bucky spends himself in a handful of punishing thrusts, hips bucking against your aftershocks. He empties inside you, the heat of it flooding you so suddenly you groan, and the sound is so feral, so lost to dignity, the men in the room instinctively look away.

He stays inside you for a moment, cock still twitching, his hand never leaving your nape, as if anchoring you to the desk is now a metaphysical rather than mechanical need. Then he draws your back against his chest. You’re reeling, legs unsteady, vision swimming. His mouth finds your ear. “Remember this,” he says, low and soft so only you can hear.

Then, to the men, he says in a cool voice, "You saw what I wanted you to see. Go figure out how to manufacture it for the public."

There is a scrape of chair legs, hands smoothing down pant legs, a flurry of wordless compliance. Levinson is the last to linger, studying you where you sprawl, debauched and splayed, equal parts ruined and remade. His eyes flick to Bucky’s; there is a nod, the simplest of compacts between predators, and then the office empties.

You can’t move for a long minute. Bucky does not speak, does not offer you comfort or reproach. Instead, he gathers the slack of your body up in his arms and sits you on the edge of the desk, your skirt bunched at your hips, your thighs still trembling from the aftershocks.

You study each other for nearly a full minute of silence. Then, finally, you say, “I don’t know what to think.”

Bucky, eyes still glazed with the aftermath of violence and pleasure, says, “For now, that’s the point.”

Then Bucky pushes your knees apart and drops to his haunches, mouth level with where you leak his come onto the polished wood. His hands are on your thighs, pinning you in place, but it's not necessary—there is no possibility of you moving, of protesting, of wanting anything else.

He licks you as though nothing and everything is at stake. Slow, deliberate, the broad plane of his tongue scraping up every trace of his last act of dominance, tonguing his own saltiness from your folds and then deeper, insistent, flattening you against the desk with the weight of his hand on your sternum and the brutal pressure of his lips at your core. The office, the world, the entire narrative curve of history, narrows to this: the cool afterglow inside you, the hot abrasion of his mouth as he eats you out with the same focus he brings to violence or governance. You are nothing but pleasure, raw nerve and wetness.

He doesn’t just tongue you to another orgasm—he makes it a series, each one more fractal and helpless than the last. By the fourth, you are wrecked and the wood under your back is slick with sweat and your own slick and tears you didn’t know you’d shed. Bucky is merciless in this too, his hands mapping every inch of your thighs, your sides, your breasts still clothed in the blouse you’d chosen for this day and now ruined, buttons pulled askew, your bra wrenched above the bruised arch of your nipples so you spill heavy and trembling for him.

He feasts on you. There is no other word for it. He unravels you, makes of your body a single, quivering animal moment, repeatedly tasting himself in you, letting you hear it—the wet, obscene melody of his wanting—until you can’t contain the noise in your throat.

And when you come yet again, you muffle the scream in the crook of your arm, sobbing out the last of your composure to the empty office. You have no desire to stop him, and you can feel through the bond how insatiable he is for you, in return. It feels at the same time more feral yet more concentrated than it did before, and you wonder if it’s possible that he’s becoming as lost in you as you are in him.

There’s a short knock at the door, and Bucky barks, “Not now!”

But the door hisses open anyway. Nick Fowler enters, phone jammed to his ear, voice urgent but composed.

“Sorry, Governor, but it’s Curtis is on the line, says they’ve gotten a positive. He found our man.”

For a moment, Bucky does not move, does not even look up from where he still holds you pinned to the desk by one trembling thigh. You see the flicker of calculation in his eyes, the split-second assessment of whether to finish what he started—whether to drag you through one more climax, to show Fowler that there is no force in the universe that can interrupt the Governor’s pleasure—or to pivot, to let the moment stand as a promise of what you will return to, and answer the call of power instead.

He chooses the latter, or maybe only delays the former. With a last, bruising kiss to your cunt he stands and quickly, adjusts his tie, then efficiently rearranges your skirt and blouse so you’re somewhat decent. Bucky hoists you off the desk and onto your feet. He moves you with so little warning that your knees try to buckle, but his hands are sure and unyielding. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then runs his vibranium palm up your thigh one last time, a silent claim.

"Give me the phone," he says, his voice clean, crisp, as if the past ten minutes never happened.

Fowler hands over the cell, glancing at you only once, then looking studiously at the floor.

"This is Barnes," Bucky says, and his eyes flick to you as if daring you to turn away before he's ready.

The voice on the other end is tinny but urgent. "I've got him, sir. Overnight, he cut through the northwest perimeter, he didn't know about the new surveillance we installed at the borders. He’s holed up at the freight depot, just over the border. Visual confirmation says he’s armed. Likely has a support crew of two, maybe three. Window’s closing before he moves again."

Bucky’s eyes flash in satisfaction, the momentary glaze of pleasure replaced by diamond-edged focus. He says, "That’s why I sent you, Everett. Bring him in. Discreetly.”

Who has been the target of the manhunt Curtis has been on?

And what will the inner circle propose to manipulate and seduce a society to bring them fully to submission?

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

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conservesolutionae · 15 days ago

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kabr0ztrousers · 5 months ago

Note

ngl kinda just need oviposition with ftm reader. thats all LMAO

An FtM reader? A little tricky seeing I don't have any lived experience in that field, but this series was about pushing myself in new creative directions, so let's see what happens!

Kabr0z Writes Episode 35: Interdiction

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

CWs: oviposition; noncon; brainwashing; weird science; loss of property; alien abduction; kidnap; forced impregnation; inflation; egg inflation

A/N: Another sci-fi story because I did a feral egging scene recently, and while that's pretty hot variety really is the spice of life. I'm also couching this one in the world of Elite, so that's fun.

Still taking the time to remind you all that requests are free and open, I have a bit of a backlog after yesterday to work through but if you ask for something, it'll probably happen!

#####################################

Exit Frameshift in three, two, one...

Bang. You pulled hard on the stick, steering away from the star and zeroing the throttle. The reality of supercruise means you're still moving at about 30 klicks a second, but that's as close to stationary when considering distances measured in light-seconds. You steered to your next jump vector and rose from your flight seat. Not best practice, your engine emissions a beacon across the whole system, but you're well past the pirate belt in uncharted space. The only contacts you'll see out here are either enterprising extreme-range miners or the desperate pirates preying on them, even they're vanishingly rare.

Space is big. Really big. Even a star system is small in comparison. There's a good chance nobody's ever been here before.

The thought comforted you as you rehydrated some food and applied your hormones. You thought back to home: a dump of a refinery station in the middle of Alliance space. You'd watch the spacers in the huge type-9 haulers bring in kilotons of ore at a time. You'd tried flying freight. The money's good, and there's no passengers to annoy you, but the trade routes were samey and the pirates were always hungry for a mark. You did exactly as much as you needed to kit out your Diamondback and set off for Beagle Point. They say reaching the end of everything changes you. You needed to see for yourself.

You never made it there.

Halfway through your tray of food-flavoured protein paste your instrument panel lit up. Something was flying hard up your tailpipe, probably not friendly.

You hit the leather of the flight chair and gunned the throttle, wrestling the interdiction beam threatening to pull you out of supercruise. You were moving too slow, and the other ship had the headstart on you. Lights dimmed and smoke rose from your console as your FSD struggled to dump heat into the rest of the ship. You'd lost main power, battery backups kicked in to maintain air as you craned to see what had caught you.

