#He loved him to the moon and back and he never stopped loving him

[spikedfearn]

Bloodbound

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: In Godthrone, Mississippi, salvation comes at a cost: one girl, every ten years. Bound beneath a blood moon to Remmick, you become more than offering. You become his. He tastes your terror like honey, drinks your arousal like wine, and marks you in ways no god could forgive. Through soul-binding magic and whispered vows carved into skin, you learn that some monsters don’t take—they tether. And once you're his, there's no such thing as free will.

Only desire. Only devotion. Only him.

wc: 15.3k

a/n: I don’t even know where to begin—I’m still trying to process the fact that Brittany Broski posted Mercy Made Flesh to her insta story like it was just another Saturday and not the coolest thing that's ever fucking happened to me 😭 I’ve been writing these aus with my whole heart, but I never expected the absolute avalanche of love and support these past couple of weeks. The comments, the reblogs, the screaming in the tags. It’s meant more than I can say, you have all helped me find the joy in writing again, I promise I’m just getting started <333 and an extra big thank you to Liz @fuckoffbard for swooping in and not only beta reading but posting the fic from my account with her laptop bc Tumblr mobile kept crashing on me every time I tried to edit it. Not all heroes wear capes

warnings: possessive vampire, blood kink, bite kink, soulbonding, dubcon elements, obsession, marking, monsterfucking, ritual sacrifice, forced proximity, loss of agency, manipulation, primal sex, size kink, somnophilia (implied), power imbalance, breeding kink (suggestive), Southern Gothic horror, emotional coercion, sacred corruption, body worship, predator/prey dynamics, fear kink, aftercare, blood drinking, religious overtones, stockholm syndrome elements

tags: @sweetheart2210, @seashelleseashellsbytheseashore, @cosmicneptune (comment if you wanna be added to the tag list)

likes, comments, and reblogs always appreciated, please enjoy!!

They told you not to cry.

The priestess with the burnt fingertips and clinking bone necklace—she gripped your chin between cracked fingers this morning and said it soft, but firm: “He won’t choose the ones who cry. He likes a little fight.”

You didn’t ask who he was. Everyone knows. They say his name like the air around it might curdle. Remmick. No surname. No title. Just Remmick, the vampire king of the blighted woods, the monster who made your town a deal eighty years ago and never broke it.

Not once.

The sun rose slowly this morning, heavy with heat that made the back of your dress stick to your spine before you even got out the door. The August air tastes like rot and copper. You dressed in the church’s parlor room, with the other girls. Seventeen of you. All local. All barely women, but old enough for sacrifice. The law calls it The Binding, but everyone calls it what it is: Bloodbriding.

Your dress is cotton muslin, faded sky-blue with a high collar and puffed sleeves. You think it used to be a baptismal gown. It’s been worn before, passed from girl to girl, all of them marked and married off to the dead. It smells like dried lavender and fear. The buttons up your back had to be done by the priestess. You couldn’t stop trembling.

The town of Godthrone, Mississippi was dying even before the Great Depression turned fields to dust and fathers into ghosts. But they say things changed in 1853, when Remmick came up from the swamps with hunger in his eyes and a deal in his mouth. He would protect the town from sickness, starvation, and war. No one from Godthrone would suffer famine, plague, or enemy. In return, every ten years, a bride would be chosen.

One bride. One binding. One soul fed to the dark.

They tried sending soldiers once, back in 1891. Sixteen went into the woods. None came back whole. Some came back dead. Some came back wrong. One woman started speaking tongues until her mouth filled with spiders. After that, they stopped questioning the pact. Instead, they polished it, sanctified it. Made it a ceremony. A celebration.

Tonight, the Choosing will be held in the town square. You will be walked up barefoot, hair unbound, throat bare. They say the mark will bloom on the girl he wants. A burning, black sigil over the heart. Like a brand. Like a marriage license signed in blood.

Your fingers clutch the hem of your dress. Your name is somewhere on the roster. Somewhere between Eleanor Avery and Ruth Jameson, though it's hard to keep track when the names aren't arranged in alphabetical order.

You haven’t eaten since yesterday. You haven’t even had your first kiss and you’re ridiculously terrified. Because you’ve dreamt of serrated teeth in the dark for weeks now. Because your skin itches like something under it wants out. Because when you close your eyes, you swear you can feel someone watching. Someone already choosing.

And the sun is starting to go down.

They say only the pure get chosen. But that’s a lie. You’ve seen who’s been taken before.

Rebecca Sue, who slit her baby sister’s throat in a fever dream. Agnes Miller, who used to take men’s teeth as trophies.

None of them were pure. They were just...unlucky. Or pretty. Or strange enough that no one would miss them.

You’ve always known you were one of those girls. Born during a blood moon, baptized late because no one could find your daddy until spring thaw—when they fished him out of the river with his eyes missing and his hands gnawed to bone. Your mama didn’t cry. Just braided your hair tighter that morning and told you to never kiss a man with a gold chain or blue eyes. Said they never bring nothin’ but grief.

She died a year later. Something in her blood turned sour. The town doctor wouldn’t touch her. Said it was Remmick’s curse, passed down from when she laid with a man not her husband. Said that’s what happens when women sin.

You were seven when she died. You remember the flies buzzing in her throat. You remember how quiet the house got after. They moved you into the orphan house at the edge of the bog. You learned quickly not to cry at night. Crying brought the wrong kind of attention. So you got good at being quiet. Good at disappearing. Good at keeping secrets under your tongue until they turned bitter and black.

You never learned to curtsy right. You never kept your head bowed during sermons. But you were beautiful, and that was enough. Curious eyes, soft demeanor, a voice like river water. You didn’t want to be, but beauty in Godthrone is a death sentence wrapped in silk.

And now here you are.

Twenty-one and cursed with symmetry.

Chosen to stand under the sickle moon tonight, wearing a dead girl’s dress and nothing else beneath it. Your whole life leading to this—one slow march toward a monster’s mouth.

The town pretends this is holy. They hang garlands on the chapel door and sing hymns in minor chords. The mayor’s wife gave you perfume, lemon balm and sugar, and told you to “make the town proud.” Her eyes didn’t meet yours.

You think about running. You always think about running. But there’s nowhere to go. Not with that feeling in your chest. That strange pull. That sense of something waiting. Something with teeth.

And a name you never dared say out loud until last night. Whispered into your pillow like a prayer. Like a confession.

Remmick.

Your skin burns when you think about it now.

There are stories, of course. Every girl who grows up in Godthrone hears them. They start as whispers during thunderstorms—told under quilts with a candle burning low, shared like secrets between girls too young to know better and too scared not to listen.

“He walks on graves and doesn’t leave footprints.” “He drinks from animals and people, unless he’s claimed you.” “If he marks you, you’ll never want anyone else. Even if you try.”

But the worst ones are the quietest. The ones passed from dying lips to trembling ears. The ones that don’t sound like warnings—they sound like wishes.

“He touched me once. I haven’t known peace since.”

There was one girl—Celia Mott—who came back. Just once. Just long enough to be seen. The Binding year of 1911. She walked into the town square three years later, barefoot and smiling with red-stained teeth. Hair grown long and wild, white dress yellowed with age, eyes gone black. She didn’t speak. Not even once. Just walked right into the chapel and curled up on the altar like a dog. They found her there the next morning, hands folded on her chest, body cold as the river.

No one talks about Celia. But everyone remembers her. You remember her.

You were only thirteen, peeking through a knothole in the chapel wall. You watched as they wrapped her in burlap and buried her deep. You remember thinking she looked peaceful. You remember being jealous. That was the first time you ever said his name, whispered into the dirt above her grave. Not out of fear. Not even hate. Curiosity.

Because what kind of man makes a girl lie down and die smiling?

You used to wonder what he looked like. The other girls said he was monstrous, with claws for hands and eyes that burned like oil lamps in the dark. But that never sat right with you. You don’t think a creature that ancient would need to be grotesque to be feared. You think he’d be beautiful—awfully, unnaturally beautiful. The kind of beautiful that keeps you up at night, sick with craving.

And that’s the part that terrifies you most. Because somewhere in the dark part of you—the part that still dreams of blood-slick mouths and hands around your throat—you want it.

You want to know if he’ll kiss you first or just bite. You want to know what it feels like when the bond takes. You want to know if the mark will hurt as much as it’s supposed to. You want to know if you’ll scream.

You press your palm flat to your chest. Nothing yet. No mark. No burn. No claim. But you swear—you swear—you can feel something there. Like a match waiting to strike. Like teeth ghosting your skin. Like someone’s already touching you from the other side of the veil.

The sun is sinking lower. The bell will ring soon.

And then—the chapel doors open like a serpent unhinging its maw.

Wood creaks. Heat rushes in. And for a second, you don’t move. Then the priestess nods. Just once. That’s your cue.

You step forward on bare feet, feeling every splinter in the boards, every grain of dirt that clings to your soles as you pass the threshold and step into the sweltering dusk. The sky bleeds orange and purple, clouds dragging low like bruises. Somewhere, a cicada screams. And just like that—it begins.

The town square is only five blocks away, but the walk feels like miles. You don’t look at the people lined along the street—don’t dare. You can feel their eyes anyway. Heavy as wet cloth, pricking your skin like pins. Old women in rust-stained aprons. Young boys clutching their mothers' skirts. Men who won’t meet your gaze but still lean in for a better look.

It feels like being paraded through the gallows. Or the garden before slaughter.

The other girls walk ahead and behind you, a procession of blue and white and shaking, anxious limbs. No one speaks. Even the priestess has fallen silent. The only sound is the crunch of gravel underfoot, and the dry shush of cotton brushing thighs.

Your heart beats so loud it’s all you hear. It doesn’t sound like fear anymore. It sounds like an invocation.

The town square unfolds in front of the old courthouse, the brick stained dark from a fire no one talks about anymore. There’s a raised wooden platform at the center—built just for this, just for tonight. The gallows rope is still looped overhead, a relic from older rituals, back when Binding meant hanging the chosen until they gasped awake with his name on their lips.

Now it’s cleaner. More sacred.

They say he prefers it that way.

Gas lanterns flicker along the perimeter, casting warped shadows over the crowd. Wreaths of night jasmine hang from the eaves, their scent thick and cloying in the heat. Everything smells like smoke and sugar and sweat. It makes your stomach roll.

The girls are led to the platform and lined up—seventeen of you, barefoot on the warm planks, hands clasped at your waists like dolls posed for judgment. The crowd stares. Some murmur prayers. Some cry. And some just watch.

You keep your chin up. Not out of pride. But because you know he’s watching too. Somewhere. Behind the crowd. Behind the dusk. Behind the veil of what’s seen and what isn’t.

You can feel it. That tickle at the base of your spine. That breath against your collar. That heartbeat that doesn’t match your own.

The mayor steps forward. Fat and red-faced in a linen suit too tight for the heat. He clears his throat. The priestess lights the ceremonial flame in a basin of copper and bone. She whispers in a language that isn’t English, isn’t Latin, but makes your skin crawl all the same. The fire flares blue.

The bell tolls from the chapel behind you. One. Your pulse stutters. Every eye is on you. Two. You glance down. No mark. Just the flutter of your own chest, just the sickly thrill under your ribs. Three. You feel the wind change. Just slightly. Like something just arrived. Four. The bell keeps tolling, steady as a countdown. Or a death knell.

You don’t flinch, but your knees feel loose. Like they’re no longer yours. Like the wood beneath your feet is suddenly shifting grain, trying to swallow you whole.

The priestess raises both arms. Her voice, when it comes, isn’t loud, but it carries. Thin and sharp and dry as snakeskin. “By covenant sealed and blood remembered, we offer our daughters.”

The crowd murmurs the response: "May He spare the many, and take only the one."

Five. You keep your eyes straight ahead. The girl next to you, Ruth Jameson, is breathing so fast she sounds like a kettle about to boil. She’s a preacher’s daughter. Always wore gloves, even in the summer. Once slapped you for speaking during Sunday reading. You almost hope it’s her.

Let it be her. Or Eleanor Avery. Or Violet Price with the thick braid and expensive teeth. They’re prettier. Cleaner. More practiced in obedience. You’ve heard the whispers that the vampire favors grace, not sharp girls who talk too little and think too much.

Six.

You exhale slow through your nose. Try to imagine the town square without people in it. Try to remember how it looked in winter, dusted with sleet and full of silence. Try to picture yourself anywhere else. You can’t.

The priestess begins the litany. A string of old names, spoken in a dialect that feels like ash in your ears. “Ishari. Vael. Thorne. Kelrem. Narthyx…”

The words twist like vines around your ankles, tight and burning. They say the names are the True Ones. The old ones. The first vampires. Remmick’s forebears, or his victims, no one’s really sure. You doubt there’s a difference.

Seven.

The wind shifts again. This time, everyone feels it. A ripple goes through the crowd—silent, almost reverent. A little boy starts to cry and is shushed immediately. You don’t dare move. You feel it too. It’s like being brushed by something that isn’t there. A pressure. A pull. Like your body isn’t entirely your own anymore.

Still, no mark.

You wonder if you’ll even know when it comes. If it will be sudden. Sharp. Like lightning. Or if it’ll be slow. Like seduction. Like being kissed where no one else can see.

Eight.

The priestess’s eyes are closed now. The other girls tremble. Someone is crying. You’re not sure who. You dare a glance to your left. Eleanor’s lips are moving, silent prayer or quiet bargaining. She looks ready to faint. Her hands are shaking. You look to your right. Ruth’s eyes are squeezed shut, lashes wet. No one is looking at you.

Good. Let it be one of them. Let it not be you. Please.

Nine.

The priestess holds up a small obsidian dagger. Cuts the palm of her hand and lets the blood drip into the blue flame. It hisses, high-pitched and eager.

You smell it instantly.

Not like iron. Like something older. Like the scent of a crypt cracked open.

Ten.

The bell stops. The crowd holds its breath. The fire roars. The flame in the basin spits.

Blue arcs to white. The heat radiates across the platform, and the priestess steps back, blood dripping down her wrist like ink on a parchment soaked too long. Still no mark on your skin. Still no voice in your ear. Still no rush of fire behind your ribs.

You let your shoulders lower a fraction, just enough to feel the strain begin to ease. Just enough to believe—maybe—it’s not you.

Maybe you were only ever meant to stand here, to be one of the extras. The backdrop to someone else’s fate. One of the girls who’ll go home tonight, pale and trembling and untouched.

You could live with that. You could learn to breathe again.

You could get married someday to someone simple and safe. A man with kind eyes and a little farmland. You could forget this ever happened, could press it flat like a pressed flower between the pages of your life. You’re almost ready to believe it.

Until the silence begins to stretch. And stretch. And stretch. Too long. Too unnatural.

The crowd is still holding its breath. But now, they’re waiting. Expectant. The air isn’t quiet—it’s thick. Charged. Like a storm that hasn’t broken yet, a scream that hasn’t been released. You swear the ground hums.

Your skin itches.

Not with sweat. Not with fear. But with awareness.

The priestess’s head cocks slightly to the left. She doesn’t move otherwise. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t speak.

And then the lamps flicker. All at once.

Not a breeze. Not a draft. It’s something deeper. Something below.

A mother in the front row lets out a sob. Her child starts crying again. No one hushes him this time.

The flame gutters low.

You see your breath fog in front of you.

It’s August. The air should feel like soup. But all at once, it’s cold.

A cold that doesn’t touch your skin—it touches your soul. And that’s when you feel it.

Not a mark. Not yet. But the presence. The knowing. It’s here. And it’s looking at you.

You don’t see him at first. You feel him.

Like being plunged into deep water. That gut-punch plunge, that pressure in your ears, that moment of suspended breath where your body forgets how to float. The world narrows. The noise dulls. Every hair on your body rises like it’s been called to attention.

The flame sputters. The priestess lowers her head, and the entire crowd follows. All at once, the square is bowing. No one told you that would happen. The girls beside you drop their gazes. You remain upright.

Too stunned. Too still.

And then you hear it.

Bootsteps.

Slow. Measured.

Bootsteps on gravel, a sound far too ordinary for something this monstrous.

And still, you don’t look. You can’t.

Because your chest is burning.

It starts beneath your collarbone. A single point of heat, sharp as a blade, blossoming outward like ink in water. You gasp, clutch at your heart—but nothing’s there.

No wound. Just pain. Just…change. You look down and see it bloom.

A mark.

Black and bright and moving, like a tattoo drawn by something alive. Swirling patterns, sharp edges and curling lines that twist and wind down your chest. You hear someone cry out—a choked sound, like a girl breaking open—but you don’t realize it’s you until the priestess grips your arm to keep you from falling.

She’s smiling. “The chosen,” she whispers.

And that’s when he speaks.

Not loud. Not rushed.

But his voice cuts through the air like a blade through silk.

“Lift yer head.”

You don’t mean to obey. But your chin rises.

And there he is. At the base of the platform. Not monstrous. Not grotesque.

But broad and pale, dressed in black that doesn’t shine, hair slicked back like wet ink, and eyes the color of dried blood and dying embers. There’s no mistaking him. No imagining he might be a man. He is not a man.

He is the end of prayers. The promise of ruin. The reason the dark exists. Remmick. And he’s looking only at you.

Possession, raw and ravenous, carved into every angle of his face.

“C’mere, little bride,” he says, softly.

And when you step forward—shaking, burning, claimed—it’s not because they all told you to. It’s because you want to.

You step down from the platform one trembling foot at a time.

The crowd doesn’t make a sound. No cheers. No wails. Not even a rustle of skirts or a cough from the old men lining the back.

Just silence.

The kind that feels held—like a breath everyone’s too afraid to release.

Your bare feet meet the packed earth. It’s warm from the heat of the day but it may as well be ice. You can’t feel anything but the burn of the mark, pulsing like a second heart beneath your skin. Every beat of it syncs with something that doesn’t belong to you. Something older.

Remmick waits at the bottom step.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. He just watches you walk to him—like he knew you’d come, like the ceremony was nothing more than a formality. A ritual to dress up inevitability.

You stop just before him. Close enough to feel the wrongness that coils around him like smoke. It doesn’t repel you. It draws you. Makes your blood thrum, makes your mouth dry, makes your thighs clench in a way that shames you instantly. You pray he can’t tell.

Then he lifts a hand. And brushes his thumb lightly across the mark.

Your knees nearly give.

The touch is not cruel. It’s not even forceful. But it ignites something deep, something coiled and ancient inside you. The mark responds—flaring hotter, the lines shifting under his skin like they recognize him.

And then his eyes meet yours. That red glint beneath the dark, sharp and knowing.

“Felt ya long before this,” he murmurs. His voice isn’t deep. It’s smooth. Clear. Cold. “Y’cried my name in yer sleep last week.”

Your breath catches. You didn’t even remember dreaming. But he speaks it like truth. Like he was there.

“Almost took ya then,” he says, dragging his gaze down your body, slow and deliberate. “But this here's cleaner.”

He leans in. And you flinch.

He pauses—just a hair—and then his mouth is at your ear.

“Like when they tremble,” he whispers, voice full of something dark and warm and terrifyingly pleased. “But I like it more when they beg.”

Your breath hitches so violently it hurts. And then his nose drags along the line of your throat. He inhales. A shiver tears through you, sharp and helpless.