You couldn't see the ship so much as see where it blotted out stars. A great dark silhouette threatening to crush you in its absence of form.

A great maw opened on the surface of the object, drawing nearer to you. Your docking computer flared to life and started calculating vectors, bringing you in to land even as you struggled to disengage it. The whole ship jolted as you touched down, almost throwing you from your seat.

You grabbed a pulse rifle and flipped your table, it wasn't much cover, but it'd have to do.

Splintering glass. You flew backwards in a rush of wind as the cockpit depressurised, the emergency helmet in your flight suit deploying around your head, just before something hit you, and you lost consciousness.

You awoke connected to monitors, a tube sticking down your throat. Two large reptilian... men? were talking. You assume they were talking, and assume they were men. They were heavily built, upright, bipedal, and wore long white gowns, the purplish light in the room casting them in faint lavender.

They looked at you. One clipped a smooth piece of metal to the side of its face

"Greetings, you have been captured" The alien's voice was strangely familiar.

It was the voice from the Galnet broadcasts

"Where am I? What have you done with my ship? You tried to pull the tube from your mouth, but your hands were restrained to the slab you were lay on.

"Your vessel has been disassembled for study. Your technology and biology has been categorised."

Your heart broke. That ship was your pride and joy, you knew every inch of it, and now it's gone. You slumped back, staring up at the ceiling as the newsreader voice continued.

"We have identified that your biology is acceptable to host our eggs. This is the reason you have been revived. Implantation has a greater success rate when the subject is not anaesthetised"

You jolted up. Eggs? The fuck?

The lizards approached you. You could see now their robes were open at the front revealing their bodies. They were each holding scissors.

They cut you out of your clothes. First opening the reinforced kevlar of your flight suit as though it was tissue paper, then snipping through your binder and boxers revealing your naked, hairy body.

One placed a metal disk on your midriff, where you felt it stick. They pressed a button on a control pad and electricity started pulsing through you. Your hair stood on end as your nipples hardened and your cunt moistened, your bulbous clit standing erect. The lizards looked at one another, and their hands fell upon you. Two fingers were shoved down your throat, making you gag as the other set to work on your pussy. Both ends of you were being worked, forced to produce fluids and lubricate you for what was to come. The throat slime rising in your mouth and the insistent fingertips on your slit. The one at your pussy grabbed your clit between two fingers and started jerking it, rubbing the hood over your tdick.

Your struggling against your bonds turned to writhing in pleasure, bucking your hips against the lizard's hand. Its fingers pushed inside you and started pumping, his other hand still jacking you off. You couldn't resist sucking on the fingers in your mouth as your orgasm washed over you, moaning around the hand in your mouth and squirting thin fluid from your cunt at the alien servicing you. The hands released you. You held your mouth open and presented your cunt to them, eager for more.

You could see cocks emerging from the slots on their crotches, dripping fluid and pulsing.

They fell upon you. In a flash your cunt was filled, your clit grinding against the rough scales on the lizard's belly. The other lizard followed suit, burying himself in your throat. His precum was sour and slimy, easily lubricating him as he pounded into your mouth and throat. The tube seemed to be to breathe through, otherwise you'd definitely pass out on the rod forcing its way down.

You could feel another orgasm pressing against you, making your cunt clench against the cock inside you as the lizard's thrusting rubbed your clit. The device on your belly pulsed harder and you heard both of the reptiles grunt in anticipation. They could clearly feel it too, fucking your holes even harder and filling you with that slimy pre. The pulses made you ache. You kept humping against the cock in your cunt, tongue sticking out to lick at the one in your throat even as it ravaged you. One of them grabbed your tits, rubbing your erect nipples and pushing you over the edge.

Your body twisted as you clenched and squirted all over the one in your pussy. Your eyes defocused and crossed. Both lizards hilted in you at once, the lewd sounds you kept making clearly pushing them over the edge.

The bases of their cocks expanded, locking them in. One pushed against the entrance of your womb, the other halfway down your throat. They started to throb and pulse, twitching as the lizards groaned. You felt thick cum flood you before solid objects started moving down them. One after another, eggs pushed into you, bulging your belly and pressing up against one another.

Your skin stretched until the metal device popped off you. The cloud of desire lifted from you and you tried to scream, wheezing down the tube leading into your airway until one of the aliens grabbed it and pressed it against your ass.

You almost orgasmed again when it started back up, each egg driving a wave of excitement and arousal through your body as they flowed into your womb and your stomach.

You were bulging and round when they pulled out, gravid and pregnant with dozens and dozens of eggs. The one at your pussy slapped your ass when he pulled out, the sudden shock sending another firecracker-orgasm through you, making you whimper and twitch, unable to move for the volume of eggs in you

The lizards left the room, and you felt numbness flow through you again, surrendering yourself to drugged sleep

You never did reach Beagle Point

#################################

I feel like I was able to keep the Elite technobabble to a minimum here, most of the terms are pretty self-explanatory and no worse than Trek can be

Either way, my research has shown that if I remind you at the top and bottom of an episode to send an ask if you have a request, I get traction. So please, if there's something you want me to try out, revisit, reimagine, or you just want to send a dirty picture, my asks and DMs are open and I'm always hungry for ideas!

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purinbunnii · 2 months ago

Text

SFW Headcanons

1. Unapologetic Flirt

Rafayel doesn’t just flirt — he performs. Every wink, every low-voiced compliment is calculated to make you blush. But it’s never hollow — his eyes always linger like he’s memorizing you.

“Is it my fault you look so good when you’re annoyed with me?”

Example: You’re irritated after a late meeting, pacing and venting. He lounges nearby, watching you like you’re the best show on Earth. “Keep going,” he says, grinning. “You’re even hotter when you’re furious.”

⸻

2. Deep Emotional Awareness

For all his teasing, Rafayel sees people. Especially you. He catches on to every shift in your voice, every flicker of doubt — and his charm quiets into something much more honest.

“You don’t have to be strong for me. I like you just the way you are — tired, messy, all of it.”

Example: After a particularly rough mission, you try to shake it off. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, no jokes this time. “You gave too much of yourself again, didn’t you?”

⸻

3. Possessive in Private

He’s all smooth smiles in public — but behind closed doors, he’s very clear: you’re his. He doesn’t need to shout it. A hand on your back, a heated look — it’s all there.

“I don’t mind sharing your time… but not your attention.”

Example: Someone flirts with you during a briefing. Later, Rafayel pulls you aside with a lazy smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Didn’t know we were entertaining guests.”

⸻

4. Affection Through Touch

He’s constantly touching you — a guiding hand at your waist, fingers ghosting along your wrist, lips pressed just behind your ear for no reason at all.

“You calm me down, you know that? Just… being near you.”

Example: You’re falling asleep on the ship lounge couch. He walks by, sees you, and without a word, tucks his jacket over you and kisses your forehead.

⸻

5. Romantic Mischief

Expect sudden candle-lit dinners in the engine room or love notes hacked into the mission logs. Rafayel doesn’t do boring when it comes to love.

“Routine kills passion. Lucky for you, I’m a professional at keeping things interesting.”

Example: You wake up to soft music and a projection of a sunrise on the ceiling. He’s sitting beside you with breakfast. “Rise and shine, my favorite view.”

⸻

NSFW Headcanons (18+)

1. Slow and Calculated

Rafayel takes his time. He studies you like he’s solving an equation — every gasp, twitch, and moan filed away so he can draw it out longer next time. Control turns him on.