“Smell like mine.”

He says it like a promise. Like a curse. Like a man who doesn’t need to raise his voice to ruin you.

The mark burns.

And your body answers with something shameful and wet.

His hand slips to the back of your neck, cool fingers cradling the base of your skull. “I can feel ya now, little bride,” he says, voice softer. Hungrier. “Every shiver. Every ache. Every time yer thighs press together ‘cause yer thinkin’ of me.”

You want to say no. You want to say stop.

But your lips part— —and all that comes out is a broken, traitorous moan.

The crowd still doesn’t move. The priestess watches with her hands folded. And Remmick, smiling now, presses his lips to your jaw—not a kiss, not yet—and whispers:

“We begin tonight.”

They don't clap. No one dares.

The moment he speaks, the crowd begins to part like a body splitting open. Quietly. Obediently. As if on cue.

Remmick doesn't take your hand. He doesn’t have to. You follow him. You don't look back.

The crowd watches in total silence, as though afraid that one misstep, one murmur, might draw his attention. You feel their eyes on you—burning, curious, afraid. But none of them move to stop you. No one calls your name. No one tries to say goodbye.

And somehow that hurts worse than if they had.

The mark on your chest is still searing, like hot iron beneath your skin. But it’s not just pain anymore—it’s pull. With every step you take behind him, it feels stronger. Hungrier. You feel him through it now. A weight in your gut. A throb between your legs. An ache in the part of you that shouldn’t want this, but does.

You wonder if he feels it too. You don’t have to wait long to find out.

Halfway down the path, Remmick pauses, turns his head just slightly—not enough to see his whole face, just the ghost of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. “Stop squeezin’ yer thighs together like that,” he says without looking at you. “Ain’t polite.”

Your cheeks go hot. You hadn’t even noticed you were doing it. Instinct. Reflex. Shame flickers to life—but it doesn’t stay long. Not when he glances back, finally, and meets your eyes with something wicked and low in his voice.

“Though I do like it.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just keep walking.

Remmick’s estate lies on the edge of the woods, past the last row of homes where the gas lamps thin and the road turns to dirt. The air shifts the moment you cross the boundary—cooler, thicker. It feels like stepping into another world. A forgotten place. The trees here lean too close. The moss drips like old lace. You see stones sunk into the earth along the path, names long worn away. Grave markers, maybe. Or warnings.

The carriage is waiting for you.

Sleek, black, quiet. Not pulled by horses—those would never make it through these woods. Instead, it waits unnaturally still, shadows wrapping around its wheels, as if it simply appeared when called. Remmick holds the door open for you.

You pause.

Not because you’re afraid. But because everything in you wants to go in.

You hate how much you want it.

Inside, the cabin is too dark. Too cold. The seat cushions are velvet, the color of dried wine. There are no windows. Only candle sconces that haven’t been lit. You sit, carefully. Your thighs still sticky from earlier. You press your knees together and fold your hands in your lap like a good little bride.

Remmick follows. Closes the door behind him with a click.

You’re alone. Utterly, entirely alone.

And you feel the silence tighten around you like a glove.

Then he speaks. Low. Deliberate. “Take off the dress.”

You don’t move. You don’t breathe.

The words take off the dress still hang in the air—heavy, impossible to grasp, clinging to your skin in ways you can’t shake.

Your fingers twitch in your lap.

The candle sconces haven’t been lit, but you can see him anyway. The dark doesn’t seem to touch him, not really. His eyes are brighter in it. Redder. Watching you the way a wolf watches a trembling rabbit—not out of pity. Not out of malice, either. But with the certainty of hunger.

He leans back, legs spread, one arm resting along the velvet seat. Casual. Patient. Like he’s giving you a choice when you both know there isn’t one. “I won’t ask twice, sweetheart.”

The term of endearment doesn’t sound kind. It sounds dangerous.

Your breath comes shallow. You reach for the first button.

The collar is stiff, the thread old. You fumble. Your fingers feel clumsy, not from fear—but from how aware you are of his gaze. It traces every movement. Tracks the tremble in your hands. Watches your chest rise with every breath.

You get the first button undone. Then the second. The third.

The dress loosens across your shoulders. The mark, still searing hot and alive, seems to pulse brighter in the air between you. It aches when you drag the fabric down your arms, exposing more of it. The gown drops to your waist, then your hips. You shift to slide it lower.

Remmick still hasn’t moved.

But the air has. It feels denser now. Like you’ve stepped inside his lungs and forgotten how to breathe on your own.

When the dress slips past your thighs and pools at your feet, you’re left in nothing.

No underthings. No slip.

Just bare skin and that still-burning sigil over your heart.

Your hands twitch up to cover yourself—reflex, instinct, shame—but his voice stops you before they reach your chest.

“Don’t.” One word. Quiet. But it scalds.

You obey. Your arms drop.

He finally leans forward.

His palm drags over his jaw as he takes you in, slow and deliberate. You expect him to leer. To lick his lips or reach for you like you’re already his. But instead, he just looks.

Like he’s seeing something holy.

And then, softly—more to himself than to you—he says, “Fuckin’ beautiful.”

You bite your lip.

Something twists in your belly. Something hot and low and helpless.

He leans in, elbows resting on his knees, and murmurs: “Y’don’t even know what yer feelin’, do ya?”

You try to speak, but your throat’s too dry.

He tilts his head, watching the way your thighs inch together again. “That’s the bond, love. That ache? That throb in yer cunt? That heat sittin’ behind yer ribs like a sin waitin’ to be confessed?”

His voice drops even lower.

“That’s me.”

You shudder. The mark pulses.

And Remmick, grinning now—slow, sharp, possessive—reaches out, thumb brushing just under the curve of your breast, not quite touching the mark but close enough that it sparks again behind your ribs. “Y’feel me yet?” he asks.

You nod. Barely.

He laughs, soft and cruel and pleased. “Good. Then let’s make it permanent.”

Your breath stutters.

His thumb still lingers just below your breast, not quite touching the mark, but the heat from his skin radiates into yours like an ember pressed to parchment. You feel it coil low in your belly, tight and trembling.

And he sees it.

Of course he does.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, voice like smoke curling around your neck. “Already buzzin’ for me. And I haven’t even laid a proper hand on ya yet.”

He lets his fingers trail lightly down your sternum. Not rushed. Not greedy. It’s almost reverent—if reverence could be soaked in hunger. His fingertips drag over your ribs, then down to the soft dip between them, tracing lazy circles that never quite reach where you want.

The bond throbs between you like a living thing.

It doesn’t just burn. It pulls.

Each touch sends something electric singing across your nerves, as though your body’s not fully yours anymore—shared now, tied to something dark and breathing. Every sensation is heightened. The velvet seat beneath you feels too soft. The air feels too tight. And his touch?

His touch feels like command.

He leans closer. You feel his breath on your throat before you see his mouth. “Tell me where it hurts,” he whispers, and his tongue brushes the shell of your ear.

Your hips shift without permission. “Lower,” you manage, barely above a whisper.

Remmick hums. A dark, pleased sound. “Aye. Thought so.” He brings his hand to your thigh, palm broad and cool, fingers spreading to grip you firm. Not harsh. Not rough. But with purpose. Like he’s claiming the space. Like he already owns it. He pushes your legs apart slowly, and the bond sings when you don’t resist.

When you offer.

His gaze dips down.

And he groans—quiet, guttural. “Sweet fuckin’ Christ.”

You’re soaked.

Your body, treacherous and needy, has already given itself over. The mark glows faintly in the dark now, pulse-for-pulse with your heartbeat, lighting the curve of your breast and the sweat beading along your collar.

“You know what this is, don’t ya?” he says, dragging a finger up your inner thigh, stopping just shy of your center. “The bond’s settin’ in. Claimin’ ya. Makes every nerve scream for me. You’d let me do anything right now, wouldn’t ya?”

You want to say no. You really do. But your body says yes in a dozen ways. The way your breath shakes. The way your thighs tremble. The way your hips rock forward, desperate for any friction, even the ghost of it.

You meet his eyes. “Please,” you whisper. It slips out before you can stop it.

Remmick’s grin turns sharp. Triumphant. “Say it again.”

Your cheeks burn. But your body doesn’t hesitate. “Please.”

He moves then.

Not fast. Not rough. But with absolute, devastating intent.

He sinks to his knees in front of you. Not in worship. Not in submission. But in devouring anticipation.

His hands slide up your thighs, spreading them wider, and he presses a kiss just above your knee. Then another, higher. And another. Each one closer to the place that aches. The place he’s not touching.

Yet.

“You don’t even know what I’m about to do to ya,” he murmurs, mouth against your skin. “But yer body’s already beggin’.” He nips just above your hip, tongue soothing the sting. And finally, finally, his hand reaches the mark again—palm flat over your heart.

You jolt.

It feels like fire licking up your spine. Like something ancient waking up. Like something that says: Mine.

“Y’ready, little bride?” he asks, voice rough with hunger, reverent with power.

Because this is more than lust.

This is binding. This is belonging. And you’re about to be his—in every sense.

Your heart is a drum. A hammer. A hymn.

And Remmick holds it in his palm like he’s already broken it open and tasted what’s inside.

He watches you. Eyes dark, pupils wide, mouth parted—not in awe, not in shock, but in possession. Like a man handed his favorite weapon after years of war. Like he knows exactly how to use you. “Keep yer eyes on me,” he says softly.

You do. Because you can’t look away.

His thumb strokes over your mark, slow and possessive. The moment he presses down—just the lightest pressure—you gasp, full-body and shaking. It doesn’t hurt. It’s worse than that.

It undoes you.

Your back arches off the seat. A whimper slips past your lips, high and humiliating, and the fire under your skin blooms wider, deeper, lower.

“Good,” Remmick breathes, as if your body’s reaction is all the permission he needs. “Let it take ya.” He leans in again, lips brushing over the curve of your breast, just below the glowing sigil etched into your flesh. His mouth is soft. Cool. But where it touches, heat follows. Magic, maybe. Or something far filthier.

You shiver.

He trails his tongue in a slow, careful circle around the mark. Not kissing. Not biting. Just tasting.

You make a sound—something raw and helpless—and Remmick laughs, low in his throat. “Feel that?”

You nod, dazed.

He hums like he’s proud of you. Like he owns every breath you take now. “Bond’s startin’ to root,” he says against your skin. “It’s in the blood. In the muscle. Every heartbeat yer body makes now? It’s for me.”

His hand moves lower.

Fingers dragging down your belly, past your hip, settling between your thighs where you’re soaked and trembling and already spreading for him without thought. “You feel like sin,” he murmurs. “Gonna taste like salvation.” And then he finally, finally presses his mouth to the center of you.

You jerk. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

His tongue is slow at first, lazy, almost cruel in how lightly he licks. As if he’s savoring the fact that you’re shaking under him already. You try to move—try to rock against him—but his hands grip your thighs, holding you open, holding you still.

“This ain’t just fuckin’,” he rasps, voice muffled by your body. “This is the bind. This is me settin’ my claim.”

You moan. You whimper. And when his mouth closes over your clit and he sucks, your vision shatters.

It’s not just pleasure. It’s magic.

You feel it in your bones, in the roots of your teeth, in the back of your throat. You feel the bond snap into place like a tether. You feel him inside you—his hunger, his need, his desire—mirroring yours, amplifying it, turning you both into a single, burning thing.

You’re panting now. Desperate. Gone. “Remmick—” you gasp.

He groans like your voice alone could finish him.

You feel his tongue again—harder now, faster, coaxing your orgasm to the surface like a secret—and you give it to him. You give everything. You come with a cry, eyes wide, hips shaking, the mark on your chest glowing like fire in the dark. And Remmick?

He doesn’t stop.

Not until you’re slumped against the seat, legs still twitching, the bond humming under your skin like a satisfied beast. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Smirking.

“First part’s done,” he says, voice wrecked. “Now we finish it.”

He stands. Unbuckling his belt. Unbuttoning his trousers.

And between your thighs, your body begins to ache all over again.

You’re still trembling when he rises.

Remmick towers over you in the low flickering dark, the glow from your mark throwing soft gold light across the sharp bones of his face. He looks half-saint, half-devil—something carved out of hunger and patience, restraint and ruin.

He doesn’t touch you yet. Not again.

He just watches as you breathe, chest heaving, legs still slack and parted. And for a heartbeat, he says nothing. He simply drinks you in like a man parched. And then his voice cuts through the silence again—low, velvet-rough, intimate as a mouth pressed to your spine. “You’re takin’ it real pretty,” he murmurs, thumbing the buttons on his trousers loose one by one. “Didn’t think you’d fold that fast. But fuck, I felt it.”

Your body answers with a pulse.

You want to close your legs, to pull your dress back on, to shield yourself from how open he’s left you—but the bond won’t let you. It aches when you think about hiding. It pulls you back toward him, like a tide. Like gravity.

And he knows it.

He steps out of his slacks and lets his shirt hang open, chest pale and cut with the kind of lean strength you’ve only read about in books meant to be hidden under your mattress. His body is strong, scarred, real. A monument to the centuries he’s outlived.

Your eyes drop lower. And—god.

You freeze.

He’s hard already, thick and flushed, hanging heavy between his thighs, and for the first time since the mark bloomed, you feel a new kind of fear coil in your gut.

He’s going to ruin you.

And you want it so badly you could cry.

Remmick sees the way your gaze lingers. “‘S alright,” he says, stepping closer. “I’ll go slow. First time’s meant to sting a little.” His hand drags down your cheek, thumb brushing your lips. “But y’won’t be scared of the pain. Not when I’m the one givin’ it to ya.”

You make a sound in your throat—something small, breathless, wanting.

He strokes your jaw, then cups the back of your neck, guiding you gently down, down, until you’re laid out across the velvet bench seat. He doesn’t climb on top of you right away. He kneels beside the bench, one hand splayed wide across your ribs, the other pressing just above the mark on your chest.

The weight of it grounds you.

“Last chance, little bride,” he says softly, and there’s something raw beneath the teasing now. “After this, there ain’t no undoing it.”

You look up at him. And despite everything—despite the fear, the heat, the bond that feels like it’s branded your soul from the inside out—

You nod.

Remmick’s smile is slow. Tender. Like a secret finally answered.

“Atta girl.”

He leans down.And when his mouth presses over the mark—soft, sure, claiming—you swear your body catches fire all over again. His mouth seals over the mark, and it’s like being opened. Not physically—not yet—but inside. Beneath your ribs. Somewhere sacred.

You feel it the way thunder rolls over land—first a hush, then a tremble, then a crack that splits you straight down the middle. His lips part just enough for his tongue to drag across the sigil, and something ancient stirs to life.

The mark glows white-hot.

Your back bows off the seat. Your fingers clutch at velvet, at air, at him. A gasp tears from your throat, raw and keening.

Remmick moans against your chest. “There she is,” he rasps, mouth dragging lower, down the slope of your breast. “Fuck, yer soul’s singin’ for me now. Y’feel that? That little ache in the base of yer spine?”

You nod, frantic.

“It’s me,” he says, hand sliding back between your thighs. “That’s me growin’ roots in ya.” His fingers tease your slick folds, feather-light, not giving what you need, just promising.

You whimper.

Remmick watches you writhe, his cock hard and leaking, resting heavy against his thigh. “Spread ‘em wider, sweetheart. That’s it. Just like that. Let me in.”

You do as you’re told. You’d do anything he asks right now. Not because he’s taken your will. But because he’s claimed your want.

He climbs over you slowly, one knee pressing between your thighs, his body blanketing yours with terrible warmth. The feel of his skin against yours makes your mark pulse like it’s alive. He lines himself up, dragging the head of his cock against your soaked entrance, letting it slip through your folds, slicking himself in you.

You gasp.

“Remmick—”

He cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, voice low and hoarse. “I’ve got ya. Gonna go slow.” He pushes in.

God.

It’s thick. It stretches. It burns in the best, most ruinous way. You clutch his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as he inches deeper—slow, agonizing, precise. Every breath is a plea. Every heartbeat is his. You feel the bond knot tighter, pulling you to him with every inch he sinks into your body. Halfway in, and you’re already fluttering around him, body shaking, eyes wet.

Remmick groans, low and wrecked. “Fuckin’ hell,” he grits out. “You’re tight as a fist. Grip me like you were made for it.” He rolls his hips forward, just a little deeper.

You cry out—more overwhelmed than hurt. Pleasure is coiling inside you like a scream wound too tight to release.

“‘S alright,” he murmurs. “Yer takin’ me so well. Gonna have all of me soon.”

He kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then your jaw.

“Y’wanna say it?” he asks.

You blink up at him, dazed.

He smiles against your throat. “Say yer mine.”

The words curl on your tongue, fever-warm. “I’m yours.”

His hips snap forward, burying himself in you to the hilt.

You shatter.

You can’t breathe. Not properly.

Not with him buried that deep inside you—thick and unyielding, pressing against something that makes your vision go white around the edges. The stretch burns and soothes all at once, every nerve pulled taut, every inch of your body drawn to his like a tide to the moon.

Remmick doesn’t move right away. He just holds himself there. Letting you feel the full weight of what he’s done.

What he is doing. What you’ll never come back from.

You whimper, your hips twitching, the pressure too much and not enough and perfect. And all he does is lean in close, his voice curling against your ear like the heat of a candle’s flame.

“There it is,” he murmurs. “Feel me in ya? That ache in your belly? That’s me settin’ in, stretchin’ ya out, makin’ room.” His hand cups your jaw, gentle but firm, tilting your face toward his. He watches you—hungry and soft all at once, like a man who’s both starving and reverent. “Y’wanna know somethin’, sweetheart?” he asks, hips giving one slow, rolling thrust.

You gasp, back arching, lips parting in a helpless cry.

He groans, deep in his throat, and stills again. “You’ll never forget this feelin’,” he says. “No matter what happens after. No matter where you run. This right here?” He shifts inside you, not pulling out, just moving deep. “This bond’ll hunger until I feed it.”

You can’t speak. Your body is writhing under him, hips tilting instinctively, needing more, needing movement. The bond is humming now—hot, thick, vibrating under your skin like a wire ready to snap.

And then he starts to move.

Slow. So slow it feels lethal.

He pulls out an inch. Pushes back in. Again. And again.

Each thrust is a deliberate claiming—grinding against the deepest part of you, igniting something wild and ancient in your blood. You moan with every slide, and his name slips out of your mouth between gasps like a prayer, like a curse, like you don’t care who hears.

“R-Remmick—”

He shudders above you, burying his face against your throat.

“Fuck, say it again.”

You do. You can’t stop. “Remmick. Remmick—” Your fingers dig into his back, pulling him closer, urging him to move faster, harder, deeper.

But he won’t. Not yet.

He keeps the pace slow, grinding into you with the kind of restraint that hurts, like he wants to ruin you one slow breath at a time.

You’re sobbing now. From pleasure. From pressure. From the overwhelming rightness of being filled by him.

He kisses the corner of your mouth. Then your jaw. Then the spot where your pulse pounds like a war drum. “Let it take ya,” he whispers. “Let me in. All the way.”

You don't have to let it take you. It's already happening.

Every roll of his hips, every grinding thrust, buries him deeper—not just into your body, but into your very being. You feel him threading through your blood, knotting himself into the soft, wet, secret places no one else has ever touched. You feel him becoming part of you.

And it’s bliss. It’s agony. It’s everything you never dared want.

Remmick groans into your throat, the sound rough and ragged, and you realize—he’s shaking. His arms bracket your head, muscles tense, as if he’s holding himself back with the last threads of a fraying leash. "Fuckin’ hell," he rasps against your skin. "You don’t even know what yer doin’ to me, do ya?"

You moan when his hips shift again, a slow, brutal grind that rubs against something deep inside, sending another crack through your already crumbling self.

"You’re burnin’ me up from the inside," he breathes. "Claimin’ me right back without even tryin'." He thrusts again, a little harder this time.

Your nails rake down his back, and he hisses, the sound sharp and desperate.

"Y’hear that, little bride?" he pants. "The bond’s snappin' shut. Lockin’ us together. Ain’t no prayers that can undo it now."

You whimper under him, nodding frantically because words are gone. Lost. All you can do is feel. All you can do is take him. The magic between you stretches taut—white-hot and endless—pulling tighter with every slow, deep stroke.

Remmick lifts his head. Looks at you. Really looks at you.

And something raw, something wild flashes through his crimson eyes.

Not cruelty. Not hunger. But devotion. The kind of devotion that ruins. That razes. That rebuilds.

And his voice—Christ, his voice—comes soft and reverent, like a prayer said in a burning church. "Mine." He pulls almost all the way out.

Your body cries for him.

And when he slams back in, burying himself to the hilt, the bond explodes.

You barely have time to scream. It rips out of you as Remmick drives back into your body with a force that shatters something deep inside—not bone, not muscle, but something older. Something tied to the very breath in your lungs and the heat in your blood.

The bond snaps tight. It doesn’t just settle between you—it erupts.

A wave of heat crashes through you, stealing your sight, your breath, your thoughts. The air around you blurs and sharpens all at once, everything too bright, too loud, too much. You feel him in every corner of your being—his hunger, his lust, his need crashing against yours in a brutal, endless tide.

Remmick groans low in his throat, a broken sound, like he’s barely holding himself together. "That's it, love," he pants, thrusting deep and sure now, fucking you through the bond’s collapse. "Feel it. Feel me." Each thrust drives him deeper than flesh, branding his presence into you so thoroughly you don't know where you end and he begins.

Your fingers scrabble at his back, nails dragging across his spine. You clutch at him like drowning, like if you let go you’ll be ripped apart.

And maybe you would.

"Yer mine now," he growls against your neck, voice shaking with the force of it. "Every heartbeat. Every breath. Every fuckin’ drop of blood in that sweet body—mine."

You sob beneath him, helpless.

Because it’s true. It’s so true it hurts.

He fucks you harder, hips slamming into yours, the slick sound of your bodies joining filling the dark carriage. Every inch of you aches for him now, craves him. The pleasure is brutal, endless, washing over you in thick, consuming waves that blur the edges of the world. "Say it," he snarls. "Say who owns ya."

You can barely get the words out, your voice broken and gasping between thrusts. "You—Remmick—I'm yours, I'm yours—"

He groans, loud and wrecked, driving himself deeper. "Again."

"I'm yours!" you cry, clinging to him, legs wrapping around his waist without thought. "I'm yours!"

The bond screams its satisfaction, magic sealing tighter, brighter, a perfect, eternal tether. Remmick’s rhythm falters—just for a heartbeat—and then he lets go completely. He fucks you harder, faster, rougher now, as if trying to stamp himself into every molecule of your body. As if the bond isn’t enough, as if he needs your body to remember what your soul already knows.

You’re close again. Closer than before.

Tears leak from the corners of your eyes, not from pain—but from the overwhelming rightness of it. The way your body, your magic, your very soul sings under him.

"That's it," he grits out, teeth scraping against your jaw, your throat. "Gimme one more, sweetheart. One more, and I'll fill ya. Mark ya up proper."

You sob something desperate and broken against his shoulder.

And then you fall apart.

Your body breaks first. You cry out, a sharp, ragged sound, thighs locking around Remmick’s hips as your climax rips through you like a flood that’s been dammed too long. It’s blinding—so much more than pleasure. It's surrender. It's consummation.

The bond erupts under your skin, a wildfire racing from your chest outward—your limbs, your heart, your mind all filled with him, only him.

Remmick snarls low in his throat when he feels it—feels you milking his cock, spasming around him, clutching him so tightly you might tear him apart if he were anything less than what he is. "Fuckin’ hell, there’s my girl," he growls, voice thick, shaking, barely human. "God, yer perfect—perfect for me."

You barely hear him over the rush of blood in your ears, the way your heart stutters and kicks under the strain of the bond locking into place. You feel like you’re dying, being reborn, consumed.

And then—

His hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back to bare your throat.

You don’t resist. You can’t.

You offer it to him. Begging without words.

Needing it. Needing him.

Remmick’s breath sears against your pulse, a guttural sound of want breaking free from his chest. "Mine," he rasps, and then— He sinks his fangs into your throat.

You scream—not from pain. From release. From completion.

The moment his teeth pierce your skin, it’s over. The bond seals so violently you swear you feel the whole world lurch.

You feel his cock throb inside you as he spills himself deep, hips jerking hard against yours as he empties everything into you—claiming you, breeding you, binding you. His moan vibrates against your throat, a filthy, possessive sound, full of ancient, ruinous satisfaction.

You convulse around him, helpless, drowning in the force of it—your orgasm crashing into his, a tangled knot of pleasure and magic and hunger so overwhelming you stop knowing where you end and he begins.

Everything collapses into him. His taste. His scent.

His voice murmuring ragged, half-spoken promises against your bleeding throat.

"Never lettin’ ya go." "Made ya for me." "Gonna fuckin’ ruin anyone who tries to take ya." "My sweet girl. My bride."

The world fades to black around the edges.

Not death. Not fear. Just him. Only him.

You don't know how long you stay like that. Him buried deep inside you, teeth still sunk into your throat, body trembling with the aftershocks of the bond and the brutal, gorgeous wreckage he’s left behind.

When he finally pulls his fangs free, you whimper at the loss—but he shushes you gently, lapping at the puncture marks with slow, lazy strokes of his tongue. Sealing the wound. Marking you further.

His hand cups the side of your face, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth like he's calming a horse that’s been run too hard. "There she is," he murmurs, voice low and thick with satisfaction. "My little bride."

You blink up at him, dazed, boneless, ruined.

He smiles.

It’s not kind. It’s not soft. It’s something far worse. Worship.

"You feel it, don't ya?" he whispers. "That ache behind yer ribs? That’s me sittin’ in yer soul now."

You nod weakly. You can still feel him inside you—hot and sticky, filling you in every way a man can. The bond thrums between you like a heartbeat shared.

And he’s not done.

You see it in his eyes. That hunger. That certainty.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth—slow, claiming kisses, each one staking a piece of you deeper than the last. "You’ll never want anyone else again," he promises, voice almost tender. "Yer mine now. Body, blood, soul."

And somehow, impossibly—

You don't fear it. You crave it. You crave him. Forever.

The carriage rocks gently as it moves, but you barely notice. You’re sprawled across the velvet seat, bare and boneless, your limbs too heavy to lift, your skin humming with the aftershocks of what just happened.

Of what you are now. Of what he made you.

The mark on your chest still glows faintly, a soft pulse in the dark, echoing your heartbeat—and his. It thrums in your veins, in the tender ache between your thighs where he spilled himself so deep you can still feel the heat of it. You don’t know where your body ends and his begins anymore.

Maybe there’s no difference. Maybe there never was.

Remmick sits at the far end of the carriage now, leaned back lazily against the seat, trousers still open, hair a mussed halo around his head like he’s been through a war and came out smiling.

He watches you. God, he watches you.

Eyes dark and glittering, hungry and satisfied all at once, a predator marveling at the way his prey still twitches even after the final blow.

He’s in no rush. He’s got you now.

Forever.

And you feel it—the first thread of it tightening low in your belly.

A throb. A pulse.

Your body responds instantly to his gaze, hips shifting, thighs pressing together, nipples tightening in the cool air. You bite your lip, trying to smother the shameful rush of heat flooding you again, but it's impossible.

Because now—

Now he feels it too.

A low, wicked chuckle rumbles from his chest. "Aw, sweetheart," he drawls, the accent thick and syrupy, heavy with cruel affection. "Already missin’ me inside ya?"

Your face burns. You shake your head, a weak, pitiful denial—but the bond betrays you.

He tilts his head, the smile on his lips turning downright vicious. "Don’t lie to me," he says, voice dropping low and rough. "Not now. Not when I can feel every twitch of that sweet little cunt clenchin’ on nothin’."

You whimper, curling in on yourself without thinking.

But he doesn’t let you hide for long.

In a blink, he’s across the carriage, hands bracketing your hips, dragging you back flat against the seat. He crowds over you without even touching you fully, his presence alone suffocating, his body heat pouring into you like a second, darker sun.

"You’re open to me now," he murmurs, brushing your hair from your face with almost obscene tenderness. "Every want. Every ache. Every filthy little thought—" He presses the flat of his palm to the mark. You jerk under him, helpless "—I feel ‘em all."

His thumb strokes slow, lazy circles over the mark, and each touch sends new ripples of need spiraling outward—your body trembling, your thighs wet and slick all over again. "You’re gonna learn real quick, love," he says, grinning as you whimper, as you arch into his touch without meaning to. "Ain’t no hidin’ from me now."

He leans down, mouth brushing your ear. "Every time you ache, I’ll know."

"Every time you touch yerself, I’ll feel it." "Every time you think about me splittin’ you open again—"

He rocks his hips against you, not entering, just letting you feel the thick, hot weight of him. "—I’ll be right there, cock hard, ready to remind ya who you fuckin’ belong to."

You sob, overwhelmed.

And his voice goes velvet-soft, coaxing. "Beg me, little bride," he whispers, lips dragging down your throat, over your mark, down the trembling plane of your belly. "Beg me to fuck ya again. Right here. Right now. Fill ya ‘til there’s nothin’ left but me."

You’re already halfway there. The bond shudders and pulls tight, a perfect, beautiful noose.

And you know— You’ll never be free again.

You’ll never want to be.

You don’t even realize you’re begging at first. It’s not words—

It’s sounds.

Soft, desperate little whimpers that slip from your mouth without permission, without shame. Your hips rock up toward him, seeking friction, seeking him, even though there’s no chance of satisfaction without his mercy.

Remmick smiles down at you, all lazy, wicked patience. His thumb strokes your mark again, and your whole body jolts, back arching beautifully off the velvet, nipples peaked, thighs slick. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and rich. “Know you can do better’n that. Gimme what I want.” His other hand slides between your legs, fingers ghosting over the soaked, swollen mess he’s made of you.

Barely touching. Barely giving.

You sob out a broken little sound, your hips chasing his hand, your body betraying how desperately you need him to touch, to fill, to take.

Remmick chuckles, a dark, filthy sound that rumbles deep in his chest. “You’re already cryin’ for it, aren’t ya?” he says, tapping your clit lightly with two fingers just to hear the whimper it wrings out of you. “Poor thing. Poor messy little bride. All knotted up and nowhere to go.”

You bite your lip, trembling.

And finally, finally, you find your voice. “Please,” you gasp. “Please, Remmick—please, I need you—”

His breath hitches. He feels it through the bond.

Your honesty. Your surrender. Your helpless, soaking, wrecked want.

His hand fists in your hair, tugging your head back to make you look at him. “Say it proper,” he growls, eyes glowing deep red in the dark. “Say what you want.”

You sob again, blinking up at him, undone and aching. “Please fuck me,” you whisper. “Please—fill me up—make me yours—” You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore.

You just mean it. You mean every breathless, desperate word.

Remmick’s whole body shudders. “Fuckin’ hell, you’re perfect.” He doesn’t make you wait after that. He grabs your hips, hauling you down the seat, lining himself up again with ruthless, hungry precision.

You feel the head of his cock slide against your entrance, hot and heavy and inevitable. You whimper, trying to push down onto him, but he holds you still.

“Easy, love,” he murmurs, voice thick and rough. “Gonna give it to ya. Gonna fuck ya slow. Deep. Like you deserve.”

You cry out, nails digging into the velvet, the anticipation unbearable. And then—

He pushes inside. All the way.

Inch by inch, deliberate and slow, stretching you open, filling you so completely you can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t be anything but his. Your head tips back, mouth open in a soundless moan, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes.

Remmick groans like he’s dying. “Christ, yer fuckin’ perfect inside,” he pants, hips rolling slow, deep, dragging against every tender, swollen place he touched before. “Tight little thing. Made to take me.”

You whimper under him, arms thrown around his shoulders, legs locked around his waist, pulling him deeper, begging without words for more, more, more—

“Shhh, I got ya,” he soothes, kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat where his bite still aches. “Gonna take care of ya, little bride. Gonna fuck ya full. Keep ya full. Never gonna let ya go.”

The bond hums louder. Hotter.

Closer.

You can feel yourself already climbing again, your body desperate to fall with him, for him, because of him.

And Remmick—

Remmick feels it too. Feels it through the bond, through your trembling body, through the desperate clench of your cunt around his cock. “That's it,” he groans, pace picking up, thrusts slow but brutal, deep enough you swear you feel him in your throat. “Milk me, love. Show me who ya belong to.” You don’t realize you’re crying again until his thumb brushes the tear slipping down your cheek.

Not hard. Not cruel.

Gentle. Tender.

Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s proud.

“Look at ya,” Remmick murmurs, still grinding deep inside you, the head of his cock dragging over that sensitive, aching place that makes your toes curl and your thighs shake. “Cryin’ so sweet for me.”

He kisses the tear away. Slow.

Lingering.

And then he pulls back just enough to watch your face as he thrusts deep again—slow and rough and devastating—the velvet seat creaking under you both.

You sob, hips rolling to meet him without even thinking, chasing the friction, the fullness, the ownership.

“That’s it,” he pants, voice ragged with pleasure. “Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl. Always knew you’d take me so pretty.”

You cling to him now—arms thrown around his neck, nails raking down his back, legs locked around his hips like your body’s trying to weld itself to his. The bond thrums, vibrating louder, hotter, tighter, until there’s nothing in the world but him—his cock splitting you open, his hands anchoring you down, his mouth whispering filthy worship against your throat.

“Yer built for me,” he growls, teeth scraping lightly against your skin. “Every inch of ya. Every little flutter of this sweet cunt—made to squeeze the life outta me.”

You keen high in your throat, mindless.

Gone.

And Remmick knows it. Knows he’s breaking you. Knows he’s ruining you.

And he loves it.

“You ain’t ever gonna want anyone else,” he murmurs, slowing his thrusts even more, dragging them out until each one feels like a lifetime. “Ain’t ever gonna even think about lettin’ another man touch ya. Not when I’ve already marked ya this deep.”

You whimper, nodding desperately, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Say it, love,” he urges, voice rough and sweet and brutal all at once. “Say yer mine.”

“I’m yours,” you sob, clenching around him so tight he curses under his breath. “I’m yours—I’m yours—only yours—”

He thrusts deeper, harder, driving you up the seat. “Good girl,” he growls, voice wrecked. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

Your climax builds again—fast and brutal—pleasure knotting behind your ribs, behind your spine, the bond squeezing tighter, ready to snap.

And he feels it. His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit with ruthless precision, thumb circling it in time with his deep, devastating thrusts. “Gimme another one, sweetheart,” he pants, hips snapping harder now, cock hitting so deep you swear you feel him in your fucking soul. “Wanna feel you fall apart around me. Wanna drown in it.”

You moan—high and desperate—and the pleasure crashes over you without warning.

You shatter. You scream.

Your body locks up tight, clamping around him, pulsing, milking, owning him as much as he owns you.

Remmick roars against your throat, hips jerking wildly, and then he’s spilling inside you again—hot and endless, filling you so deep you swear you can feel it leaking out around where you’re still clenching him tight.

He bites your shoulder this time—not hard enough to break skin, just hard enough to mark—and the bond howls in satisfaction, sealing it even deeper.

He doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t move.

He just lays there, trembling over you, cock still twitching inside your soaked, fluttering cunt, breath ragged against your skin.

“Mine,” he whispers again.

A vow. A sentence. A promise.

And you—You cling to him like you’ll never let go.

Because you won’t. Because you can’t. Because you’re his. Forever.

You wake in his bed.

You don't remember how you got there.

One moment, you were in the carriage, trembling and wrecked in his arms. The next, you were here—on soft linen sheets, the scent of smoke and leather and Remmick sinking into your skin with every breath you take.

It’s still dark outside. Still heavy.

Still thick with the weight of what’s been done.

The mark over your heart burns dully now, a steady throb like a brand set into your flesh. Not painful. Not exactly.

But constant.

A reminder. A tether.

You reach for him instinctively, seeking the heat of his body against yours—but find only cool sheets where he should be. You sit up, heart stuttering, chest tightening so fast and sharp it’s like you’ve been punched.

Because he’s gone.

He’s not in the bed. Not in the room.

And the bond—The bond screams.

The ache blooms under your ribs, a sick, gnawing hunger that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with absence.

You feel wrong without him. Empty. Fractured.

You clutch the sheet to your chest, trembling. “Remmick?” you whisper into the dark.

No answer. Just the slow crackle of the fireplace across the room.

Your thighs are sticky with the remnants of him. Your body aches in places you didn’t know could ache. And still—it’s not enough.

Your body wants him back. Needs him back.

You bite your lip, rocking slightly where you sit, trying to soothe the gnawing ache, the gnashing hunger spiraling tighter inside you.

And then—

You feel him.

Not physically. Psychically.

A thread tugging between you.

You squeeze your thighs together, trying to suppress the fresh wave of heat pooling low in your belly—but it’s no use. The mark flares hot.

You whimper.

Somewhere—wherever he is—you know he feels it too.

Because a voice curls into your mind. Low. Rough. Amused. "Miss me already, little bride?"

You gasp, hands flying to your chest, clutching the mark like it might stop the flood building under your skin. “Remmick,” you whisper, voice breaking.

His laugh—low and dangerous—echoes in your mind. "Can feel ya squirm from here."

You shudder violently.

He's not even touching you—and still, he unravels you with nothing but the bond. With nothing but his voice.

"Bet yer soaked again already." "Bet yer clenchin’ that sweet cunt, achin’ for me." "Bet you’d beg real nice if I told ya to."

You whimper, rocking helplessly on the bed, the sheet sliding down your body, baring your breasts to the cold night air. You squeeze your thighs tighter—but it only makes it worse. The bond thrums between your legs like a second heartbeat, cruel and constant.

And Remmick—

Remmick drinks it in.

"Touch yerself," he murmurs in your mind, voice thick with heat and wickedness. "C’mon, sweetheart. Let me feel it."

You shake your head, trembling.

You don’t want to. You can’t. But your hand is already sliding down your belly, shaking, betraying you.

The bond rejoices.

Your fingers trail lower. Soft. Tentative. Shaking.

You’re not thinking anymore. You’re feeling.

Feeling the mark pulsing hot against your ribs, feeling the bond pulling you forward like a hook in your chest, feeling Remmick’s presence wrapped around your mind like smoke.