“I want to see how long I can keep you right here… just like this.”

Example: You’re already trembling beneath him, but he doesn’t rush. His hands glide lower, mouth dragging slowly across your skin. “No hurry. We’ve got all night.”

⸻

2. Low, Dirty Talk

His voice drops in bed — deep, dark velvet. He murmurs against your throat, telling you exactly how good you feel, how wrecked you look, how much he wants you.

“You should hear yourself. Do you even know how beautiful you sound when you break for me?”

Example: You’re breathless, fingers gripping the sheets, and his lips are by your ear, voice steady and reverent as he rocks into you. “Take me in. That’s it. You’re doing so well.”

⸻

3. Loves Control — But Gives Just Enough

He likes to lead — pressing you down, holding your wrists, deciding when you come — but only after reading you, ensuring it’s what you crave too.

“You want me to take over? Then say it. I need to hear it.”

Example: He pins you against the wall, but waits. His hand rests at your throat gently, and his gaze darkens. “You trust me, don’t you?” he asks. When you nod, he smiles — slow, devastating — and finally takes.

⸻

4. Praise Over Degradation

Rafayel might tease in everyday life, but in bed? He’s reverent. He wants you to feel like the center of the universe — every kiss, every thrust layered with worship.

“You’re perfect like this. Under me, around me, for me.”

Example: You reach your peak with a cry, and instead of laughing or cocky remarks, he whispers, “That’s it. Just like that. You’re stunning when you let go.”

⸻

5. Intentional Aftercare

After everything, he’s soft. Wipes you down with warm cloths, brings you water, spoons you close. He stays awake just to watch your breath steady.

“Don’t move yet. Let me take care of you.”

Example: You doze off in his arms, skin still flushed. He brushes hair from your face, kisses your temple, and mutters, “You’re too good for me, cutie. I’ll keep proving I’m worth it.”

#lads au #lads posting #lads rafayel #lads x reader #lads fanfic #headcanon #lads mc #lads #lnds fanfic #lnds x you #lnds x reader #lnds #rafayel x you #lnds rafayel #love and deep space rafayel #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel x reader #rafayel x mc #rafayel x y/n

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aventurineswife · 2 months ago

Note

Hello!! I saw that your requests were open and wanted to give it a shot! I love your works and I’ve been binging them lately. Please feel free to discard this for any reason.

Would it be okay to write about a male or gn reader who is in a very science related field (STEM, scientist, medical, engineering etc.) and loves their work immensely, but is revealed YEARS later on to actually have given up on an artistic dream? Like a reader who loved drawing/music/painting/etc. and was beyond headstrong about it for the longest time as a kid, all the way until they were in their senior year of high school and were hit with the reality of how difficult it’d be to gain the financial stability they needed in an arts career, versus the stem career…

And here they are, fast forward to the present.

I think characters like Kaveh and Aventurine have the best backstory to pair with this, but I’m more than alright with anything you’d like to try! If nothing else, thank you so much for putting your amazing writing here on tumblr for free!!! It’s creators like you that we all turn to at the end of the day to save us emotionally :D

Second Chances and Forgotten Dreams

Tags: Kaveh x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Self-Discovery, Creative Struggles, Supportive Characters, Reconnecting with Passions, Emotional Growth, Healing, Gentle Encouragement, Character Development.

Warnings: Mentions of Regret (Over giving up an artistic dream), Minor Angst, Emotional Vulnerability, Implied Pressure from Career Choices, Healing Process, Possible Mild Self-Doubt.

A/N: Hey, thank you so much for your kind words! That honestly means a lot to me. I'm really glad that my work has been able to connect with you and make a difference—it's always the goal! It’s anons like you who keep me motivated too. Thanks again for the love! 🤭💖🫶

Kaveh had always admired your sharp mind. The way your eyes lit up when discussing equations, medical advancements, or structural integrity fascinated him. Yet, despite the success in your field, he always sensed something was missing.

He discovered the truth by accident.

A forgotten sketchbook, tucked away on the highest shelf in your office, filled with beautiful, intricate drawings. Architectural designs, character studies, and unfinished landscapes—each page held the echoes of a dream abandoned.

Kaveh ran his fingers over the pages, tracing the lines with a reverence usually reserved for the most breathtaking buildings. When you walked in and saw him holding the sketchbook, your breath hitched.

"These… these are yours, aren’t they?" Kaveh's voice was uncharacteristically soft.

You swallowed hard, already knowing where this conversation was headed.

"I loved art once," you admitted, exhaling as if saying the words out loud made the weight of your decision all those years ago more tangible. "I wanted to make a career out of it, but… I knew it wouldn't pay the bills. STEM was the safer choice."

Kaveh’s eyes, always filled with emotion, darkened with something between sadness and frustration.

"But safety doesn’t mean happiness," he said, flipping through the pages. "These drawings—they’re incredible. You could've—" He stopped himself, taking a deep breath. "You should still be creating."

You let out a bitter chuckle. "I don’t even know where to start again. I wouldn’t even know what to make."

Kaveh reached for his own notebook, the one filled with designs for structures he hadn't yet built, dreams he hadn't yet realized.

"Then let’s start together," he said.

That night, for the first time in years, you picked up a pencil—not to draft blueprints or calculate measurements, but to simply create. And beside you, Kaveh sketched alongside you, proving that art, once lost, could always be found again.

Aventurine had always seen life as a game of calculated risks, and you? You were one of the safest bets he’d ever made. Intelligent, hardworking, disciplined—exactly the kind of person who thrived in your field.

But when he saw you idly tracing shapes on a napkin one night, your fingers moving with absentminded precision, something about it made him pause.

"Didn’t know you were the doodling type," he mused, swirling his drink in his hand.

You stiffened before pulling the napkin away, stuffing it into your pocket as if it were something shameful.

That reaction? That was new.

So, being Aventurine, he started digging.

It wasn’t until weeks later that he found the old digital portfolio buried in your archives. Paintings, sketches, compositions—you had once been an artist. A real one.

When he confronted you, you laughed, but it lacked humor. "It was a childish dream," you said, waving it off. "STEM pays the bills. I made the right choice."

Aventurine leaned back in his chair, studying you the way he studied opponents at a high-stakes table. "Funny, I’ve seen people convince themselves of a lot of things, but that? That was the worst bluff I’ve ever heard."

You opened your mouth to argue, but he cut you off.

"You don’t regret choosing STEM," he said, "but you do regret giving up art entirely."

He leaned in, resting his chin on his knuckles, his sharp eyes unreadable. "Tell you what, sweetheart. I’ll make you a deal."

You raised an eyebrow. "A deal?"

Aventurine smirked. "Start creating again—just once a week. No pressure, no deadlines. If you don’t love it anymore, I’ll never bring it up again." He extended a hand. "But if you do? Well, then you owe me a private exhibition of your best work."

You hesitated before finally shaking his hand.

"Hope you’re ready for me to prove you wrong," you muttered.

Aventurine chuckled. "Oh, darling," he said, a knowing gleam in his eye. "I’m counting on it."

Ratio never dealt in half-truths. Logic dictated all things, and as far as he was concerned, you were a master of your field because you wanted to be. That was the only reasonable explanation.

So when he found the old violin case gathering dust in your storage room, he was… perplexed.

"You play?" he asked, examining the instrument with clinical curiosity.

"Not anymore," you replied without looking up from your work.

He narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

You hesitated, fingers tightening around your pen. "Because," you said finally, "passion doesn't pay the bills."