You part your thighs slowly, the sheet falling away completely. The cool air brushes your skin.

Your slick heat clings to your thighs. You’re already soaked for him.

And he knows it.

"Tha’s it," he drawls into your mind, voice rich with wicked satisfaction. "Good girl. Show me how much ya miss me."

Your fingers slip between your folds, gathering the mess he left inside you.

You whimper. Just from the first touch.

It’s almost too much—too raw, too sensitive—but you can’t stop. Your body won’t let you. Not when the bond is throbbing so hard it feels like a second heartbeat inside your cunt.

You circle your clit with slow, trembling motions. Your back arches. Your breath shudders. “Remmick,” you moan into the empty room, thighs trembling. You swear you can feel him groan from wherever he is—like the sound of your pleasure punches through the bond and wrecks him too.

"Sound so fuckin’ sweet when ya moan for me," he murmurs, rough and reverent. "Could listen to ya all night, little bride."

Your fingers move faster, hips lifting off the bed, chasing the friction, chasing the edge. But it’s not enough.

You whimper helplessly, frustrated tears welling in your eyes. You need him. You need more.

And he feels your desperation.

"Poor thing," he croons. "Can’t even make yerself come without me now, can ya?"

You sob out a broken little “no.”

Because it’s true. The bond won't let you. You’re too tightly strung, too deeply tethered to him. You’re trapped in a pleasure you can’t finish without his touch. Without his voice coaxing you over the edge.

And Remmick? He sounds delighted.

"Good," he growls. "You shouldn’t be able to. Yer mine now, body and soul. Only come when I say so. Only break when I make ya."

Your fingers tremble between your legs, still circling, still trying.

And then—

His voice drops into a low, filthy purr.

"Tell me what you need, sweetheart." "Tell me what you’re beggin’ for."

You choke on a sob, panting. “I—I need you,” you cry. “Please, Remmick—I need you—inside me—on me—anything—please—”

The bond tightens, wrapping around you like iron and silk all at once.

And then you feel him move.

Not just through the tether. Physically.

Heavy, sure footsteps across the wooden floorboards.

You twist on the bed, gasping, heart hammering—

And there he is. Leaning against the doorframe.

Shirtless.

Trousers unbuttoned and slung low on his hips.

Eyes glowing deep red.

Cock already hard, leaking, ready.

He licks his lips slowly, predatorily, as he watches you spread out on his bed, hand between your thighs, body trembling with the need he’s been feeding from a distance. “Aw, sweetheart," he says out loud now, voice thick with hunger, accent curling around every syllable. "Look atcha. Fallin’ apart without me."

You shudder violently, reaching out toward him, tears spilling over.

“Please.”

Remmick’s grin turns sharp. Dark.

Triumphant.

“Don’t worry, love," he purrs, crossing the room in three slow, deliberate steps. "I’m gonna take real good care of ya.” The mattress dips under his weight as Remmick climbs onto the bed.

You tremble, thighs still parted, hand still slick and shaking where he caught you mid-plea, mid-fall. But the second his body covers yours—solid, hot, real—you sob with relief.

The bond sings. Bright and brutal.

Tightening like a velvet noose around your heart, your spine, your slick aching cunt.

He hovers over you for a moment, just looking—eyes burning, mouth parted, chest rising and falling with wrecked, hungry breaths. “So fuckin’ pretty when ya beg," he murmurs, voice low and gravelly, all wicked affection. "Could watch ya cry for my cock all night."

You arch up without thinking, hands grabbing at his hips, desperate for him to move, to fill, to own you again—

But Remmick just chuckles. Slow. Dark. Cruel.

"Nuh-uh," he says, catching your wrists easily in one hand and pinning them above your head. "You wanted me, little bride. Now you’re gonna take it."

You gasp, blinking up at him, helpless under the steady weight of his body, the heat of his cock dragging against your dripping folds, heavy and leaking and so close.

He shifts his hips, just enough to tease you—rubbing the head of his cock along your slick entrance, sliding through the mess he already made of you, pressing against your clit with maddening, lazy circles.

You cry out, hips jerking.

But he doesn’t give you what you need. Not yet.

He leans down, nose brushing yours, lips ghosting over your mouth. "Patience," he murmurs, soft and deadly. "Gonna make ya feel it."

And then he moves. Slow. Devastating.

He presses inside an inch. Then stops.

You sob under him, back arching, cunt fluttering helplessly around the stretch.

Remmick groans low in his chest, forehead pressing to yours. "Christ, love," he pants. "Yer still so fuckin’ tight for me."

He pushes deeper. Another inch. Another.

Your legs wrap around his waist automatically, desperate to pull him closer, to drag him deeper, but he only smirks against your skin.

"Greedy little thing," he murmurs. "Can feel it. The way yer suckin’ me in."

You whimper, blinking up at him through a haze of need and tears. "Please," you whisper, broken.

He kisses your forehead. Then your nose. Then your trembling mouth.

"Beg prettier," he growls against your lips.

You cry out, the bond pulling tighter, demanding. "Please, Remmick," you sob. "I—I need you—need all of you—please, please, fill me up—"

And that’s what does it.

His patience breaks. With a low, snarling groan, he slams the rest of the way inside you—burying himself to the hilt in one brutal, perfect thrust.

You scream—high and raw and wrecked—as he stretches you open all over again, thick and deep and claiming.

The bond flares.

Brighter. Hotter. Tighter.

You feel him everywhere.

And he doesn’t move at first—just holds you there, trembling around him, stuffed so full you swear you can feel his heartbeat through the walls of your cunt. "That’s it," he pants against your throat. "Take it. Take all of it."

You sob, clenching around him, desperate for more, for anything, for everything.

And Remmick—Remmick fucking smiles.

"Good girl," he breathes. "My good little bride."

He holds still for just a moment longer.

Lets you feel it. The stretch. The fullness. The way your cunt pulses helplessly around him, like your body’s already trying to keep him, even before he’s started moving.

Remmick’s breath fans hot across your cheek. “You feel that, sweetheart?” he whispers, voice low, reverent. “That’s what it means to be bound.”

You moan beneath him, tears slipping down your temples into your hairline as your fingers tighten around his arms—his name clinging to your tongue like prayer, like poison, like you’d die without it.

He begins to move. Slow.

Deep.

Each thrust rolls through you like thunder, like ritual, like a man grinding his soul into yours one inch at a time. He pulls back until only the tip remains inside—then sinks in again, long and devastating, pressing into every tender spot he’s already mapped with hands, teeth, and magic.

You cry out.

The sound is wrecked. Raw.

Remmick groans into your neck. “Fuck, you sound like heaven,” he pants, thrusting again—deeper, harder, making the bed creak beneath you both. “Takin’ me so fuckin’ good. Like you were made for this.”

You nod—wild, desperate.

Because you were. Because that’s what it feels like.

You were made for him.

The bond throbs between you, singing at every point where your skin meets his—breast to chest, hips to hips, heart to heart. It doesn’t just tether. It entwines.

You feel him inside you in ways that have nothing to do with flesh—his hunger, his need, his worship burning through the tether like fire licking silk.

“Never lettin’ you go,” he murmurs, fucking you deeper now, his rhythm building. “Gonna keep you right here—under me, around me—'til you can’t remember what breathin’ feels like without my cock inside ya.”

You sob—moaning, wrecked, grateful.

He lifts your leg over his shoulder without asking, pressing deeper, grinding his hips down to fill every inch of you, dragging another scream from your throat. “That’s it,” he growls. “Squeeze me, love. Just like that. Milk me dry.”

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb circling your clit with perfect, devastating pressure, like he’s already memorized how to tear you apart.

Your back arches, vision blurring.

You’re close. So close.

Remmick feels it. Through the bond. In your body. In the way your cunt flutters, begging to break again. “Come for me,” he rasps. “Come with me inside you. Let the whole fuckin’ world know who you belong to.”

You can’t stop it. You don’t even try.

You break.

Harder than before—clenching around him, crying out his name, the bond lighting up like a wildfire behind your eyes.

Remmick groans loud and possessive above you, hips snapping hard, fast, until he’s burying himself one last time and spilling into you with a sound you’ll never forget. “Mine,” he chokes out. “Fuck—mine. Mine—”

You don’t know who’s shaking more.

Your hands. His voice. The world.

He stays inside you. Doesn’t pull out.

Just holds you. Breathes you.

Like he needs to.

The bond simmers between you, satisfied and sealed, humming like a beast at rest. You reach up, hands trembling, and cup his face.

He leans into your touch like it hurts not to. “Y’feel it now?” he whispers, barely audible. “That ache when I’m gone?”

You nod, eyes wet.

“Good,” he says. “Because I fuckin’ feel it too.”

You wake up sore.

Sweetly. Brutally. Deep in the muscles of your thighs, between your ribs, in the soft swell of your cunt—filled and used and claimed. You shift under the heavy quilt, blinking into the low golden light of the fire across the room.

There’s birdsong. Faint. And the low simmering hum of the bond still thrumming in your chest like a second heartbeat.

It’s quiet here. Peaceful, almost.

Except for the ache between your legs and the warm, terrifying weight of him behind you.

Remmick.

He’s still there.

One arm curled heavy over your waist, bare chest pressed to your spine. You feel the slow, lazy drag of his breath against your shoulder—calm and even, like a man who’s slept deeply. Like he’s sated.

He doesn’t stir when you shift slightly.

But the bond does. It tightens, warm and low, like a pulse at the base of your spine. Like a hand slipping between your thighs. Like a warning.

Don’t move. Don’t leave. You’re his.

You lie there, heart pounding quietly under his hand.

And then—

His voice. Low. Rough with sleep. Slipping against your skin like silk over a bruise. “Where d’you think yer goin’, little bride?”

You freeze.

His fingers flex over your belly, lazy but firm, tugging you back against his chest until you feel the unmistakable weight of his cock, already thick and half-hard between your thighs. He presses his face into the crook of your neck, breathing you in like he’s starving again.

“I wasn’t,” you whisper. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”

A soft, dangerous hum in your ear. “Good.”

You stay still.

The silence stretches, warm and weighted, as his hand strokes lazy circles over your stomach. He’s not trying to arouse you—not yet. Just remind you. That he’s here. That he feels you. That he owns every flutter of your heartbeat before you even register it.

“You dream last night?” he murmurs.

You swallow hard. You had.

Dreamt of him. Of his hands. His mouth. The way your legs shook when he told you to beg. The way you liked it.

“I don’t remember,” you lie softly.

Remmick laughs against your throat, lips brushing the skin he bit just hours ago. “Liar.”

His hand slides lower. But slower now. Less demanding. More like he’s testing something. Watching how your body answers to his. How the bond hums in response to every breath between you.

“You’re thinkin’ too loud,” he says, nuzzling behind your ear. “I can feel it.”

You tense. Just slightly.

His hand stills over your hips. Then his voice, softer this time. “You scared of me, love?”

The question sinks into your ribs like a needle. You’re not sure how to answer.

Yes.

And no.

And not enough.

You don't answer right away. How could you?

Your throat is tight. Your body too sore, too raw. The ache between your legs still pulses in time with the bond, and Remmick’s presence behind you—his breath on your neck, his cock hardening slowly between your thighs—makes it worse.

Makes it better. Makes it everything.

And still, that question hangs in the air like smoke:

“You scared of me, love?”

He doesn’t say it cruelly. He doesn’t laugh after. He just waits.

His hand stills on your belly, fingers splayed wide over the skin he’s already touched with tongue and teeth and blood.

You swallow hard, voice soft, barely audible.

“Yes.”

Remmick doesn’t tense. He doesn’t growl. He doesn’t punish you.

He exhales slowly through his nose, like the answer had been expected. Maybe even hoped for. “Good,” he murmurs. “Y’should be.”

You blink—heart thudding once, hard, behind your glowing mark.

His thumb strokes your stomach, just above your navel. “You should be scared,” he says again, slower this time. “I’m not a man, sweetheart. I ain’t some boy who’ll kiss your hand and promise forever under a moon I don’t get to stand under.”

He kisses your shoulder instead. Soft. Lingering.

A contradiction to the words in his mouth.

“I’m what waits under the bed,” he breathes. “What knocks at the door when you pray it won’t. What takes instead of asks.”

You shiver. Not from cold.

From the way your body doesn’t recoil.

From the way your hips push back against him without thinking.

Remmick hums against your skin. “Scared of me,” he repeats, voice lowering to a hush, “but still so wet for me you’re stickin’ to my sheets.”

You whimper, cheeks burning.

And still—he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t rut into you. Doesn’t force.

He just holds you tighter. Because this is worse than violence. Worse than taking.

This is knowing.

He feels everything. Not just your body.

Your shame. Your desire. Your ache for him.

And he loves it.

“You think I don’t feel what that fear does to ya?” he murmurs. “How it curls low in your belly, how it sweetens the way you clench when I talk like this?”

His teeth graze your throat again. Gently this time. Carefully. “You’re scared,” he says, “and still, you’d let me put a baby in you if I told you to.”

Your breath catches.

Your body answers before your voice ever could—heat surging between your legs, thighs squeezing together around nothing, cunt fluttering at the idea of it.

He feels that too.

“Ohhh,” he groans, laughing low and pleased. “There she is.”

He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t flip you over. Doesn’t tear you open.

Doesn’t bare his teeth and fuck you through the mattress, even though you can feel how badly he wants to.

Instead—Remmick slips down your body slowly.

The quilt is pulled aside with a lazy flick of his wrist, exposing your bare skin to the cold air and to him. You shiver, more from anticipation than chill.

He kneels at the edge of the bed, dragging your hips to the edge like you’re something soft and sacred he’s about to set on fire. The bond buzzes between you, a hot, pulsing wire strung from your cunt to his mouth, taut and trembling.

You bite your lip. And you don’t dare move.

Because the look in his eyes—

Low. Hungry. Worshipful.

It pins you to the sheets like a hand to the throat.

“Still scared?” he murmurs, kissing the inside of your knee.

You nod. Barely.

He smiles. Slow. Honest. “Good. Don’t stop bein’.”

He kisses higher. The curve of your thigh. Then the crease.

Then—

Close.

Not touching. Not yet.

But watching you twitch. Watching your hips roll up in a silent, shameful plea.

Remmick groans softly. “You think that fear makes me less gentle?” he asks, voice hushed, like confession. “Nah, sweetheart. Makes me tender. Makes me want to ruin you slow.”

You gasp as he finally presses a kiss to your cunt.

Soft. Closed-mouth.

More reverent than filthy.

It’s worse than teasing. It’s adoration.

He parts you with careful fingers, breath ghosting over you until your legs shake from the not-touching, the almost, the please.

And then his tongue finds your clit.

Just once. A soft drag.

Then again. Slower. Wetter. More precise.

Your back arches off the bed.

Your hands reach for something to hold—sheets, the edge of the headboard, the carved wood posts—but Remmick grabs your thighs and holds you down.

“Mmm-mm,” he hums, tongue circling slowly. “Don’t run.”

You moan—loud, needy—and he groans in response, mouthing at you deeper, filthier, gentler.

“You taste scared,” he mutters between licks. “And it’s makin’ me hard enough to fuckin’ kill for it.”

Your legs twitch.

You’re soaked. He’s drinking you in. Taking his time, tongue slow and firm, lips wrapping around your clit like he’s savoring your fear, your sweetness, your surrender.

And still—

No rush. No cruelty. Just… devotion.

Monster-shaped.

Blood-warm.

Endless.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs against your cunt, voice almost broken. “Even when you’re shakin’. Even when you flinch. Even when you don’t fuckin’ understand what I’ve turned you into yet.”

You sob.

Because he’s right. You’re his.

Even in the fear.

Especially in the fear.

And when he sucks your clit slow and deep, the pressure spiraling out from your spine in white-hot coils, you don’t try to hide the tears.

You don’t want to anymore.

You break the second time he moans. Not from the sound alone—though it’s low and thick and filthy, vibrating through your cunt like a prayer that never belonged to God—but from the way he presses his tongue flat, dragging it slow and steady through your slick folds like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that’s ever tasted like salvation.

Your thighs tremble around his head.

You try to close them. He doesn’t let you.

Strong hands pin your legs open, thumbs digging into the meat of your thighs as he devours you—hungry, tender, relentless.

You sob. Tears spill freely now. Not from pain. Not even from overstimulation.

But from the unbearable, overwhelming worship.

He licks you like you’re sacred. He sucks your clit like it’s a rosary bead caught between his lips.

“Please—” you gasp, voice catching. “Please, I—I can’t—”

But you can. He knows you can.

“Y’can,” he growls into your cunt, mouth soaked, voice wrecked. “Y’will.”

His tongue flicks faster now, swirling pressure tight and perfect, designed to drag you toward the edge.

“Gonna come for me, little bride,” he murmurs, biting your inner thigh. “Gonna give it to me. Right fuckin’ now.”

And you do. You shatter.

The orgasm tears through you like lightning—white-hot, blinding, burning you open from the inside out. You scream his name, thighs locking around his head, body writhing, breaking.

Remmick groans like your pleasure’s feeding him, like it’s going to his head, to his cock, to the thing in him that isn’t human and never pretended to be.

You’re still shaking when he moves.

Rising up over you. Dragging his cock along your twitching folds, hard and slick and soaked with the mess you just made.

“You’re still scared,” he says, watching you with eyes too dark and too red to be anything but wrong.

You nod.

Because it’s true. Because it always will be.

And he smiles.

Soft. Loving. Terrifying.

“But you want me anyway,” he whispers, lining himself up.

Your lip trembles. “Yes.”

He kisses you.

Then pushes inside.

Not hard. Not brutal.

Just deep.

He sheaths himself in your still-pulsing cunt like he belongs there. Like the bond’s waiting to welcome him back.

You cry out, arms wrapping around his shoulders, clinging to him like you might fall through the bed otherwise.

Remmick groans, low and aching, forehead pressed to yours. “That’s my girl,” he breathes. “Takin’ me even when you’re scared. Clenchin’ like you don’t ever wanna let go.”

He starts to move.

Slow. Rhythmic. Ruinous.

And you sob against his mouth—not because it hurts. But because you’ve never felt so full of something you’ll never understand.

“Say it,” he pants, each thrust dragging a cry from your throat. “Say the fear don’t matter. Not if it’s me.”

You nod, dizzy and wrecked, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“It doesn’t,” you whisper. “Not if it’s you.”

Remmick groans, fucking into you harder now, the bond singing through your bones. “That’s it,” he growls. “That’s mine. All of it. All of you.”

You nod again.

You don’t fight. You don’t flinch. You give in.

You don’t know how long he stays inside you.

Could be minutes. Could be hours. Could be forever.

Time doesn’t work the same anymore. Not when your body is bonded to his. Not when your soul is stitched to something ancient and starving.

He holds you through every aftershock. His hands stroke your skin as if memorizing the shape of you, the feel of you, the way your body softened under his until it didn’t know where it ended and he began. Eventually, he moves—slowly, gently, as if reluctant to leave the heat of you even for a moment.

You expect him to pull out and clean you, maybe carry you to a bath, maybe tuck you against his chest again and fall into that peaceful quiet you’d been drifting in before.

But instead—He kneels between your thighs.

Again.

Eyes glowing in the low firelight. Expression unreadable. Mouth blood-red and reverent.

“Remmick?” you whisper.

And then you see it.

His knife.

The blade is old. Dark. Iron and bone. Etched with something that moves if you look too long.

He doesn’t raise it. Not yet.

He looks at you with the kind of stillness that makes you forget how to breathe. “I need to finish it,” he says.

You blink. “I thought we already did.”

He tilts his head, eyes trailing down your sweat-slick body, pausing at the faint glow of the mark over your heart. “Nah, love,” he says quietly. “We did the binding. The claiming. The taking.”

He presses the knife to his palm.

“But not the keeping.”

He slices. Clean. No flinch. Blood wells thick and slow from the cut, dark and rich and wrong.

You sit up slightly, heart pounding.

He holds his hand out to you. “Drink,” he says.

You stare. Then whisper, “Why?”

His voice doesn’t shake. It never does.

“Because this world don’t care what I’ve claimed.” “Because someone’ll try to take you from me.” “Because I need them to know you’re mine before they even open their mouth.”

Your breath catches. “Remmick…”

“They’ll smell it on ya. Feel it in your blood. The burn of me, buried under your skin. It’ll make ‘em hesitate. Make ‘em hurt when they touch you.”

You swallow hard.

Your legs are still trembling from his last claiming. You can feel his seed still dripping from you. You can feel his breath in your lungs, the bond in your spine, his mark over your heart.

And still—he wants more.

You crawl toward him. Hands shaking. And press your lips to his palm.

The taste is sharp. Sweet. Thick with something that isn’t just blood.

Power.

Magic.

Hunger older than this country, older than the woods, older than God.

Remmick groans low in his throat, watching you lap at the wound like you’re starved for it.

Maybe you are. Maybe you always have been.

When you’ve had your fill, he pulls you up into his lap, cradling you there like a bride carried across a threshold made of ash and bone. His mouth finds your throat again. Kisses it. “I’ll kill for you,” he whispers. “I’ll burn for you.”

You press your forehead to his. “I know.”

“I’ll never let you go.”

“I don’t want you to.”

His arms tighten around you. One hand slides over your belly. The mark is glowing again. Dimmer, but pulsing steady. “You’ll carry my blood now,” he says, voice soft and ruined. “One day you’ll carry more.”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

The bond answers for you.

You are his.

Forever.

Not because he took. But because you gave.

Because when the dark came knocking—when it whispered promises of pleasure and fear and ruin—

You opened the door. You bared your throat.

You said yes.

And now, when they speak of the bloodbound bride of the most dangerous vampire in the Delta, they won’t whisper in pity.

They’ll whisper in awe.

Because you didn’t run. You didn’t cry. You stayed.

And when they ask you why—if you’re ever foolish enough to speak to mortals again—you’ll say the only truth that matters anymore.

“I was scared.”

And then, with a smile, with teeth, with Remmick’s fire burning behind your ribs—

“But I loved him more.”

[slut-for-slutty-fictional-men]

saw you were looking for requests!!

ive been thinking of how lando would be sooo gentle with a reader who hasnt ever been loved properly like he would absolutely spoil her till the end of the world even if she refused

like he'd get her favorite flowers and take photos of her all the time and tell her he loves her 24/7

omg yes, I love this! He would be so sweet and caring without even thinking about it! I wrote this pretty quick, but I'm pretty happy with how it turned out.

Like You Deserve

Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Soft Romance Warnings: Mentions of past emotional neglect, low self-worth, crying, healthy relationship dynamics, tooth-rotting fluff Word Count: ~1200 Summary: You’ve never been loved like this. Not gently. Not completely. Not without strings or apologies. But Lando? Lando loves you like it’s the easiest thing in the world — and slowly, impossibly, you begin to let him.

Masterlist

The first time you cried in front of Lando, it was over something stupid.

At least, that’s what you told him.

It had been a long day. One of those heavy, dragging ones where everything feels just slightly off. You got the wrong coffee order. Your boss snapped at you. Someone bumped into you on the train and didn’t say sorry. Nothing huge, nothing tragic — just little paper cuts you’d bled from quietly.

And then you got home, and there they were.

Peonies. Your favorite.

A bouquet in your favorite color, sitting in a glass vase on the kitchen counter. No note. No announcement. Just waiting.

You stared at them like they might disappear if you blinked.

And when Lando came in from the other room — curls damp from a shower, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows — and smiled at you like you mattered, you burst into tears.

He crossed the room in seconds. “Hey—hey, love, what’s wrong?”

You shook your head. Covered your face. You didn’t want him to see. You didn’t want to ruin the moment. You didn’t want to need this as badly as you did.

But he didn’t get frustrated. He didn’t sigh, or say you were being dramatic, or ask if you were hormonal.

He just wrapped his arms around you, warm and firm, and said softly:

“I’ll get you flowers every day if it means you cry like this less.”

You laughed — wet and broken — into his chest.

You’d never been loved like this before.

Not gently.

Not without earning it first.

You try not to talk about your past much. It’s messy. It makes people uncomfortable.

But Lando notices things.

He notices how you flinch a little when he raises his voice — even if it’s just from laughing too loudly.

He notices how you apologize three times for interrupting him, even when you didn’t.

He notices how you never ask him for help, even when you’re clearly overwhelmed.

And worst of all, he notices how surprised you look every time he does something thoughtful.

“Stop acting like I brought you the moon,” he says once, when you gasp at the takeout he brought after your long shift.

You smile tightly. “Sorry. I’m just not used to this.”

“To being fed?”

“To being… seen.”

He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t look away.

Instead, he cups your jaw, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “Then get used to it, love. ‘Cause I’m not going anywhere.”

He starts taking photos of you when you’re not looking.

You notice it one morning, scrolling through his phone while he’s in the shower. A whole album labeled with your initials — filled with candids.

You sipping coffee on the balcony. You in one of his hoodies, asleep on the couch. You laughing at something off-camera, head thrown back, eyes bright.

You look beautiful in all of them.

You don't recognize yourself.

When he comes back in, towel around his shoulders, he sees you looking.

Your voice is small. “You keep pictures of me?”

Lando blinks, confused. “Course I do.”

You set the phone down like it might burn you. “I just… no one’s ever done that before.”

He crosses the room. Presses a kiss to the top of your head. “Then they were idiots.”

One night, weeks later, you break.

Not in the loud, dramatic way. Not like glass shattering. More like a hairline crack that finally gives way under pressure.

You’re lying in bed, curled into his side, his fingers playing absentmindedly with yours. Everything should feel perfect. Safe.

And still, you ask:

“Why do you love me?”

Lando’s hand stills.

You almost wish you could swallow the question back down. But it’s out there now. Ugly and trembling and raw.

“Sorry,” you mumble. “Forget I said anything.”

“No,” he says, firm. “Don’t do that.”

You can’t look at him. “I just don’t get it. I’m a mess. I’m anxious. I second-guess everything. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be—”

“Stop.”

His voice is low, but not angry. Just steady.

He tilts your chin so you have to meet his eyes.

“I don’t love you in spite of those things. I love you because of who you are.”

You blink, throat tight.

“I love that you care too much. That you remember the name of every mechanic on my team. That you leave me little notes when I travel. That you’re still soft after everything life’s thrown at you.” He swallows. “I love you. Full stop. No conditions. No fine print.”

You’re crying again.

This time, you don’t try to hide it.

And when he kisses you, slow and reverent, you let yourself believe — just for a second — that maybe you’re not too hard to love after all.

You stop apologizing so much.

You start texting him first.

You let him buy you flowers without flinching.

You even let him take a photo of you on your bad hair day, after whining for a full ten minutes about how awful you look.

(He posts it anyway — captioned, “Cutest human alive, don’t fight me.”)

And when he tells you he loves you — casually, easily, every day — you finally start saying it back without fear.

Because he never makes you earn it.

Because he says it like it’s your name.

Because he means it.

Later that night, you’re tucked into the passenger seat of Lando’s car, the city lights flickering past like fireflies. His hoodie swallows you whole — sleeves too long, hood up, wrapped around you like a second skin — and your legs are folded beneath you, socked toes pressed to the leather seat.

The radio’s playing softly. Something nostalgic. His hand finds yours without looking.

He does that now — reaches for you without needing to think.

And you let him.

Your fingers settle into the spaces between his, perfectly matched. His thumb rubs gently across your knuckles, slow and soothing. You watch the motion like it might slip away if you blink.

“I think I’m starting to believe you,” you say after a long stretch of silence.

His eyes flick to you, quick and warm. “Believe what?”

“That you love me.”

The smile that blooms across his face isn’t wide or showy. It’s quiet. Soft. Reverent, almost. Like he’s been waiting to hear that from you.

“I’ve never said anything truer,” he murmurs.

You turn your head, studying him in the warm dashboard glow. One hand on the wheel. One hand in yours. The same boy who brings you flowers without a reason. Who kisses your shoulder in passing. Who sees you.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” you whisper, voice barely a breath.

Lando squeezes your hand. “You don’t have to do anything, love. You deserve it just by being you.”

You blink fast, throat catching. He doesn’t look away.

“Let me keep showing you, yeah?”

You nod, heart thudding hard. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time in your entire life, you believe it.

A/N: i really loved writing this, felt very healing (I need therapy lmao) anyways please send me requests! I love reading yall's ideas! also feel free to ask me any questions if you want hehe :)

[ghostonmainmoon]

The Weaver

Ancient of Space, Weaver of Creation

I had this idea after literally going through her past posts (I literally went on a binge and read her entire masterlist) and just absolutely falling in love with her work @that-weird-thing-in-the-woods

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚ .⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊

Danny's home dimension is destroyed after the GIW decides to try and bomb the Infinite Realms while he is in the Far Frozen for medical help, along with Tucker. They were the only ones to survive the destruction of their planet. Sam didn't survive; She was out of town that day and couldn't go with them. (so no one was there to stop them from doing something stupid), the bombing failed horribly because the Realms sort of just threw it back at them.

The Infinite Realms place is sentient in a way and has its own will. It allowed the portal that initially killed Danny to be created just so she could have her adopted son.

Danny is the Realms Chosen and is practically her baby. There is a noticible difference in the Realms when Danny returns to it from vacation like everything changes.

So basically, Danny has become the Ancient of Space, Weaver of Creation, the Child of the Realms, Father of Stars and Moon, Keeper of the World Tree, Keeper of the Balance, Protector of the Forgotten, Son of Time, The Great One, etc.

He went through a very long period of depression as everything he knew was gone with only a handful still surviving as most didn't. The Ancients or more specifically CW decides enough is enough and he needs to get stuff done

Clockwork has taken over his education along with Frostbite and Pandora and was literally forced feed a shit ton of information about ghost culture, healing, understanding his powers, etiquette, etc.

Time and Space are very closely related but what people don't often remember that this also allows for creation. This is an aspect that Danny never thought would affect him much less become his main job.

Danny's existence is paradoxical in a way that still gets him confused as he is a constant where he existed as the Ancient of Space up until the point of his birth and when he had his accident and became a halfa once again he becomes a baby ghost with CW holding the reigns until he ascends as the Ancient Of Space Weaver of Creation.

Danny spends years creating new universes and creating galaxies upon galaxies, indulging in his obsession and occasionally going on vacations to explore the universes that he establishes -he's never traveled to the DC universe before, or he had a long time ago, like maybe during the Victorian era.

Danny weaves the future, past, and present of the many lives that will be, have been, and are. The Weaving of Creation takes up most of his time; he loves watching his creations blossom. He weaves the tapestry of creation which is later transcribed/ copied and bounded into a giant book that has the story of the entire multiverse in it. Danny as The Weaver his act of creation is reflected in the tree's branches and roots, representing the diverse realms and levels of existence. I want this to suggest that the universe is not just a collection of separate entities but a cohesive system with the Infinite Realms as the glue that holds the Multiverse together, and Danny acts as the orchestrator and the World Tree as his framework. 

Taking care of the World Tree is also one of his duties it is the centrepiece of his haunts as his powers as the Weavers of Creation. It's the representation of his domain. His haunt is a mixture of a space-themed observatory with a library with the universes and galaxies used as the ceiling with the World Tree In the middle with marble/glass-looking floors that reflected the ceilings. His haunt is also a bitingly cold like that of space with fog always crawling and curling around furniture. This is also due to his ice core which plays an important role in how his haunt turned out it is also influenced by his teachers so like a Greek-inspired architecture with subtle frost patterns etc.

The creation of many of these universes and dimensions results in him gaining collections of books and other items that take up space in his library and occasionally the hallways or other rooms of his haunt as decorations

Dan, now Serelio after being reborn and reformed—alongside Ellie, now Eos—goes by Klarion as a pseudonym when he terrorizes the JL and YJ in the DC universe.

Serelio and Eos had been de-aged and incubated by Danny due to them destabilizing as. Dan was put into the body of a clone that survived, and he and Ellie are now twins and have ascended as ancients.

Tim was on a mission to find Bruce who was being dragged through time and ended up finding a lead to Batman's location or how to get him out of the Time Stream in one of the League of Assassins' bases, which he later destroyed after grabbing everything that wasn't nailed down and he could carry.

While on his way to Greece for a new clue, he struggles with his journey after losing his spleen and having to be extra careful with preventing illnesses, with Ra Al Ghul hot on his tail. He somehow finds a pool of Lazarus Water where he promptly gets corned and somehow falls towards it.

Tim is transported to a beautiful, ethereal place that looks like the galaxy had a baby with an observatory and a library and he wonders around until he comes across an ethereal being that is weaving a tapestry while leaning against a gigantic tree with a fur coat dropped over them with ice crystals within their halo head piece.

He tries to be sneaky and find a way out, but he ends up arriving back at the same piece. Danny knows he's there but chooses to keep a mindful eye on him, but otherwise leaves him be and doesn't prevent him from leaving this place, but it seems like CW has other plans.

Tim concludes that he needs to talk to this person who he could get help as he takes stock of his environment. or possibly broker a deal to get help with getting B out of the Time Stream. As he took a deep breath and stepped forward piercing blue eyes looked with star-speckled irises and his breath caught.

The soft ding of a grandfather clock could be heard resounding in the air as it seemed to reach the final second. As Clockwork gazed at the timeline, a soft hum left his lips: " All is as it should be."

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊

I think I went a bit overboard, and I'm not sure if I made it coherent enough, but basically, Tim stumbles- but not really, as CW is basically meddling- upon Weaver of Creation Danny and strikes a deal to have him help with Bruce's predicament after CW time out and convinces Danny that this is one of the better solutions that doesn't end in the destruction of that universe.

Weaver of Creation, Danny is basically creating dimensions and other universes and just leaves them to grow and develop on their own, and records their history and checks on their development, giving a little nudge if it seems like they will do something to end up killing themselves off before their time.

ClockWork and Danny can use some aspects of each other's powers, as Time and Space are needed to balance each other out.

IDK what else to write, I'll probably edit it a bit later on. This was inspired by the lovely @that-weird-thing-in-the-woods blog after reading Frostbite's Child, Ancient of Space, Void & Prism.

[thatssofruity9]

What about the boys with an alt girl though?

Cw: there are a few physical descriptions used for said alt girls in question but only when it was necessary.

Authors note: This is not self insert and as matter a of fact I’m not even sure why you brought it up! ㋛ She’s lying

F!reader X The CoD boys

Gaz: is dating a fully gothic woman, somewhere between romantic goth and traditional goth. Elvira meets morticia Addams. Not so much a tattoo kinda girl just red lipstick, floor length black dresses with bell sleeves and a corset. Gaz had been mildly afraid of her ever since he caught her talking to a ghost In their kitchen. He’s never noped out of a conversation quicker in his life. He likes to tell people she “speaks in riddles” ie she quotes Edgar Allan Poe sometimes. When they went on holiday he took her to the Cologne Cathedral because who wants to have a relaxing margarita on the beach when you can take your girlfriend to a 600 year old creepy building instead?

Soap: she’s not so much of an alternative girl as she is just a witch. The phrase “stop touching my altar” is probably the most commonly heard sentence in their house. Tattoos, funky hairstyles, hoards of jewelry, long flowing skirts are how just about everyone would describe her. She talks to the moon, Johnny doesn’t really understand why but he does ask “What did she say?” When his sweetheart comes back inside. She has slowly taught him the original folk tales and histories of every holiday, custom and tradition. Johnny has learned that deep down everything is spooky just like his girl. Halloween at their house is THE place to be.

Ghost: big scary man and his Kawaii girlfriend, a tale as old as time. The double takes people do when they go in public together are hilarious. She’s quite literally the sweetest person you’ll ever meet. Of course, their entire house is pastel pink which he really couldn’t care less about. His lovely woman does tend to edit pictures of him to fit her Instagram aesthetic though and he’s not too sure how he feels about the pink glitter filter She uses on every photo. The amount of her pretty pink clothes he’s turned into a mess because he simply doesn’t know how to do laundry correctly is outrageous. She’s had to learn the hard way that Simon just won’t wear the clothes she buys him if they’re pink, he will however take the pink Hello Kitty lunchbox she got him every single day to work.

Price: Similar to Ghost they get funny looks in public but only because what do you mean that heavily tattooed woman is his wife? There are very few parts of her body that aren’t covered, from her neck down to her feet. Kind of an artsy grungy style, overalls and Doc Martens are the usual. The real kicker of it all is how similar their taste in music is, divorced dad rock all the way, baby! That kind of music was made specifically for old men and pretty women with thick eyeliner. John damn near had a heart attack when she just went and got his name tattooed but she just has so many that she didn’t even think twice before getting it done. She’s the kind of girl that says things like “I want your leg bone when you die” with 100% sincerity, John is scared of very little, but the way she says that with a little bit of excitement in her eye is well… a little jarring.

[sqgeism]

haii!! Can I ask the reaction of amphoreus men to the reader don’t feel like they deserve them and feeling guilty about it? 🙏

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵 𐙚 if i'm turning in your stomach | amphoreus men x gender neutral reader

💌 — ; am i making you feel sick ? he's so.. happy with you, and you don't seem to understand. they're in the glory and light as a chrysos heir, what could have possibly be seen in you for them to ever want to share that light?

love mail — haiii anonnie ! thank you for requesting :D in this fic, i mention the very likely theory of phainon being kevin from hi3 ! it isn't a major plot point but it is mentioned so if ure confused dont worry so am i ヽ(´Ａ`)ﾉ love u guys mwah ! 2/5.

now.. anaxa isn't a fan of gossip, accepting words at face value is foolish. especially he is a man from a field of alchemy, trying and testing until he sees results. in this case, the truth.

but when a mutual companion, that babbling blue haired student of his, tells him that you've been feeling rather.. sad recently, he was determined to find out why.

in your defense, you were never meant to have him figure out, but this concoction you were working on was really starting to get on your nerves. you figured anaxa was still at the academy, so you were free to yell at the vial of glowing liquid like you could peer pressure it into getting it to cooperate. "stupid, stupid." you grumbled, your fists curling into a ball on the table. "i hate this, why can't i just... be like anaxa? he must feel ashamed with me. i can't do something as simple as a healing potion, after all."

you know these words aren't true, but you can't completely erase the fact you still feel them. your boyfriend was praised for his expertise in his field, couldn't you at least have learned something?—

it was then that you felt someone press up against your back, head leaning over your shoulder as anaxa sighs. his hands wrap around your waist, looking at your face like you're the moon. "your ingredients are perfect, dove. down to the measurements, but i'm sure your error comes from your order of mixing. listen to me, start with.."

you listen to his guide, trying to perfectly replicate the sequence as he speaks, but it's distracting. he hasn't.. stopped looking away from you while you work. not to mention, his hands trace the curves of your waist, as if keeping your body to memory. his sultry voice in your ear is NOT helping either.