For the first time in a long time, Ratio was at a loss for words. You were one of the most driven, intelligent people he knew. He couldn’t fathom you abandoning something you once loved so much.

"You still think about it," he noted, voice quieter than usual. "Don't you?"

You sighed, rubbing your temples. "Sometimes."

Ratio wasn’t sentimental. He wasn’t the type to push people toward emotional revelations. But facts were facts.

"You are not simply a scientist, nor are you simply an artist," he stated. "Denying one part of yourself does not make the other stronger."

You frowned. "And what do you suggest? That I drop my career and start composing again?"

Ratio shook his head. "No. But I suggest you stop pretending that your love for art was irrelevant."

He pushed the violin case toward you.

"Indulge in both," he said. "Because denying something you love for the sake of practicality is, in itself, the most illogical decision one could make."

You stared at him for a long moment before reaching out, fingers ghosting over the violin’s worn surface.

For the first time in years, you opened the case.

And for the first time in years, you played.

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aetherraeys · 3 months ago

Text

expectations

(a night to remember pt1, pt2, pt3/this, pt4)

sirius black x fem!reader ⊹ 7.7k

cw ⟢ suggestive, fwb to lovers, hurt/comfort, mentions of sex, no actual smut, alcohol, sirius is so sweet, reader is in denial.

summary: the one time you let yourself get sucked into the fast and fleeting pleasure of life, it had to be with him, and whatever started between you and sirius was doomed from the start.

a/n: part 3 of a night to remember is finally here!! im acc shocked ppl even wanted a part 2 to begin with, i had sm fun writing this ENJOY MWAH!!

A cup of tea.

A singular invite in for a cup of tea started this.

Well, maybe it was more than just the invite, maybe it was the drunk staring and dancing, or the drunk kiss, or the next morning’s tension and teasing—it didn’t really matter what brewed whatever was going on between you and Sirius.

Because it was nothing.

False—not nothing, but not something. An impossible contradiction.

And anything so fickle, so paradoxical, was bound to end badly.

It was never in your nature to do things like this, to partake in things you knew would be fruitless, that you knew would temporary, short and fleeting. But there as just something about him, so unbelievably, undeniably magnetic—an irresistable lure of the reckless, carefree pleasures that life had to behold. The embodiment of everything you’d always denied yourself.

Sirius Black.

You’d only dipped your toe in the water, but he was all-consuming, dragging you in to the deep depths of an endless ocean when you didn’t know how to swim.

Worst of all, you couldn’t even deny it, you were enjoying yourself—ignorant to the rising water around you, woefully ignoring the way your limbs struggled to keep you afloat. Always so in your head about things, taking extra precations, drawing boundaries or just avoiding things all together—accept for the one time you needed to.

It started with relatively small things, even that night he kissed you with such vigour, so intense yet his hands held you as though you’d crack, unfairly tender, and it made your head spin.

Sirius had given you a glimpse into the delights of the unknown, to joys of possibility. You were always one step ahead, reserved, calculate. And he’d gone and dulled your sense like an external force—he was charged with being your wreckening and you were basking in it.

In the span of the week after your kiss, you’d seen him five out of those seven days. His name always popping up on your phone screen before you’d finish work, asking what you’d eaten, if you were busy, if you wanted to go for a late-night drive.

And that continued for weeks—progressing into him checking your rota weekly or when you’d visit James, he’d always find a reason to stay in the living room, loitering around to spend time you.

Even going as far as him showing up outside your house at random points on your days off, playing it off as he was just in the area, looking for a driving partner—and it didn’t matter what obscene time of day it was, you just couldn’t bring yourself to deny him. Relenting with a playful sigh and roll of your eyes as you let him put on your helmet for you, giggles ringing high in the air as you drove off into the quiet roads.

He was always so relaxed, so easy-going and charming. Bringing the spark of entertainment into your life that you didn’t know you lacked. You’d hear the revving engine of his bike outside your house, and rush to the door—heart thumping loudly in your ears, a burst of adreneline bursting through your veins.

The hum of his motorcycle beneath you, the cool night air sharp against your skin, the scent of leather and wind whipping around you as you held onto him, fingers gripping the fabric of his jacket just a little tighter than necessary. Sirius Black was reckless, and he made you reckless too.

And yet, it was never just about the drive.

Because it wasn’t just one type of thrill he gave you, those late-night drives somehow so frequently ended with you and him, skin on skin—

Your back hit the door the moment it shut behind you, the resounding click echoing in the silence before his lips found yours, all teeth and tongue and unrestrained hunger. He kissed like he lived—wild, consuming, like he had all the time in the world and yet, somehow, none at all.

You let him.

Let him steal the breath from your lungs, let him press his body flush against yours, let him unravel you, his grin against the skin of your neck was so lazy, so smug.

“You’re awfully eager,” you mused, tilting your head as he dipped closer, lips barely brushing against yours.

Sirius hummed, pretending to think. “Well, you wore that jacket.” His fingers traced the collar, warm against your throat. “It’s very distracting.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile was impossible to fight. “You have zero self-restraint, you know that?”

“I don’t hear you complaining.”

And you weren’t. Not when he kissed you again, slow at first, just a press of lips, a silent question he already knew the answer to. Then deeper, more insistent, like he was pulling you under with him. Laughter echoed off the thin walls of your living room, giggling against his mouth when he tugged your jacket off with too much enthusiasm, nearly toppling the both of you in the process. “Merlin, you’re impatient.”

“You make me impatient.”

It was ridiculous. The way he could say things like that so easily, like it was nothing, like it didn’t send heat pooling in your stomach. But there was no time to dwell on it—not when he was pushing you toward the edge of your bed, not when he was pressing you down into the mattress, settling between your legs like he belonged there.

“Godric, you’re so smug.”

“I have a lot to be smug about,” he said against your skin, lips dragging along your jaw, your throat, lower. “Can’t really blame me.”

You rolled your eyes again, but the laugh that left you melted into something softer, breathier when his hands skimmed beneath your shirt. His touch was slow, teasing, deliberately unhurried. For someone who prized themself in their almost prophetic ability to tell how things were going to end, it was like you’d been blinded. Sirius had a way of pulling you into the moment, of making you forget that there was anything beyond this.

Beyond the way his touch became to hypnotisingly feverish, a sharp inhale, your head tipping back against the wood as his mouth trailed along your jaw, down the column of your throat, the scrape of his teeth leaving goosebumps in their wake. He chuckled against your skin, the sound rich, knowing.

Clothes lost between hurried touches, between lips tracing paths across bare skin, between the way his hands pressed against your hips, grounding you even as he sent you spiraling.

There was something intoxicating about him—the way he moved, the way he looked at you, like you were the only thing worth his attention. It made you reckless. Made you selfish. Made you want to keep him like this, to keep the way he murmured your name like a secret, the way his hands roamed your body like he was committing it to memory.

There were a million ways this could go wrong, each more unforgiving than the last, but you still did it, everytime—like an addict, high on the wave of Sirius and everything that came along with him. Even though he took his time, he never stayed—relishing in the warmth of your skin on his, while your chests rose and fell quickly and in sync.

Still trailing breathless kisses along your neck, hand wrapped firmly around your waist, body still trembling with the remants of pleasure. Always lingering long enough to enjoy the afterglow, and then, after he’d cleaned you up when you hung on the edge of sleep, he’d whisper his goodbyes.