"i heard you, you know." he mumbles, shifting his head to press kisses to your shoulder blades, somewhat relishing the way you shiver.

"do you really think i'd ever focus my time on someone who self proclaims their inadequacy?" you don't answer. "your intelligence is unmatched, dove. i couldn't think of anyone with a brain like yours, while also having a heart kind enough to open a man like me."

his advances move up to your neck, and at this point, the potion is long forgotten. your hands are too shaky to focus anyway. "please.. never think you're not good enough for me. i couldn't handle you leaving me for false truths."

your husband is a literal king, warrior, and an unmovable force.. you wonder why he settled down with an ordinary mortal. you're not quite in the spotlight, and instead, a humble historian. which means you're well versed in mydei's tales, especially ones pertaining to his past. according to rumor; mydei is fated to fall for someone for all of eternity, they were originally a warrior sworn to him, but had died tragically for mydei in the middle of a battle, in fear that the enemy had possibly been able to reach his weakest spot. after a desperate plea from the gods, they had been kind enough to have his lovers soul reborn every time they've come face to face with death. you.. were apparently the first one he's met ever since 'your death'.

and while you're.. comforted by that idea, the fact that you're fated to find mydei in every life you'll live, you also feel.. unsure. had the chrysos heir fallen for you, or for someone you used to be. and you could never really live up to be who you were.

that person was a warrior, one mydei cherished like his other half, and the myths of the two of them are romantic. how he spent hundreds of years mourning them, how they haunted his narrative. could he ever truly love who you are now?

"sweetheart?"

mydei's voice breaks through your thoughts, and you come back to reality—surrounded by your ancient maps and history. you're in your study, staring down at one of the many books written on the chrysos heirs. "are you staring at that old thing again? i told you, i don't like the way they drew me in that book." his laugh makes you feel guilty, you aren't even sure why. something about his love feels undeserving.

when you don't reply, he realizes you're not quite on a page about him.. but about you. your past life.

mydei knows how you feel about it, you've talked about it under the moon with him in hopes that its light will keep your secret safe. but he knows reassurance won't fix your insecurity easily, he needs time, and he'll give you all of it. he's waited to find you for all these years, what kind of man would he be to make you think you're anything less than precious?

carefully turning your body to him, his hand trailing up your cheek as he feels his heart ache. "sweetheart, my darling.." before he can even finish, you lean your head against his bare chest, listening to his heartbeat in silence. "mydei, do you promise.. that this heart is mine? you.. you aren't after someone who i once was, and rather who i am now?"

he knows he'll have time to give you proper reassurance, but he knows you just need a few words now. "i promise, with all i am, that i have fallen in love with you all over again. and that i am yours, body and soul."

with all the mystery that surrounds your boyfriends identity, you can't help but think about it as well. do you.. really know him? does he not trust you to know him? you aren't sure. maybe you aren't as special as you thought you had been, that phainon's sweet words of how much he loves you are.. false prayers.

but you have no reason to doubt him, he's never stayed out too late or hung around people that made you question his motives, he's a good man. and you're starting to think that you don't deserve him for doubting that.

the idea clouds your mind the whole day, and for aeon's sake.. you and him are having a date night at his place. he notices it quickly, how your mind just can't seem to focus. how you move away from his touches and hesitate with every kiss, was there something troubling you? was he troubling you? that's when he's had enough of the lack of communication, he turns off the tv, pulls the blankets down, and gives you a confused but also rather upset look. "honey, what's going on in that gorgeous head of yours?

he holds his hand out to you, but you move away, the cold shoulder has never been so sweet. "phai.." you hesitate to finish your sentence, but phainon waits.

he's been known for his patience, he always has been. he was a composed man, a gentleman, he could surely hold himself togethe—

"am.. am i really anything special to you?"

he feels his heart sink to his stomach.

there's an sting that he's never quite felt before, overwhelming his body greatly. he's sure he can hear his heartbeat, or perhaps lack thereof, it's as if his world has stopped at those words.

you've begun to tear up now. "i don't know i just.. the people have been telling me things— and i'm realizing now that i don't.. i don't really know anything about you and.. i.. i'd want to get to know you better, but i understand if you don't want to, and don't trust me but—"

seeing you cry makes him remember something distant, a life he once lived in a different world. making someone he also loved so dearly cry because of what he's done.

phainon crumbles, moving closer to you to wipe your tears. you two are face to face now, his lips only a breath away as he's reminded why he loves you so much.

you're you, so human, so selfless. how could he be blind to your struggle, when he claims to watch you so carefully? "oh, angel. i'm so.. so sorry. there are things i cannot tell you yet, but i can tell you that i could never let my heart be taken by anyone else."

feather light kisses press against your eyelids, and you shudder at the contact. "sweet, sweet angel. please don't cry. i promise i'll make it up to you one day."

© sqgeism or wtv (^_^;)

[ingeniousmindoftune]

Vampire Eyes & Velvet Nights.

South Central, LA. | 1997.

Stack Moore X black!OC.

Part 1 of ?.

Wednesday night. Moon low and swollen, smog turning its light to jaundice. The city roared beyond the walls, but inside the Sable Room it was hushed—wooden floors worn thin by dancers, walls plastered with torn flyers, candles guttering in iron sconces. Incense clung to the air.

Amaya stepped into the single amber spotlight. Her crimson lips gleamed like freshly spilled wine; in her hand, a battered notebook bulged with secrets she’d never dared whisper to a confessor. She read:

“He kissed me like midnight—my veins thrumming till dawn. Sleep fled the moment our lips met.”

A sharp SNAP. SNAP. SNAP. The crowd’s pulses thrummed in time.

In a back booth, a figure shifted. Hooded, broad-shouldered—only the glint of a gold tooth betrayed him when he turned his head. He didn’t clap. He didn’t snap. He simply watched, as if cataloging the sound of her heart.

They called him Stack. No one knew his name, no one remembered when he first drifted in. Some said he used to string words together in smoky bars; others whispered he’d risen from an unmarked grave. To Amaya, he felt ancient, like a storm waiting to break.

When her last line hung in the air, she climbed down, calves trembling. The buzz of the room rushed in. Stack was already at the bar, shoulders bathed in shadow, a black tumbler curled in his hand.

“You write like you’ve tasted flame,” he said, voice a warm rasp.

She tilted her chin; her gold hoops brushed the curve of her jaw. “And you watch like you’ve swallowed ash.”

A slow curl of his lips revealed an ivory flash. “Maybe I have.”

He waved her to a corner booth. She slid in opposite him; candlelight pooled across his cheekbones, over skin that looked too smooth to belong to the living. His drink stayed unmoving—no ice, no condensation, just an inky stillness.

She spoke in staccato bursts—her fear of loneliness, her belief that love was a bullet aimed at the heart. He sat so still she could count each shallow breath, could feel the pulse of the air around him, like static before a storm.

“Always by yourself?” he asked, lifting the tumbler as if reading her pulse.

“Safer,” she said, stirring the straw in her ginger beer. “People bruise you when they get close.”

He chuckled—velvet and crackle. “Not if you’re already broken.”

His finger brushed her knuckles. Ice bloomed under her skin; her blood thundered in her ears. He watched every hitch in her voice, every flicker of her gaze.

She leaned back. “Why don’t you ever blink?”

He tilted his head, dark eyes glittering. “I’ve seen too much to need it.”

She rose, legs still humming. Stack was upright in a breath—no scrape of wood, no rustle of fabric. He moved like a shadow slipping off a wall.

“I’ll walk you out,” he said, soft command.

Outside, the sidewalk glowed under sodium lamps. Her heels clicked a lonely rhythm; behind her, he followed silent as night. Exhaust mixed with the scent of blooming jacarandas.

By her maroon Chevy, she stopped. “Who are you?”

He leaned close, breath cool against her temple. His fingers skimmed her cheek—marble-cold, sending fire down her spine. “Hungry,” he whispered.

Then his lips brushed her hand, deliberate and slow. Soft as silk, but she felt a flash of something sharp beneath. She didn’t pull away; instead her knees weakened, longing for that cold burn.

[bartxnhood]

god given solace | bucky barnes

bucky barnes x fem!reader

summary: in which bucky realizes just how in love he is with you.

w/c: 1k

a/n: hey guys!! i know you must get tired of me saying the same thing lol but i decided to write again. i have been sooo busy these past few months. trying to navigate adult life with graduation and my new job, plus i had a surgery that knocked me off my feet but i have been ITCHING to write. so, even though this is small, i hope you all enjoy!!!

Copyright © 2025 bartxnhood. All rights reserved. This original work is not allowed to be reposted on any platform in any format.

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bucky never knew he could love until he met you. all of those sleepless nights, begging, praying to any gods out there just to make them stop. he just wanted peace, no more war, no hydra, no night terrors, and no more fighting.

he wasn’t aware that love is what he so desperately needed. someone to soothe those nightmares, to hold him close and hush him during the worst moments of his life.

but, bucky was convinced he was not capable of being loved. because, who in their right mind would love someone as tortured and damaged as him?

after all, that’s what he was. damaged goods.

but you? god, you were the purest things he had ever seen. you were like an angel that came before him, cascading in white light and warmth every time your gaze lingers on the super soldier.

even now, watching you from the doorway of your shared balcony, bucky finds himself unable to take his eyes off your frame. sometimes, he felt pathetic for the life he harbored for you. trapped in the memory of your first encounter.

relishing in the memories that he looked back on so fondly.

you, the angel, being the only person who could see through bucky. through the “i’m fine” and the “don’t worries” he’d spill, you never put up with his lies.

“you can’t fool me, barnes” you’d say while wrapping your arms around his midsection. bucky sighed as he rubbed his temples, “i know..” there was absolutely no fooling you.

“you can tell me anything, buck..” you pressed a kiss on his shoulder, just above where the metal began.

“does it hurt?”

bucky shakes his head, “no, not right now.”

he’d find himself leaning against the glass door, his eyes trained on your figure as you lean against the metal railing. the skyline of brooklyn in the distance, the moonlight shining on your skin, which only convinced him further into believing you were some sort of angel that was meant for him.

you could do no wrong in his eyes, you could commit a thousand crimes and bucky would still look at you like you hung the moon and stars for him. still, in the end, he felt satisfied knowing that you were his. his to shower with affection, to whisper sweet words in the middle of the night as your bodies lie tangled beneath the sheets of the dark bedroom. not even death could pry you from him.

in the beginning, he tried his hardest not to succumb to his feelings for you. he didn’t want to get attached because attachments always lead to heartbreak, and bucky didn’t know if he could handle another heartbreak.

but you were incredibly persistent, and ultimately it worked.

“i love you..” the words would spill from his lips like honey; the words came so naturally for him, easy as breathing.

the worst left a sweet taste in his mouth.

you turn on your heels just as those words left his lips.

“what?” you laugh, not at him though, but because it was random and very rarely did he. not that he doesn’t love you, but because he doesn’t want the words to lose their meaning.

“i love you,” he repeats as he walks towards you. his hand finds home on your lower back, his fingertips memorizing the texture of your skin that peeked from your sleep shirt.

you smile, hands coming to rest on both of his forearms, and for just a moment, bucky swore he could feel the warmth of your touch against his bionic arm. if he closed his eyes, he could picture it.

“i love you too, james.” you called him every nickname in the book, but sometimes it felt better calling him by his real name. especially in an intimate moment like this.

your brows furrow, his fingers digging into your skin like he’s afraid you’ll slip from his grip. like you’re a figment of his imagination. “what’s wrong..?” you inquire, hands moving from his arms to the base of his neck. fingers entangling with his hair.

bucky shakes his head, “nothing, i just..i just love you s’all”.

you smile, looking into his baby blues that held so much affection when looking at you. like you were the only thing in the universe.

he loved spending his time with you, being in your presence, wrapping his arms around you, and finding peace. no nightmares, no flashbacks, no regrets, just you. just your soothing voice, the stillness of your breathing as you lie next to him. he was so in love with you.

“you are so..beautiful..” bucky found it hard to find a word to describe you. you weren’t just beautiful, you were so much more. you carried this gentleness about you that made him feel at home. home. you were his home.

a smile spreads on your face, a quiet giggle stuck in your throat as you watch his eyes rake over your figure. “bucky..”

“m’serious,” he mumbles. he pulls you closer against his frame, his lips pressing fleeting kisses just below your earlobe.

“you sure you’re okay?” you ask again, your hands still resting at the base of his neck.

“mhm,” he’s still pressing kisses to your flesh, relishing in your signature scent. a gentle reminder that you’re real.

“buck,” your words cut him off, hands finding either side of his face. “cmon..what’s goin on?”

“i don’t say it enough.” he was reluctant to pull away, but he was looking in your eyes again. his hands moved from your lower back to your waist, now. thumbs massaging circles absentmindedly.

you press your lips into a thin smile, tilting your head to the side while your fingers push some hair from his eyes. “oh..bucky..”

“no,” he shakes his head.

“you are my god given solace, y/n. you know that?”

you’re a bit taken aback by his sudden words, your hands pausing their movements. “what?”

“i know it hasn’t been easy to love me, but you’ve been there for me” he’s rambling now, wanting to get his words out while he still has it on his mind. “you’ve shown me love, doll” he presses a kiss to the top of your head, letting it linger for a moment.

“you saved me.”

[hameesstuff]

"Trigger Discipline"

Title: "Trigger Discipline"

Word count: ~6.2k

Themes: Exes to lovers, Mafia, Violence, Soft Smut, Angst, Fluff, Almost death scene.

Preview: He’s dragged blood-soaked bodies through alleyways and whispered orders that ended lives. But nothing ever rattled Johnny like the new folder on his desk—one that read your name. You who once kissed his bloody knuckles and told him he was more than what the world made him. Now he’s ordered to erase you. The only woman he's ever loved.

But love doesn’t follow orders. Not even in the mafia.

___________________________________________

A Clean Shot

Johnny had a ritual when it came to bodies.

Late at night, when the streets fell silent and the city stopped pretending it was clean, he’d roll up his sleeves, light a cigarette, and handle the mess himself. It wasn’t about trust—though he had little of it—it was about control. About making sure every job ended with a period, not a question mark.

Tonight was no different. A warehouse. Concrete floors. One bullet to the head, another to the chest for good measure. He crouched beside the corpse in a black suit that didn’t wrinkle, pulled off his gloves, and stared into the glassy eyes of the dead man like he might confess something in his final silence.

He didn’t.

“You sure you wanna keep doing cleanup?” Doyoung’s voice echoed as he stepped into the dim light, arms crossed. “You’re the boss now. The man who orders the trigger, not pulls it.”

Johnny stood slowly, flicking blood off his gloves before tucking them into his coat pocket. “Sometimes I don’t trust the hands holding the gun.”

Doyoung raised an eyebrow. “That paranoia gonna kill you before anyone else does.”

A small smirk curled on Johnny’s lips. “Let it try.”

Two hours later, back at his office—top floor of a building people assumed was abandoned—he sat with a glass of whiskey and a stack of target folders. He wasn’t reading them. Not yet. He just liked the weight. The gravity of lives outlined in ink and photos.

Until one slipped free and landed face up.

Your face.

The glass in his hand didn’t fall, but his grip tightened. His throat clenched so hard he couldn’t breathe, like the past had reached out and wrapped its soft, familiar fingers around his neck.

You looked the same. Maybe prettier. Hair up in a lazy clip, a small crinkle at the edge of your smile as you knelt beside a child, their hands buried in paint. The caption on the photo:

Name: [REDACTED]. Status: Civilian. Occupation: Kindergarten Teacher. Priority: Immediate Termination.

Johnny didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared.

You hadn’t spoken in three years. He left you for a life he thought you’d never survive beside. You loved flowers and fairy lights and poetry about the moon. He left blood on his doormat every Thursday.

He should burn the file. Call it a mistake. Tell Doyoung he’d handle it and then vanish you to some new life in a different country, maybe.

But something in his chest—something he hadn’t felt since your bare arms wrapped around his torso in a summer rain—began to twist.

He leaned back, whispering like a curse:

“…Fuck.”

Paper Hearts, Loaded Guns

The street outside the school was quiet, dappled in soft morning light filtered through thinning spring leaves. Johnny stood across from the playground, silent, unmoving, the hood of his black coat casting a shadow over his eyes.

And there you were.

Bent over in a room full of color and chaos, gently tying the shoelaces of a boy who was crying too hard to speak. You whispered something—he couldn't hear it, but he didn’t need to. The child nodded, wiped his tears, and hugged you around the waist.

Johnny didn’t blink.

You hadn’t changed. Not in the ways that mattered.

Still pretty in the kind of way the world didn’t deserve. Still moved like the weight of the world was something you carried for others. Your hair was up in that loose twist you always did when you were focused. There were chalk marks on your skirt. Crayon smudges on your wrist. And somehow, it made you glow.

His fingers curled inside his coat pocket where the pistol rested, the cold metal a stark contrast to the warmth rising in his chest.

He’d forgotten how much he missed you.

He remembered the first time he kissed you.

He’d had blood on his hands that night too. You were barefoot on the kitchen floor in his apartment, laughing softly as you stirred noodles in a pot, humming something off-key.

“I’m dirty,” he had said, stepping in cautiously, fists clenched at his sides.

“I know,” you replied, and turned to look at him. “But I still want you to hold me.”

So he had.

And he hadn’t let go until the sun came up and his heart remembered it could still beat for something other than survival.

Now, watching you crouch by a chalkboard where your students had scrawled crooked letters, he felt the ghost of your fingers brush his again. The memory of your mouth against his jaw. The whispered I love yous in the kind of silence that made a man forget he was born into violence.

You were peace.

And you were on his list.

His phone buzzed in his coat.

Doyoung:

You’re dragging your feet. You said you’d handle it. HQ is breathing down my neck. We confirmed it—she’s the witness’ tie. Clean shot. No questions.

Johnny looked up at the classroom window. You were laughing now, hair falling out of its clip. A little girl placed a sticker on your cheek, and you didn’t remove it. Just smiled like joy was the most natural thing in the world.

That night, he didn’t drink.

He just sat at his desk, file open, staring at your name. Again. And again.

You were a teacher. A civilian. A bright spot in a world of darkness he’d willingly sunk into.

His thumb brushed your photograph.

The burn behind his eyes came fast.

He closed the file and whispered into the silence, “I’m not killing her.”

Even if it killed him.

The Man Behind the Bullet

Rain came hard that night—thick sheets against the glass, soft thunder rumbling like a distant war Johnny had already lost. The city was quiet in a way that made him restless. His office lights were dimmed low, his black shirt still clinging to him from the walk in. He hadn’t bothered drying off. He needed the cold.

The file sat open on the desk. Again.

Your photo stared back at him—head tilted, half-smile tucked into the corner of your lips like you were keeping a secret only he could ever understand.

Maybe you were.

Maybe that’s why it still hurt.

He hadn’t spoken your name aloud in years. Not since the night he left, standing in the doorway with his bag and his demons and that look on your face—the one that shattered him.

You never asked him to stay.

And he’d hated you for it.

But only for a day.

Then he hated himself.

Two years earlier

You’d been curled against his chest in bed, legs tangled together, rain tapping soft on the window.

“I can hear your heart when I lay here,” you’d murmured, fingertips grazing the tattoo over his ribs.

“It’s fast.”

“That’s just you,” he replied, kissing your temple. “You scare me.”

You smiled softly. “Why?”

“Because when I look at you, I start thinking about things I shouldn’t want.”

“Like what?”

“Like soggy pancakes with our lttle kids. Sunday mornings that aren’t covered in blood.”

You had gone quiet then. But not cold. You just whispered, “You deserve those things too, Johnny. Even if you don’t believe it yet.”

Now, in this office built on silence and fear, all he could hear was your voice—faint and warm and far too close.

He poured a drink. Didn’t sip it.

There was a knock at the door.

Doyoung stepped in, slicked with rain, holding a USB drive. “Final proof,” he said grimly. “Your girl was seen talking to the witness last week. Same bookstore. He was killed two days later.”

Johnny stiffened. “She’s a teacher. That shop’s on her route home.”

“She hugged him.”

Johnny looked up, slow and sharp.

Doyoung raised his hands. “I’m just saying. Boss, it doesn’t matter how she got tied to this. HQ wants it done. If it wasn’t you, they’d send Taeyong. And he won’t hesitate.”

The room grew still. Heavy.

Then Johnny said, voice low and hard, “If Taeyong touches her, I’ll put a bullet in his mouth.”

Silence.

Doyoung exhaled and leaned on the wall. “You never even told us why you left her.”

Johnny turned away. “Because I loved her.”

Outside, the rain had stopped.

And across the city, you were closing your classroom for the night, unaware of the storm circling your name. You packed up the glitter glue, hummed to the silence, then paused.

There it was again.

The ache in your chest.

Like someone you once knew was standing just outside the door.

Ghosts in the Doorway

It started with a knock.

You weren’t expecting anyone. It was nearly 9 p.m., and your apartment was tucked on the second floor of a quiet building that smelled like old books and warm bread. You were still in your soft house sweater—oversized, worn at the cuffs—curled on the couch with a mug of tea cooling in your hands.

The knock came again. Quiet. Firm.

You frowned, setting the cup down, the strange unease curling at the base of your neck. When you opened the door, the breath left your lungs.

Johnny Suh stood there.

Dripping rain onto your doormat.

Black coat. Black eyes. Hands stuffed in his pockets like he didn’t trust them to stay still. You hadn’t seen him in three years, but God, he still looked the same—older around the eyes maybe, more carved at the edges—but still heartbreakingly him.

You didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

For one long second, it was like the world had forgotten how to spin.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he said first, voice low. Hoarse. Like he hadn’t spoken to anyone in days. “I swear.”

You didn’t move.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered.

“I know.”

He exhaled, the weight of the universe in his shoulders. “But I needed to see you before they do.”

“Who?” you asked, even though part of you already knew.

He hesitated.

Then: “People who kill for less reason than I have.”

The silence between you turned thick. Heavy.

You stepped back without a word, and he followed you in.

Your apartment was small, warm. Familiar in ways that made his chest ache. You still kept candles on the windowsill. A bookshelf half-falling apart. A cat he didn’t recognize blinked up at him from the kitchen counter like it already hated him.

He stood in the middle of the living room, dripping on your rug, hands twitching.

You watched him carefully. “You said before they do.”

Johnny nodded once.

And then—for the first time—you saw it. The pain in his eyes. The guilt in the line of his jaw. The tight way he held himself, like he didn’t know if he was here to beg or bleed.

“They sent you,” you said softly.

Not a question.

He didn’t lie.

“Yes.”

The floor fell out from under you. But you didn’t cry. You didn’t scream. You just stood there—arms crossed over your stomach like you were holding yourself together—staring at the man who once made you believe the world could be kind.

You let out a breath like it broke something inside you.

“Was I really ever just a job, Johnny?”

“No,” he said instantly. Stepped forward. “You were the only real thing I ever had.”

He didn’t touch you.

Not yet.

But he looked at you like a man memorizing every line of a poem he would never get to read again.

And then, finally: “I’m not going to hurt you. I don’t care what they say. I’ll burn the whole organization to the ground before I let them touch you.”

You blinked.

“Why?” you whispered.

He looked wrecked when he said it.

“Because I still love you.”

Before the Fire Started

Three Years Ago.

The night before he left.

The city was asleep, but your apartment lights were low and golden. You stood in the kitchen wearing one of his old black shirts, too big on your frame, the sleeves rolled up as you swayed barefoot on cold tiles.

Johnny leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you stir soup in a chipped pot.

“You look domestic,” he teased softly.

You smirked without turning. “Don’t ruin it.”

He stepped closer. Slowly. Carefully. Like he knew this moment was borrowed time.

“I like it,” he murmured, now behind you. His arms wrapped gently around your waist. “You. Here. With me. Like this.”

You stilled in his hold.

Then slowly leaned back against his chest, letting the silence settle.

“You’re tense,” you whispered.

“I’m scared,” he admitted. “Everything in my world breaks. I don’t want that to happen to you.”

You turned then, both hands pressed to his chest.

“I won't, Johnny. Not when it’s you.”

He bent his head, forehead resting against yours.

“I don’t get to keep this life,” he said, barely audible. “The people I work for—they don’t let you have peace. Or light. Or love.”

You tilted your face up, eyes stinging.

“I don’t care.”

He smiled. Soft. Devastated.

“You should.”

That night, he made love to you like a man saying goodbye with every touch.

He memorized your breath, the way you whispered his name, the way your fingers gripped his shoulder when you came apart around him—like he was the only place in the world you felt safe.

He kissed your throat afterward, whispering, “I’ll never love again. Even if I live to be a hundred. There’s only you.”

You kissed his mouth to quiet the ache.

Now.

You stared at him in your living room, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. The hurt hadn’t dulled with time—it was just quieter now. Sharper in how it pierced.

He was still standing there, soaked and sleepless, looking at you like you were the only clean thing he had left in the world.

“I shouldn’t have left you like that,” he whispered.

You didn’t respond.

You just stepped closer—heart beating too loud—and reached up.

Your fingers brushed the scar under his jaw. One he didn’t have before.

He didn’t flinch.

“You still smell like smoke,” you murmured.

Johnny’s throat bobbed. “I never stopped burning.”

Between the Trigger and the Touch

You didn’t speak for a while.

Not after tracing that scar. Not after his breath hitched at your touch like he’d forgotten how to be held gently.

The room was quiet but charged. You turned away slowly, walking to the window, arms folding tight over your chest. The city lights blinked below, rain still glittering on the glass.

He didn’t move.

“I waited,” you said finally, voice like a scraped match. “For weeks. I thought maybe you’d knock again. Maybe you just needed space. But you didn’t even leave a note, Johnny.”

He exhaled sharply, pain twisting through his features. “I couldn’t. If I stayed—if I wrote, called, anything—they’d know you mattered. You’d be dead by now.”

You turned to him. “And now?”

“I don’t care anymore,” he said. “If I die protecting you, then I die doing the one good thing I’ve ever done right.”

Your breath caught.

Johnny stepped forward then, slow and deliberate, stopping a few inches from you. His voice dropped.

“I dream about you.”

You swallowed.

He kept going. “About what I left. About what I ruined. You cooking barefoot. Laughing. The way you used to fall asleep on my chest mid movie.”

Your lips twitched.

He saw it.

A faint, broken smile pulled at his mouth too.

And then: “Do you still listen to that stupid playlist? The one you made me for night drives?”

You blinked hard. “You remember that?”

“I remember all of it.”

Silence.

And then he said, quieter, “Do you want me to go?”

You could lie. You could say yes. You could ask him to disappear again so your heart didn’t have to remember how to ache.

But instead—

You reached for his hand.

Fingers lacing slowly. Trembling.

“No,” you said.

And he looked at you like he was about to fall to his knees.

When the Light Broke

You whispered, “Kiss me.”

And for a moment, nothing in the world existed except his lips brushing yours.

Slow. Reverent. Like he’d waited his entire life for that single contact.

It wasn’t just a kiss—it was an apology, a confession, a resurrection.

Your fingers trembled as they curled in his jacket. His hand cradled your jaw like you might disappear again if he held too hard. Your bodies hadn’t touched in years, but they remembered. His mouth moved like he was desperate to memorize you again.

You broke apart only to breathe. You were just about to say his name when—

The window behind you shattered into a thousand pieces. A blink. A sound like thunder swallowed in glass.

And then—

A burning punch to your side.

You gasped.

The air was gone. Your legs buckled.

Johnny caught you mid-fall, and suddenly the world was sideways. His arms tightened around your body, but your vision was already going soft at the edges.

“No.” His voice was jagged. “No no no no no—”

Your blood soaked through his hands instantly. Hot. Fast. Too fast.

He dragged you behind the couch in one fluid motion, his back shielding yours as more glass sprayed across the room—fragments glinting in the air like falling stars. But no more shots came. One bullet. One message.

You coughed. Choked on your own breath.

“Johnny…” you managed, voice like smoke.

He ripped his jacket off and pressed it to your side, hand shaking so violently he almost missed. “Stay awake. Don’t you dare fucking close your eyes—don’t you dare—”

Tears flooded your vision. Not from pain. From the sound of him. You’d never heard him sound like that.

Like he was dying too.

“Help’s coming,” he said. It wasn’t a promise. It was a prayer.

Your lips parted, blood trickling into your mouth.

He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes wild, voice breaking. “I just got you back. I just got you back. Don’t leave me like this—not you—”

Your body was going cold.

But his hands never stopped holding you like they could pull your soul back in.

The Aftermath

The cold sting of antiseptic filled the air as Johnny rushed through the hospital doors, adrenaline still running through his veins, mixing with the heavy weight of panic.

You weren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to be hurt.

He wasn’t supposed to be holding your bleeding body in his arms, fighting for your life in the back of his car. It wasn’t supposed to be real.

But it was.

He shouted for help as soon as the doors opened, his hands shaking so badly he could barely feel the blood on them anymore. Your blood. The warmth of it on his skin still burned like fire.

“Emergency!” he barked, voice cracking with desperation.

They moved fast, voices echoing in the chaos, and in the blur of rushing hands, he finally let go. Reluctantly. He stepped back, watching helplessly as the doctors and nurses surrounded you—working fast, speaking in quick, sharp commands. He was useless in this moment, and it tore him apart.

“She’s losing too much blood!” one of the nurses shouted.

Johnny barely registered their words as he stood, frozen in the doorway. His chest was tight, his throat clogged. His body was still shaking from the shock, but it wasn’t from fear anymore. It was from the guilt. The ache of knowing he might’ve just lost the one person who ever meant anything.

One of the doctors looked at him, eyes hard, and gave him a single, firm command.

“You need to leave. Now.”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t fight. He turned, the weight of the world pressing on his shoulders as he stepped into the sterile hallway, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts that couldn’t be caught.

The hours dragged by.

Johnny didn’t leave the hospital. He didn’t sleep. He didn’t eat. He just waited.

And waited.

By the time the sun cracked the sky and the sterile lights in the hospital halls flickered to life, his eyes were sunken. He’d spent all night pacing, trying to stay awake, to stay present. But a deep, gnawing dread crawled under his skin—the fear that you might not make it.

The sound of a door opening caught his attention. A nurse appeared, her face tired but calm.

“She’s stable.” she said, her voice soft. “She’s going to be okay.”

Johnny exhaled. It was like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath all this time. His heart beat again, and for the first time, the weight seemed a little less suffocating.

But it wasn’t enough. Not yet.

“Can I see her?” he asked, voice raw.

The nurse nodded.

When Johnny walked into your room, the sight of you—pale, bruised, breathing steadily beneath the sterile white sheets—nearly broke him all over again.

You were alive. You were breathing. And that was enough.

He stood by your bedside for a long time, just watching you. His eyes tracing every inch of your face, memorizing every detail in case he never got the chance again.

When your eyes finally fluttered open, it wasn’t shock or pain that crossed your face. It was relief.

“Johnny…” you whispered, your voice hoarse.

He took your hand, fingers trembling as he gently kissed the back of it. “I’m here. I’m here.”

“Don’t leave.” You whispered, barely audible. The faintest of smiles curled your lips.

“I’m not going anywhere, baby,” he whispered back.

And for that moment, it was enough. But not for long.

Hours later, you fell into a deep, healing sleep.

Johnny’s gaze lingered on your face one last time. He knew he should stay. He knew he shouldn’t go.

But there was something he had to do.

He quietly slipped out of the room, leaving a single kiss on your forehead, and as he walked down the empty hallway, the weight of the decision crushed him.

You’d live. You’d heal. But he couldn’t let this go.

Not yet.

The morning after, Johnny was already gone.

Blood Bath.

He didn’t wear gloves.

He wanted the blood on his hands.

Johnny didn’t knock when he entered the second-floor room of the warehouse. The metal door slammed open, a blinding flash of moonlight cutting across the shadows. Inside, the man who’d given the kill order—Leon Vargas—was seated at a round table, surrounded by half-empty glasses and two bodyguards.

Johnny didn’t hesitate.

Two bullets. Two guards dropped before they even reached their guns.

Vargas shot up from his chair, stumbling backward as Johnny strode in like death itself. Dressed in black, eyes cold, jaw tight—he looked like vengeance incarnate. His gun remained steady, a seamless extension of his fury.

“You shouldn't have touched her.”

“Johnny, wait—”

Johnny’s fist slammed into Vargas’ jaw, sending the man reeling against the wall. He followed him, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him down onto the table, glass shattering beneath the weight.

“Was it a message? Huh?” Johnny hissed, gun pressed to Vargas’ mouth. “That kindergarten teacher? My ex? That was the line you wanted to cross?”

“I didn't know—”

Another punch. This one split his lip.

“You did. You knew exactly what you were doing.”

Vargas coughed blood, a shaky laugh escaping. “You went soft. Thought you needed reminding.”

Johnny froze for a moment. That laugh. That arrogance.

Then he smiled.

But it wasn’t kind.

He reached for a knife from his belt—cold steel glinting in the low light—and drove it into Vargas’ thigh.

Scream.

Vargas writhed beneath him, blood pouring down the chair leg.

“I haven’t gone soft,” Johnny whispered into his ear, voice calm and cold. “I’ve gotten worse. Because of her.”

He twisted the blade slowly, like he was savoring it.

“I love her. You made me bleed for her. Now you’ll drown in yours.”

He pulled the knife free, slick and dripping, then stepped back and emptied his entire magazine into Vargas’ chest.

The final shot went into his head. Point blank.

Johnny stared at the body, chest heaving, blood on his hands, his face, his soul. But his eyes were calm now. His monster fed.

He dropped the empty magazine, reloaded, and turned without looking back.

His hands were stained red.

And now, finally, so was his soul.

Epilogue: “The Quietest Thing”

The city was far behind them now.

Up in the hills, where the clouds rolled slow and the nights came soft, a quiet house sat tucked behind rows of apricot trees. It smelled like jasmine in spring and woodsmoke in winter. And tonight, it smelled like home.

Johnny stood barefoot in the hallway, shoulder against the frame of her bedroom door.

Inside, your daughter was curled up under a pink blanket, knees tucked to her chest, a stuffed rabbit clutched tight in her arms. Her hair fanned out across the pillow like ink in water—thick and dark, just like his.

You stood at her bedside, humming something faint as you tucked the blanket higher. The glow from the nightlight kissed your cheek, and Johnny felt it again—that quiet, shattering ache of love so deep it felt like forgiveness.

“She’s growing fast,” he whispered.

You turned to him, smiling gently. “She’s already smarter than both of us.”

“She’s got your heart,” he murmured.

“She’s got your fight.”

You walked over, sliding your hand into his. He kissed the back of it, eyes drifting back to the tiny body sleeping peacefully in the bed.

“She asked me today if you were a superhero,” you whispered. “Said you have hands like a soldier but eyes like a prince.”

Johnny swallowed. “What did you tell her?”

“I said no,” you said softly. “You’re not a superhero.”

His heart thudded. You leaned in.

“You’re her father,” you whispered. “That’s better.”

Outside, the wind danced through the trees.

In the living room, Doyoung was passed out on the couch, glasses askew, a coloring book open on his chest—one your daughter had abandoned halfway through. Crayons littered the floor. Classical piano music still hummed faintly from the kitchen speaker.

The home was chaotic in the way only happy homes are.

Johnny reached for you as you stepped into the living room, pulling you gently onto his lap as he sank into the armchair near the fireplace. You melted into him like you always did—like the world outside didn’t exist anymore.

“I thought the blood would follow me forever,” he murmured into your shoulder. “Even when I left, I thought… one day, she’d see it in me.”

“She won’t,” you whispered. “Because it’s not there anymore.”

He held you tighter.

“You gave her a different name than the one you lived under,” you said. “You gave her peace. You gave her a life.”

He looked up at you slowly, eyes glassy, voice raw. “You gave me a soul.”

You leaned in, resting your forehead to his. “And she gave us a forever.”

That night, as the fire crackled low and the world quieted, Johnny slipped into his daughter’s room one last time.

He kissed her forehead, brushed a curl from her cheek, and whispered the words he never thought he’d live long enough to say:

“I love you, little one.”

She stirred faintly in her sleep, a soft hum escaping her.

And in that moment, Johnny realized:

He’d never be a monster again.

Because the only thing he killed now—was the past.

The End.