He’d slip away—pulling on his jeans, running a hand through his hair, flashing you that easy, careless smirk before disappearing into the night like he hadn’t just unraveled you.

And you let him.

For no particular reason, it was just how it was. This little arrangement was never meant to be more that some small stolen moments and whispered touches.

But so unfortunately for you, things changed.

One night, he didn’t move.

He stayed, stretched out beside you, one arm draped over his face trying to catch his breath. Exhaling a low chuckle as he turned to you, just as out of breath, eyes half-lidded and blinking slow. He reached up a hand, every so gently brushing away some of the stray hairs that had stuck to your forehead, with an uncalled for fondness in his eyes.

“What?” you asked, pulling the cover up over you, tilting your head up at him—pupils still blown, content sighs slipping as your lips as you nuzzled into your pillow.

“You,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep and something else, something unreadable. “You’re just…too comfortable.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes. “That’s such a you problem, Black.”

And yet, he didn’t move.

Didn’t slip out of bed, didn’t reach for his clothes. Instead, he kept is gaze on you, studying you like he was seeing you for the first time. His hand found your waist again, thumb stroking absentminded circles against your skin.

“You want me to go?” he asked, voice quiet, careful.

You should have said yes.

Should have told him to leave, should have drawn the line like you always did. But instead, you shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Stay if you want.”

It was dangerous—this thing between you, this game you were playing so ignorant to the rules. But in that moment, with his body warm beside yours, with the air still thick with the remains of lust, of pleasure and the scent of him clinging to your sheets.

It was your first mistake.

And although it wasn’t a secret per se, the little situation you had going on with Sirius, it was nothing serious, and therefore not common knowledge.

It wasn’t until Marlene came by one day to pick up a parcel she’d got delivered to yours, that she noticed it. Sirius’ bike parked in at the front of your house—and when she used her spare key to get into the house she noticed something else, too.

His leather jacket, tossed haphazardly over the back of your couch. His boots, lazily kicked off by the door.

Her sights eventually falling on him.

It was one of those mornings where the lines between sleep and awakeness were firmly blurred. The kettle was humming softly on the stove, steam rising in tendrils, and Sirius was leaning against the kitchen counter, rubbing his eyes like he hadn’t slept a wink in ages. He was still a little dazed, hair tousled in every direction, his usual carefree grin replaced by a half-awake, sleepy smirk. Two cups sat on the counter, waiting for the tea to brew, a simple gesture that felt strangely domestic.

Sirius didn’t notice Marlene at first—she was just standing in the doorway, eyes narrowing in silent observation. The moment stretched on, the sound of the kettle’s whistle cutting through the silence.

Clearing her throat, Marlene made her presence known.

Sirius blinked slowly, still half in a dream, and as casually as if he were talking to you, he mumbled, “I’m making tea, love. You want two sugars today?”

Marlene raised an eyebrow, arms crossed over her chest. She took a step into the kitchen. “You’re not making that for me.”

His eyes snapped open, the sleepiness clearing in an instant as he looked at her, finally registering that it wasn’t you standing there. The shift was instantaneous—he straightened up, looking almost too casual. “Oh, hey, Marlene,” he said, his tone still nonchalant as if nothing was amiss. “Didn’t realize you were here.”

She studied him for a moment, giving him a smirk that said she knew everything. “Clearly,” she said, her voice dripping with amusement.

Sirius, ever shameless, shrugged. “It’s early.” He shot her a playful grin. “Can’t be expected to function before my tea, can I?”

At that moment, the sound of soft footsteps padded down the hallway. You appeared in the doorway, the oversized shirt you were wearing—Sirius’ shirt—hanging loosely off your frame. Your hair was a little messy, eyes still sleepy as you mumbled, “Is the tea ready?”

And then you stopped dead in your tracks, your eyes widening when you spotted Marlene standing in the kitchen, grinning from ear to ear.

“Oh,” you said, voice faltering as you froze, like a deer caught in the headlights. “Marlene... what—what are you doing here?”

Without missing a beat, Marlene raised both eyebrows, her smirk widening. “You told me I could pick up the parcel anytime, so I let myself in,”

You still stood dead in your tracks as she continued, “But now it seems like I’m here to make sure Sirius isn’t taking advantage of you,”

You immediately flushed, mortified, and quickly grabbed Marlene’s arm, tugging her away from the kitchen with a little more urgency than you meant to.

“Come on,” you hissed, pulling her into the bedroom. “Let’s go talk.”

Sirius, still leaning against the counter, didn’t seem fazed by the interaction at all. In fact, he leaned back with a satisfied smirk, watching you drag Marlene off with a mixture of amusement and something else.

Once inside your bedroom, you closed the door behind you with a sigh, rubbing your hand over your face as you tried to salvage what little dignity you had left.

“I thought you’d text me when you were coming,” you mumbled under your breath, but she was already taking in the state of the room.

She raised an eyebrow, glancing around with an expression of equal parts amusement and curiosity. The bed was a mess—sheets twisted and bunched, pillows strewn about in a chaotic heap. A scattered reminder of the night before, of everything you and Sirius had gotten up to.

Marlene shot you a knowing look, and you groaned, covering your face with both hands. “It’s not like that, okay? It’s just a bit of fun. No big deal.”

Marlene wasn’t convinced. Her gaze softened just a fraction, but the teasing smile never left her lips, humming back “Right. Just a bit of fun,” Before you could say anything else, she gave you a quick, sly wink and turned back toward the door.

“Oh, and by the way,” she added, her voice dropping to a whisper, “I’m watching you, Black.”

Sirius, still in the kitchen, gave her an innocent look as she passed him, a wink of his own playing at the corners of his lips. “Always a pleasure, Marls.”

And with that, she was gone, leaving you standing in the aftermath of her visit, groaning inwardly to yourself as you flopped onto the bed.

You and Sirius fell easily into a routine—him picking you up from work, late-night drives that turned into late-night kisses, wanting touches that led to waking up tangled in each other. Spending virtually every day together for months, whether out of habit or convenience, it didn’t matter—neither of you were in a rush to change anything.

So when Marlene invited you to a small get-together at a friend’s place, you figured a night out that wasn’t spent wrapped up in Sirius wouldn’t be the worst thing. “It’ll be chill,” she promised, linking her arm through yours. “Just a few people, some drinks, some music. Nothing crazy.”

But the second you stepped inside, it was clear that Marlene had lied. The house was packed, bodies pressed together in the chaos of dancing, mingling, drinking. As music pulsed through the walls, laughter and shouts cutting through the thrum of conversation. You shot her a look—Really?—but she just shrugged, eyes wide and innocent like she had no idea this would happen.

“You know how these things go,” she said, barely containing her grin.

Rolling your eyes, you made your way to the kitchen, pouring yourself a glass of cranberry juice. The moment someone asked what you were drinking, you answered without hesitation—“Vodka cranberry,”—opting to lay off the liquor for the night.

Still, as you sipped your very much non-alcoholic drink, you couldn’t help the way your eyes flickered around the room, scanning the crowd without thinking. It was almost instinctual, like muscle memory at this point. Was he here?

Marlene caught it instantly.

She leaned in, smirk playing at her lips. “You looking for someone?” she asked, voice all too knowing.

You scoffed, shaking your head. “No.”

“Right,” she drawled, clearly unconvinced, but before she could press any further, a loud voice cut through the crowd.

“There you are!”

You barely had a second to react before James was bounding toward you, all long limbs and drunken enthusiasm. He practically tackled you into a hug, lifting you off the ground and spinning you in a dizzying circle.

“James!” you yelped, gripping onto his shoulders. “Put me down!”

He only laughed, setting you back onto your feet, hands still gripping your arms like you might disappear. His cheeks were flushed, eyes bright with the telltale signs of one too many drinks.

“Was wondering when you’d show up,” he grinned, slinging an arm around your shoulders as he led you and Marlene further into the chaos. “C’mon, we’ve got a party to enjoy!”

It was fun, more fun than you’d excpected, so painfully aware of the drunk bodies that bumped against your sober one—and despite Marlene’s efforts to get you to sip on her drink, you’d held your ground quite well. Even when she did mutter, “Party pooper,” under her breath, you just snickered at her, dragging her through the path in the crowd that James had successfully parted.

The music thumped, bass reverberating through the walls, but it was nothing compared to the laughter bubbling from your throat. James, in all his drunken glory, had taken it upon himself to be the life of the dance floor, flailing his limbs dramatically as you and Marlene followed suit, spinning and swaying wildly to the rhythm.

Your giggles rang high above the music when James, with absolutely no warning, grabbed Marlene’s wrist and spun her with a flourish, dipping her so low she nearly hit the floor.

“James Potter, I swear to Merlin—” Marlene shrieked, flailing as she tried to right herself, but James only grinned wider, holding her firm.

“Dance with me, darling!” he declared theatrically, waggling his brows before attempting to spin her again.

You clutched your stomach from laughing so hard, abs burning from the excertion, leaning into James’ side as you caught your breath. “I’m getting a re-fill,” you told him, wagging your almost empty cup in front of his face, still breathless.

James, ever dramatic, responded far louder than necessary. “ALRIGHT, LOVE!”

Rolling your eyes with a fond smile, you slipped through the sea of bodies, the heat of the room pressing in on you. You didn’t notice Marlene right behind you, having taken the opportunity to escape James’ drunken grasp. She followed at a slower pace, weaving through the crowd, her eyes scanning for you as she made her way toward the kitchen.

You were almost there, just a few steps from the counter, when you caught sight of a familiar head of dark curls, towering slightly above the sea of heads.

Sirius.

A small part of you relaxed at the sight of him, a stupid, involuntary kind of relief washing over you. But the moment was fleeting—because then, you saw her.

A hand, fingers trailing deliberately over his sleeve, then curling gently around the lapel of his jacket. Your stomach twisted as you recognized her—Emmeline, maybe?—but before you could process the moment, she was pulling him down, pressing her lips to his.

Something inside you froze, the heat from dancing moments ago now replaced by something cold and heavy settling in your stomach.

Marlene had almost caught up to you when she noticed the way your body had gone still, your wide, unblinking gaze fixed ahead. She followed your line of sight—and immediately saw it. Sirius, standing there, stiff as a board, Emmeline’s lips pressed against his.

That was the first time you felt it, first time you’d notice the sound of the water whossing in your ears, you were drowning—and as the alarm bells sounded, body frozen in place. Only then did you realise it was too late, you couldn’t run from it, couldn’t try save yourself from the vast monopolising sea that was Sirius Black.

You so wished you could feel bad for yourself, to hate the girl who’d had her fingers tangled in his hair, will yourself to be angry at him. But despite the pinched numbing feeling that bloomed in your chest, the way your eyes burned as you tore your gaze away from the scene before you—it was no use.

Like you were seeing something that had been standing in front of you for the first time, something that had been right under your nose—all the pennies had dropped at once and the clarity it gave you, honestly made you want to be sick.

It wasn’t that you thought you were so amazing and special that the notorious playboy, heart-throb Sirius Black would drop everything and change his strips to be with you forever. You didn’t care that much, you knew what you were signing up for, right?

Marlene started, but by the time she reached where you’d stood, you were already gone, swallowed by the crowd.

She cursed under her breath before snapping her head back toward Sirius, storming forward without hesitation.

Sirius had already pulled away, his brows furrowed, lips parted in shock. He looked—almost offended—like he wasn’t quite sure what had just happened. Before he could even react, rough hands grabbed his shoulders, spinning him around.

Marlene.

She was seething.

“You’re a right foul git, y’know that, Black?” she spat, voice sharp with fury.

Sirius barely had time to process the insult before she scoffed, turning on her heel and pushing back into the crowd, searching.

“Wait—what?” Sirius called after her, but she didn’t so much as spare him a glance.

Jaw tightening, he ran a frustrated hand through his hair, inhaling through his nose—Sirius barely even noticed Emmeline stumble slightly beside him, too drunk to react to the moment, too unaware of what had just happened. She wasn’t smirking, wasn’t looking pleased with herself—if anything, she just looked vaguely confused, glassy-eyed and unbothered as she swayed on the spot.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face before shaking his head, frustration bleeding into his features. Then, without another glance back, he pushed forward, chasing after Marlene—chasing after you.

But they both just ended up standing outside, you nowhere to be seen, name flashing on Marlene’s screen for several rings before eventually cutting itself off—voicemail. All she could do was sigh heavily in frustration, spinning around to find Sirius standing behind her—as she caught glimpse of him, her face twisted into a grimace. Rolling her eyes, shoulders brushing his as she trudged inside to find James.

You were lost in deep thought, pacing all the way back home.

It was silly anyway, just a bit of fun—and you’d been foolish enough to think it was anything more than that anyway. Even if the way his fingers would brush over your skin, tracing nonsense patterns as he held you close night after night—endlessly whispering to each other about the silly and impossible things. The ideas you had, your hopes and dreams. Even if the way he’d breath your name, chest vibrating against you, caressing the tops of your cheeks—gaze too soft as if he were catalogueing every single feature on your face.

Even if just thinking about all those small things, made your throat close up, it wasn’t enough to change the reality that had come unforgivingly crashed upon you.

Really it was your fault for getting lost in a little world of make believe, it was your fault for allowing yourself to be in the situation in the first place, you should have never invited him in, never kissed him, never met him.

The feeling that swirled beneath your ribs was one you couldn’t put your finger on, you didn’t feel sad, you didn’t have the urge to cry. All you wished to do was lie down, suddenly so exhausted. You found your fingertips tracing the outline of your lips as you stood meters away from your door, in a daze, unable to bring yourself a step closer.

Only after several long drawn out moments of the cold wind whipping against your skin, the burning in your soles of your feet to become just that bit more agnosing, did you to finally take your keys out and enter your home.

Completely ordinary, nothing out of place—exactly how you’d left it.

But as you took in the sight of your living room, my stomach lurched, stuck again by your doorframe—traces of him everywhere. The usual mugs waiting on the counter, a jumper laying on the single seater, his jacket hanging over his chair in the kitchen. You even tripped over the slippers you’d bought him at you entrance when you dragged yourself further in.

Shoes disgarded roughly behind you, recklessly tossing your bag in the general direction of the general direction as you pushed through the door to your bedroom. Another obstacle.

No matter how much you wanted to flop onto the bed, let your muscles sink into the plush cushion of your mattress and let the exhaustion of the night swallow you whole, you couldn’t. It was brutal and oppressive, the way his scent wafted around you, taking up too much space—swallowing the room whole, a mark—a stain of his presence.

Almost as if a wave of nausea had hit you, you body tensed pushing down the churn that built its way up into your chest. Fingers rubbing harshly against the base of your throat, eyes darting around the room, the seconds passing like hours with each reluctant step towards the bed.

And as you gripped the edge of your bed sheet, ready to tear them off. It wasn’t even a fraction of a second, the soft fabric in your grasps that had housed him barely a day ago—warm caramel, leather, and a hint of petrol—it sent a shooting pang through the middle of your chest, forcing you to rip you hand away like the fabric burned.

No matter how many times you repeated it, just a bit of fun, it never quite felt like a lie—until now.

Just too much.

A hot shower should do you some good, turning away from your bed and to your wardrobe, even your selection of sleep clothes had dwindled down to more of Sirius’ clothes than not. Your mouth felt bitterly dry as you scavenged through your clothes looking for something old, something yours—something that wasn’t smeered with a thought of him.

You stood in the showere for too long, arches of your feet still burning, water too hot against your skin, and still you stood there. Letting the fast pitter patter of the water dull your senses. Your mind wasn’t overworking, it wasn’t running wild, it was just blank.

Empty, unoccupied, vacant—tired.

Like you held the weight of the world on your shoulders, you head was sunk as you plopped onto the sofa, knees brought to your chest, cradling your head as your arms wrapping around yourself. You sat in silence, for a while, a long while—waiting for sleep to come, welcome you with open arms and wash away the ache that had settled at the bottom of your ribs.

To your misfortune, an incessant knocking began not long after you’d closed your eyes—jolting out of sleep’s sweet embrace and off the sofa in a panic. Eyes burning with sleep, your breath caught in your throat, and for a brief moment, you were frozen in place, listening.

You weren’t expecting anyone.

Your stomach twisted, a strange cocktail of unease and anticipation bubbling beneath your skin. The knocking continued, steady and insistent, like the person on the other side had no plans of giving up.

You willed yourself to ignore it.

Sitting back down, muscles still aching and heavy with exhaustion, fingers fumbling for your phone. 2:56 AM. The screen glowed mockingly in the dark, and you let out a slow, steady breath, willing your heartbeat to slow.

But the knocking continued.

Five minutes.

Then ten.

Each rap against the wood sent a dull throb through your skull, your patience wearing thin as you pushed yourself up again. With slow, cautious steps, you approached the door, peering through the peephole—and felt your breath hitch violently in your throat.

Sirius.

He was standing there, shoulders tense, jaw tight. His knuckles were raw and reddened from the persistent knocking, his fingers flexing at his sides like he was battling the urge to stay calm, composed in his knocking. He shifted slightly, eyes searching, and then he knocked again, softer this time, cautious. Like he knew you were standing on the other side of the door.

You didn’t dare move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe.

Until he did. Until he said your name, quiet, almost pleading; "Please, love—let me in."

Your chest ached at the sound of it, at the way his voice cracked just slightly at the end. It felt like every cell in your body was screaming at you saying open it open it open it, staring at the handle as if it your gaze could make it vanish, remove the temptation to do so.

"I’m tired, Sirius. Please go home."

The words came out barely above a whisper, but they landed like a punch. You saw it, the way his face crumbled at the sound of your voice. His hands pressed flat against the door, shoulders sagging as his forehead made contact with the hard wood of your door, creating a dull thud. For a moment, he looked lost. Defeated.

But he wasn’t going to leave, Sirius was nothing if not relentless. You knew that much.

And yet you still couldn’t bring yourself to step away from the door, he continued knocking, the flat sound echoing in your ears, ringing between each thump of your heart. You should’ve ignored him. Should’ve let him knock until he got tired—but you didn’t.

With a deep, steadying breath, you unlocked the door and pulled it open.

The second he saw you, a rush of relief flashed across his face, though stress and urgency still burning in his eyes. Instinctively, he reached out—but the moment his fingertips brushed your wrist, you shifted , jerking away as if his touch scalded you. And Sirius felt it—felt the air in his lungs force its way out of him against his will, winded at your reaction. Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed thickly, his hand lingering in the airn before slowly letting it drop to his side.

“Do you need something specific, Sirius?”

Gods, the way you said his name, devoid of its usual warmth, its usual playful, fond tone, devoid of you, it made breathing just that bit harder for him. You voice was so flat, emotionless. And your eyes were trained on somewhere near his shoulder, not meeting his.

Sirius hesitated, his brows furrowing, before stepping inside hesitantly. "I need to explain—"

"You don’t need to explain anything to me."

The words were sharp. Final. Matching the heavy slam the door made behind him, and he winced at the unforgiving tone of your words as you continued, “It’s fine. You can do whatever you want”

His brows pulled together tighter, frustration flickering across his features. "But I don’t—I didn’t want that. I didn’t—"

His fingers brushed against your arm again, desperate, and you recoiled so quickly it felt like a physical blow to his chest, his jaw falling slightly agape, voice pleading more breath than words.

"Love, please—"

"Don’t."

It was just one word. One syllable, but it made his stomach lurch, freezing in his space, watching as you backed away, arms folding tightly around yourself like a shield—shielding yourself from him.

"We have nothing to talk about." Your voice wavered, barely audible now. "It was just a bit of fun anyway."

Sirius flinched, a flash of something unreadable crossing his face, twisting into an almost pained frown. “Stop.” voice hoarse.

You didn’t respond.

"Don’t say that." He took a step forward, but you mirrored the movement in reverse, keeping the distance between you. Still, you haven’t looked at him once, almost backing yourself into a corner, tryping to escape his words, his ever intense stare, him.

Your voice came out weak, faintly above a whisper, bordering a beg; “Please just go, Sirius,”

He didn’t listen, just continued forwards wordlessly, watching you—excuriatingly aware of each slow tread he took, until he was just in front of you—barely any space left between you. And it made you hold your breath, you couldn’t go any further, back flush against the wall.

“Look at me,”

Immediately you shook your head, you couldn’t—it would be too taxing, an unfathomable task. He was so painfully close, that same familiar smell, warmth so undeniably Sirius, a whisper of air left between you. He was here, your wreckening, something that you so woefully dreaded.

His voice was quiet, almost pleading—”Tell me that it was nothing more and I’ll leave right now,”

And God, did it hurt. It made that same whoosing gurgling return between your ears, sinking into the depth of the water—fully submerged.

There was something raw in the way he said it, something that sent a deep ache blooming in your chest. It took everything in you to steel yourself, to look up at him, gaze burning and glossy with unshed tears, swallowing the lump in your chest, “It was nothing more than a bit of fun.”

The air around you felt thinner, like it had risen and had become too hard to breath in, denying you of the last tether you had to the room. The frown on his face etched further onto his lips as he breathed in deeply through his nose, muttering as he shook his head; “You’re lying.”

It wasn’t a question, it was a fact. He saw right through you—not the slightest bit convinced.

Your lips parted, an argument on the tip of your tongue, but he cut you off before you could even form the words. His voice louder than he expected,

"Why? Why are you lying? I’m trying to fix this—"

"Fix it?" The dam finally cracked, anger and frustration spilling into your voice, looking up at him with a gaze so burning and intense it made him take a step back. "Why would you want to fix it, Sirius? Stop acting like you care when it was just a game to you anyway."

Your chest was heaving now, emotions bubbling over, forcibly rubbing your hands over your face before they dropped roughly to your sides—but he didn’t look offended. He didn’t look angry. If anything, his expression softened, like he understood—and that only made it worse.

"Is that what you really think?"

You didn’t answer.

And the silence that rung between you had you questioning if you were alone in the room, he was still looking at you—long after you tore your gaze away from his, you knew deep down if your looked at him again, you’d surely shatter.

Neither of you spoke. Not when his presence alone made your chest tighten, made your throat burn with the effort of swallowing back words you weren’t sure you had the strength to say.

Sirius didn’t move. Didn’t react. Didn’t fight you on it. The only thought ringing in your head was that it better this way, easier this way. Maybe you could make yourself believe it.

Then he spoke, and his voice—so raw, so careful—made you flinch.

"Do you really think this whole time I was just playing with you?"

The little breath you had in you stilled in your lungs, sharp and uneven. You didn’t answer, you couldn’t trust your voice, not when it was so hard to swallow the small tears you wished to let out.

Sirius exhaled through his nose, taking a slow step closer.

"Do you really think I’m that cruel?"

His words were quiet, but they hit like a punch to the gut. Your fingers curled into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms as if the sting of it would ground you, anchor you to the decision you had already made—to shut this down before it could hurt more than it already did.

But he was watching you too closely. Too intently. And Sirius had always been too good at reading you. So when he saw it—the wet marks beginning to bloom on the front of your shirt, the silent tremble in your shoulders—he knew. And it panged straight through his gut and through his chest, burning and searing guilt.

He moved then, just slightly. Slowly—so slowly—his fingers brushed against yours, tentative, careful. You sucked in a sharp breath at the contact. But you didn’t pull away. And that was all the invitation he needed.

Sirius took your hand fully in his, his grip steady and warm, thumb grazing over your knuckles as if to soothe your hurting. Then, just as slowly, he lifted it—pressing your palm against the center of his chest, his own hand covering yours entirely, keeping it there, locked against the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

It was fast. Strong. Alive. And it was beating beneath your hand like it had something to prove, like it was all he had.

The silence that stretched between you now was different. Heavier, laced with a tenderness that had your pulse skipping.

And then he spoke again, voice barely above a whisper.

"Can you feel that?"

You did. Of course, you did. It was all you could feel. The solid weight of him beneath your fingers, the heat radiating through his skin, the undeniable proof of him, of everything he had ever made you feel.

You parted your lips, but no sound came out. Just a sharp hiccuping breath.

Sirius said your name then. So delicate. So soft. And that—that—was almost your undoing. Because of all the times he’d said your name he never said it like that. Never that serious, never so delicate and aching. Like it was something sacred, something important. Like it was the most precious thing he had ever held in his mouth.

He ducked his head slightly, lowering his chin just enough to try and meet your eyes. He physically had to hold back the gasp the threatened to leave him.

Because you looked devastated. Completely wrecked.

Your lower lip was trembling, your cheeks flushed, tear-stained, your eyes filled with something so raw, so deeply wounded, it physically hurt to witness. And Sirius—who had never been afraid of anything in his entire life—felt terror claw its way up his spine at the sight of you like this.

His grip on your hand tightened just slightly, pressing your palm harder against his chest, like he needed you to hold him together now.

He swallowed, throat bobbing as he forced the words out.

"This," he murmured, gaze unwavering, "this heart?"

The beat beneath your fingers felt impossibly loud. Thudding, steady, strong.

"It’s just for you. I promise."

Sirius didn’t let go of your hand. Not for a second.

Instead, he took slow, careful steps backward, pulling you with him, guiding you toward the sofa. His grip was safe, anchoring, your palm still pressed against the center of his chest, feeling every erratic beat beneath your fingertips. And when the backs of his knees hit the cushions, he let himself sink down, pulling you with him until you were sitting so close your knees brushed.

You didn’t look at him.

Your gaze stayed fixed on your hands, on the way your fingers still rested over his heart, like you were trying to memorize the feeling of it. Your mind was screaming at you to push him away, to shut him out, to let self-preservation win. But there was something about the way he held you there—not trapping, just holding—that made your chest tighten under the ache.

"I swear," Sirius started, voice so quiet it barely rose above the silence. *"*What you saw—it was nothing. I didn’t know her. I didn’t want it. I would never—" he inhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I would never want to hurt you."

He leaned in, ducking his head slightly, trying to meet your gaze.

"Can you look at me, please?"

Your lips pressed together forming a tight line, eyes squeezing shut for half a second before you forced yourself to meet his stare. God, he was so easy to believe. So convincing. His eyes, dark and pleading, held no trace of deception. He was here, completely and entirely, his sincerity palpable. And you so desperately wanted to drown in him again, let yourself be consumed by the current of everything that was Sirius Black.

But instead, you asked, "What is this?" Your voice wasn’t angry, but there was an exhaustion beneath it, a quiet, vulnerable hesitation. "What are we? Because I can't—" you took a slow breath, "I can't do this again and lose."

Sirius' breath hitched, a flicker of something soft crossed his face. He reached out, taking both of your hands in his, thumbs brushing over your knuckles as his voice came out low, earnest, genuine.

"Y/N, I can't breathe when you're not with me." His grip tightened, not enough to hurt, just enough to make sure you were really listening. "You're all I think about. From the moment I saw you I was yours—"

Your breath caught in your throat.

Sirius’ eyes darted across your face, searching, begging for you to see him. And you mirrored him, scouring his features, looking for any hint of deception, any feigned conviction—but there was none.

Only warmth. Only that same tender, devastating fondness you’d spent so long trying to ignore.

"Please say something," he whispered, so fragile you nearly broke again at the sound of it.

Your lips parted, but the words died before they could form, the weight of everything making your chest tight, making it impossible to breathe. Sirius just looked at you—desperate, hopeful—while you struggled, until finally, finally, you managed a single word.

"Sirius."

It was barely a whisper, but it was soft. That same, familiar cadence you used to use when it was just the two of you, curled into each other in the quiet safety of the night.

He felt his shoulders drop slightly, relief settling into his bones.

Cautiously, as if afraid you’d disappear, his hand lifted, fingers ghosting over your jaw before settling there, cradling your face with a reverence that made you dizzy. His palm was warm, radiating a heat that you were so familiar with and your brows furrowed, reaching high on your foread—skin burning under his touch as you let out a shaky breath.

"Can I kiss you?"

His other hand joined, thumbs brushing gently over your cheekbones, holding you like you were made of something precious. You could feel the slow nod of your head before you were even aware you were doing it.

And then he kissed you.

It was different this time.

Not rushed. Not messy. Not laced with laughter and playful teasing.

It was real. It was raw and vulnerable and slow, like he was pouring every single unspoken thing into it, like he was trying to convince you without words. And God help you, you leaned into it. Because you were weak when it came to him, helpless to the way he so easily consumed you completely.

The kiss deepened, a passion—a yearning desperation seeping through as Sirius leaning back, pulling you into his lap, arms wrapping securely around your waist like he was terrified to let go. And just as you were starting to lose yourself in it, his lips parted against yours, murmuring something you couldn’t quite make out.

You pulled back slightly, forehead resting against his, both of you breathless, dazed.

"What?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Sirius’ lips curled into the softest grin, eyes practically glowing even in the dim light of the room. He planted slow, lingering kisses across your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, before finally pressing a last, gentle one to your lips, exhaling into you.

His hands cupped your face, thumbs tracing delicate patterns against your skin as he looked up at you like you were everything, the only thing that tethered him to the earth, the only thing that had ever mattered in that moment and for every moment to come, eyes swimming with a silent promise.

And then, with no hesitation, no doubt, he said it again.

"I said, I love you."

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