___________________________________________

[itsactuallylina]

SO KISS ME ☆ HTS

pairing: han taesan x f!reader genre: fluff and romance wordcount: 0.8k a/n:bnd debut fic !! the song is kiss me by sixpence none the richer

feedback and reblogs are appreciated <3

kiss me out of the bearded barley

nightly, beside the green, green grass

the sun was already meeting the horizon, casting everything in the shades of pink and orange. strawberries, some still clinging to their stems, glowed like little rubies in the fading light. you carried a basket half-full, your fingers stained red—not just from the berries, but also from the warmth of your feelings.

taesan walked beside you, his sleeves rolled in the way he liked it, his hair caressed by the wind. the air smelt like earth and sweetness, and somewhere nearby, the barley swayed in silence, its golden heads bowing as they were about to witness something sacred.

he didn’t utter a word when he stopped in the middle of the way. he just looked at you with that familiar expression—softness—the kind you’ve grown up with, the kind that always made your heart flutter.

and there, in the middle of the strawberry field, where time felt like it has paused just for you, he leaned in.

the kiss was quite, but tender. his lips made the whole world blur until all you could see was taesan and the setting sun. the breeze of twilight blew by as you could feel the taste of the strawberries on his lips.

swing,swing, swing the spinning step

you wear those shoes and i will wear that dress

the soft creak of the swing drifted through the evening air, reaching you and taesan where you sat on an old bench together. you let your gaze drop down, fingers gliding through the soft fabric of your light pink dress—the same shade, the same feeling of the dress that you loved in your childhood, when your most visited place was this playground, not school, or university.

nearby, the swing swayed gently, the wind pushing it along. a sudden memory flashed in your mind–the pain of scraped knees caused by a fall, the clear sky blurred by your tears, and the boy who knelt in front of you, offering his hand.

now, you felt the warmth of the said hand again. you looked down, and your heart skipped a beat when you noticed the his sneakers. they were identical to the ones you first saw when you blinked your tears away.

rough texture of his hand, once small and gentle, brushed against your cheek with tenderness. as you angled your head to look at him, just like you had back then, taesan leaned in. leaving a soft kiss on your temple, he stayed like that, in silence.

you closed your eyes, smiling.

oh, kiss me beneath the milky twilight

lead me, out on moonlit floor

streetlights flickered, moon shined brightly, as you and taesan walked side by side, hands brushing but never quite meeting. the city wasn’t quiet: pop music playing from the bars, cars driving by, students passing by–laughing or chatting.

when you noticed the neon light from the convenience store you were heading to, sudden feeling of someone’s else’s hand tugging at yours took your attention. without a word, he pulled you closer to where moonlight radiated, making it feel like you’re standing under a spotlight. his eyes searched for yours, like asking for the permission, but the answer always was the same.

he kissed you–soft and sure–on the moonlit floor. before you could regain your breath, his hands circled around your waist, spinning you across the pavement. he laughed, breaking the silence, his happy expression made you giggle too.

the night held it’s breath, making the moment unforgettable by blurring the outside noise.

lift your open hand

strike up the band and make the fireflies dance, silver moon’s sparkling

the sun–barely visible–shone it’s last rays on the two of you as you made your way to the flower field. one dragging another, smiles blooming on their faces.

by the time you two arrived, the moon’s silver glow overtook the duty of it’s twin. you start admiring the scenery before your eyes, but it gets blocked by a familiar hand, stretched open for you to take. slowly letting your fingers intertwine with his, you look up at taesan.

he, on the other hand, quickly pulls you close to him, so you could feel the warmth of each others’ bodies. he lifted your connected hands in the air, other finding its way on your waist.

by reflex, you put your palm on his shoulder, slightly leaning your head on his chest. when taesan took the first steps, you followed him, falling into the rhythm only you shared.

the soft glow that dropped on your face had taesan’s gaze stay on you. he didn't realize it at first, but your smile had always made every moment feel special.

as fireflies flickered in the background, he held you close with no intention of letting you go

so kiss me

you love the way taesan kisses you and he loves kissing you even more.

[howiswhatawhy]

WYD Now? - Bucky Barnes x reader

Pairing: childhood bestfriend! Bucky x singer! reader

A/N: I love him so much your honor. Literally can't stop writing for him. This is based on WYD Now? by Sadie Jean. It's such a beautiful song, I couldn't stop listening to it ever since I rediscovered my Bucky playlist. I put more thoughts into this than the last fic and I hope you like it<3

Playlist in question: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5A4PA2qyqdiJJibwfeaojl?si=236b0a08fd0f4670

Summary: You think you see Bucky watching your show after years of no contact. It's probably just your imagination, so why can't you shake off this ache in your chest? Word Count: 2.9k Warnings: fuckboy bucky, whole lotta angst + much more longing, childhood bestfriends to strangers to lovers. not proofread (again)

I saw you in the back of my show last night

Standing underneath the exit sign

I know it wasn't really you though

'Cause you were always in the front row

The stage light shines almost blindingly. You’re used to it now, though. There was a time when it was overwhelming, almost daunting, to be in the eyes of so many people. Back then, Bucky was your rock. The anchor that kept you grounded. The calm in a world full of storms. 

But now, the thrill excites you, the heat of the spotlight feels like home. You’re not sure which you crave more, the rapt attention of a thousand strangers or the careful, loving gaze of just one person. Your person. Bucky. But if you just let yourself really listen to your heart, you’re almost sure you’d choose the latter. 

Almost.

Your gaze drifts beyond the crowd, past the stage lights and into the shadows at the edge of the room. That’s when you see him. Leaning against the wall beneath the dull red glow of the exit sign, arms crossed, eyes on you like he never left. Like he never broke you.

And then, he’s gone.

You’re probably just imagining it. Bucky wouldn’t be here, he had better things to do than to haunt your show like a ghost. There was a time where Bucky would be at every front row seat of your shows. Granted, the venues were small, maybe three rows total, but he was there. Always.

You don’t really know what happened. It doesn’t matter anyways. How could anything matter that much—enough to cost you him? But what’s done is done. There’s no taking it back. No turning back the time.

So now, you focus on the moment. Focus on performing. Because that’s what you do best. Perform. In front of thousands of eyes. In front of no one. In front of the mirror. You perform. Pretending to be okay.

——

And I've been looking for love online

And maybe some of them are real good guys

They're never gonna be like you though

You set the bar above the moon so

It’s not like men are all bad. It’s just that they’re worse, comparatively, when your bar was set by Bucky Barnes. And you did try to find love. Tried to move on. Tried everything just to feel something. But nothing you did ever came close. Close to the way he made you feel when he held you when you thought the world was against you. Close to the way he made you feel when he accidentally brushed his hands against yours, and it felt like lightning had just struck you both. Close to the way he made you feel just by looking at you, like you’re the only damn person in this Earth. And to him, that was true. It is true. At the very least, you’re the only person that ever mattered to him. You were his world. His safe place.

But none of it matters now.

Because even as you stand here, surrounded by the lights and the crowd, that feeling is gone. All that’s left is the echo of it. A memory of what once was, and the ache of never finding it again. 

You try to move on, to pretend you don’t still hear his voice in your head, whispering that you’re not alone, that everything will be okay. But the truth is, no one has ever made you feel the way he did. 

No one ever will.

——

Now that you finally got the job you like

I'm making money off the songs I write

I know you said that I could call you

I wonder if you wanna call too

Someone said he was doing well. That he finally got into that company he wanted and he finally escaped the hellhole. You heard it through a friend of a friend, like a whisper in the wind. You wonder if he’s really happy. You hope he is. You really really do.

You’re doing alright too. In a way better place than you were before. Sometimes it all feels like a dream, a mixture of your worst nightmare and the version of your life you used to write about in your journal when you were fifteen. He said you could call. You remember the way he looked at you that night — tired, unsure, but still trying. “You know, whatever happens… you could always call me, right?” You nodded back then. Maybe even believed it. But people say a lot of things they don't mean. Still, some nights your fingers hover over his name. Just in case. Just in case he meant it. Just in case he still would pick up.

——

Now that the future doesn't feel so far

It doesn't seem as wrong to want what's ours

And after everything that's happened

I wanna put it in the past tense

People grow. They grow and they change and nothing is ever constant. You knew that. You knew that better than anyone else. Even if sometimes you felt like you might forget about it, the constant ache—the ache your father left when he walked out the door—never truly let you. It sat there, quiet but insistent, like a low hum beneath every laugh, every moment of joy, every silence. 

That didn’t stop the teenage you from hoping, though. It didn’t stop you from looking at Bucky like he was the exception to every rule, like maybe he’d be the one to stay. You held onto that hope with both hands, white-knuckled and desperate, because something about him made you believe in forever, even when you knew better.

You and Bucky stopped being friends three years ago. Though if we’re being honest, you and Bucky stopped being friends long before that. Not if you count the longing you carried like a secret, folded tight in the corners of your heart. Friends don’t look at each other that way. 

And he looked at you too. God, he did. In the way his gaze lingered when you talked, in the way he remembered things you said in passing like they meant everything. But Bucky Barnes was a walking contradiction. He flirted with everyone, kissed girls at parties like it didn’t mean anything, and smiled at you like you were the one exception. You never knew if you were special or just stupid.

And you were both too proud—too scared—to ask.

The night everything fell apart, it wasn’t a fight so much as a slow, sharp unraveling. You watched him leave that party with someone else. Again. And for once, you didn’t pretend it didn’t hurt. You didn’t smile through it or wait up or brush it off when he stumbled back into your life a week later with a half-assed apology and tired eyes.

You didn’t say anything at all.

Then, something shifted. You stopped answering his texts right away. Stopped showing up to places just because you thought he might be there. You started saying no when he called late at night, asking if you were up, like he hadn’t just spent the evening with someone else. You weren’t cruel, you never could be, not with him, but you were distant. Careful. Like someone learning not to touch fire, even if it still called to you.

Bucky noticed. Of course he did. You saw it in the crease between his brows when you laughed a little too loudly at someone else’s joke, felt it in the way he started watching you from across the room like maybe you were slipping out of his reach. And you were.

He tried, in his own way.

Cornered you in the kitchen at Sam’s birthday party, leaning against the counter like it wasn’t taking everything in you not to look at him. Like he hadn’t been circling you all night, waiting for a moment when you weren’t surrounded by other people. Other distractions.

“Did I do something wrong, baby?” he asked, soft and unsure in a way that didn’t match his usual confidence.

Baby.

There’s that word again. Your heart stuttered, traitor that it was.

But you didn’t show it. Just shrugged, cool and quiet, like the sound of that word didn’t carve straight through you.

He called everyone that. Baby. Sweetheart. Doll. It didn’t mean anything. At least, that’s what you told yourself. That’s what you clung to when your throat got tight and you couldn’t quite meet his eyes.

“No,” you said finally, voice calm. Distant. “You didn’t do anything.”

But your chest ached with everything you didn’t say.

You wanted to scream yes. Yes, you did. You made me feel like I mattered and then reminded me I didn’t. You made me believe in something, and then left me to carry it alone. But instead, you stayed quiet. Because if you said any of it out loud, you weren’t sure you’d survive hearing his answer.

He stood there a moment longer, waiting. Watching. Maybe hoping.

Then he nodded, pushed off the counter with a quiet sigh, and left you there with your silence.

And eventually… he stopped trying.

But some things don’t end just because you stop talking.

The wanting never really left you. It dulled, maybe. It muted itself into something quieter, more manageable. Something you could pack away between polite smiles and half-meant goodbyes. But it never died.

Because every time you hear his name, your heart still flinches. Every time someone mentions him in passing, you feel your pulse skip like it used to. You still remember the sound of his laugh, the shape of his mouth around your name, the way it used to feel like you were the only two people in the world.

And you’re tired. Tired of feeling like nothing could ever compare. Tired of longing for the ghost of him. No, not the ghost of him. Tired of longing for him. The real him. You’re tired of pretending it was only ever a phase. A crush. A moment you’ve outgrown.

It’s been 3 years of missing him and many more years of longing for him. So you decided you had enough of it. You tried getting rid of the wanting, but it didn’t work. You tried distracting yourself, that only made you miss him more. You tried being mad, really mad. Told yourself he didn’t deserve that kind of space in your chest. That if he wanted you, he would’ve said something. Done something. Chosen you. And that just left you feeling unwanted.

But there’s one thing you haven’t tried: talking to him.

So you do.

You don’t think. Don’t overanalyze or rehearse a speech in your head. You just pick up your phone and press his name before you can talk yourself out of it. Before fear and pride and all the years between you can pull you back under.

It rings.

Once.

Twice.

“Hello?”

Fuck. dontcrydontcrydontcrydontcry.

“Doll, you okay?”

And you just sob.

——

‘Cause I don’t wanna be 20-something

And still in my head about

17 in my bedroom talking

It took Bucky exactly 9 minutes to get to your place. You didn’t even tell him where you were. Didn’t need to. The moment he heard your sob, he didn’t hesitate. 

“I’m on my way. Stay on the phone with me, okay?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t, not with the lump in your throat and the way everything you had been holding in was spilling out. But you stayed on the line, the sound of your shaky breaths mixing with his muffled voice on the other side.

You barely remember the time passing. You only know the next thing you hear is the sound of your doorbell ringing—quick, urgent.

Bucky.

You rush to the door, barely pulling it open before he’s already there, eyes wide with concern. His face is soft, but there’s something tense in the way he looks at you.

This brings you back to when you were 17. Crying in your room over something small that happened. Bucky would hold you and wipe your tears away. Then he would try to talk about everything and nothing at the same time, to get you out of your head. And it worked. Every problem felt small when you have your Bucky Barnes next to you.

But you’re not 17 anymore. And it’s hard for Bucky to comfort you when he’s the reason for your broken heart at the first place. 

“Tell me what’s on your pretty mind, sweetheart,” Bucky tries.

He says it like it’s still easy. Like no time has passed. Like you haven’t spent the last three years trying to forget the way his voice used to sound wrapped around your name.

You blink at him, eyes glassy, heart pounding so loud you swear it fills the whole room. You want to yell at him. Kiss him. Tell him to leave. Beg him to stay. You want to do everything and nothing at the same time.

“You,” you whisper. It’s all you can manage at first. “You’re what’s on my mind.”

His face shifts. Like the words punch the air out of his lungs.

“All the time,” you add, voice breaking. “You’ve been on my mind for years, Bucky. And I tried—God, I tried so hard to forget. To move on. But it always comes back to you. It’s always you.”

He steps forward, cautiously, like you’re made of something fragile and he’s finally figured out he’s been the one cracking you all along.

“I didn’t know,” he says, voice low. “I swear, doll, I didn’t know it hurt you that much. I thought…” He trails off, jaw clenched like he can’t bring himself to finish the thought. “I thought you didn’t want me.”

You laugh, bitter though you don’t mean it to be. “I wanted you so much it hurt.”

And maybe that’s all it takes. For everything to unravel. For the silence to finally shatter. Because when he reaches for you again, you don’t pull away.

——

You said that by now we’d

Paint the walls of our shared apartment

You’re still everything I want and

I think we can work it out

“I used to picture it, you know,” he says, voice low. “What it’d be like if we ever figured it out.”

“Our place,” he says. “Some shitty apartment with a leaky faucet and bad lighting. But we’d paint the walls. Together. You’d pick the palette, I’d botch the corners.”

The image of it burns your brain. God knows what you would give to have that. The sheer domesticity of it all.

Bucky had been everything you’d ever wanted. He is everything you’ve ever dreamed of. And maybe that’s the problem. Dreams aren’t built to last in real light. Not when they’re made of “almosts” and “what ifs.”

But he’s sitting next to you now, limbs tangled and his thumb is brushing your cheek. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks next. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice barely more than breath. “For the way I hurt you.”

Your eyes stay on him, even as his stay fixed on the floor. His thumb stills against your skin.

“I didn’t mean to. I just... I didn’t know how to stay when things got hard. Didn’t know how to hold something good without breaking it.”

He’s quiet for a long beat, thumb stilling against your cheek. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough, like it’s scraped against something sharp on the way out.

“I thought you didn’t want me,” he says. “Back then, I really believed that. I thought you were done. So I didn’t push. Just let you leave and followed you around like a shadow, watching from the edges, never able to find the courage to fix what we had."

You blink, caught between disbelief and the ache that’s never quite left.

“I should’ve asked. Should’ve fought harder,” he continues, voice barely above a whisper. “But I didn’t know how. And maybe I was scared too. Scared that if I looked too closely, I’d find out I was the only one who felt everything I felt.”

You take a shaky breath. It feels like the first real one you’ve taken in years. “I wanted you,” you say quietly. “I still do.”

His eyes flicker down to your mouth, then back up again, searching your face like he’s making sure this is real. Like he’s afraid to ruin it by wanting too much.

“You still do?” he whispers, almost disbelieving. You nod, just once. “Yeah.”

That’s all it takes.

He leans in slowly, carefully, giving you time to pull away, to say no, but you don’t want to. Not when it’s everything you’ve been wishing for all your life. You tilt your face toward his, eyes fluttering closed just as his lips brush against yours. It’s not rushed or desperate. It’s quiet. Careful. Reverent.

His hand slips from your cheek to the back of your neck, cradling you gently as he deepens the kiss, just slightly, just enough to feel like home. And when he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. “I missed you,” he murmurs. And you allow yourself to dream once again, a much more real and grounded dream. Maybe we could work it out this time. He leans back a little, studying you with that half-grin that used to undo you. “So,” he murmurs, like he’s trying not to smile too much, “what are you doing now?”

[multific]

The Crown and the Flame

Aegon Targaryen x Reader

Summary: Promised to one brother, it was the other who watched you like you were the moon itself.

You were never meant to love him.

Aegon was everything you were taught to avoid.

Wild. Unpredictable. His words like daggers, his silences worse.

But it wasn’t his wine-soaked laughter or his recklessness that drew you in, it was the way he looked at you when he thought no one else would see.

You were betrothed to Aemond, the quiet, calculating prince. The one who watched the world like a strategist studies a gameboard. Aemond had chosen you, perhaps for your name, perhaps for your mind, perhaps for something he’d seen in you. You didn’t know. But you had accepted it, and the court praised the match.

Except Aegon couldn’t stop looking at you.

At first, you thought you imagined it. A simple glance across the dinner table. A breath that caught in his throat when you smiled politely.

But soon, it became something more. Aegon’s gaze lingered. His lips twitched when you laughed. And sometimes you caught a softness in his expression that made your heart beat far too fast.

He never touched you. He never said a word.

But his silence was louder than anything.

You sat between the brothers, a placement chosen by Queen Alicent herself, to encourage harmony.

Aemond had his hand resting lightly atop yours, speaking quietly of the upcoming tourney. You nodded, tried to listen, but your eyes wandered, only to meet Aegon’s.

He looked away too late.

And gods, something twisted in your chest.

He was drunk. As usual.

But his smile didn’t reach his eyes. Not when he looked at you. Especially not when Aemond leaned closer and whispered something that made you blush.

That night, Aegon left early. And you couldn’t sleep.

The breaking point came with a storm.

Rain battered the Keep, thunder shaking the windows. You had been in the gardens, seeking silence only to run into Aegon, soaked through, sitting on the stone bench like he wanted the sky to swallow him whole.

He looked up, blinking rain from his lashes.

"You shouldn’t be out here," you said softly.

He laughed. “Neither should you. You’ll catch something and ruin my brother’s pretty future bride.”

You flinched.

He noticed.

“I didn’t mean-” He stood, swaying. “Fuck. I didn’t… gods, I didn’t mean to fall for you.”

You stopped breathing.

"I never wanted this," he muttered, voice cracking. "You were his. I wasn’t supposed to look. Wasn’t supposed to care. But I do. I care, and it’s killing me."

You stared, heart pounding.

And you ran.

You didn’t make it to your chambers before the tears spilled. You turned into a quiet corridor, pressed your back against the cold stone, and let it all fall from your eyes.

Aegon’s voice echoed in your head.

You didn’t hear the footsteps until he was there.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I said it. I’m sorry I feel it. I’m sorry I can’t stop.”

Your hands trembled. “You shouldn’t say those things. I’m promised to Aemond.”

“I know,” he said softly. “But do you love him?”

You didn’t answer.

He took a breath. “Do you love me?”

And this time, you couldn’t lie. “Yes.”

He stepped closer. Carefully, reverently. Like you were a flame and he was begging to burn.

“I would have left it alone,” he whispered. “If I thought you were happy.”

His lips brushed yours like a prayer.

And when you kissed him back, it wasn’t soft. It was everything you had swallowed for months. All the ache, all the guilt, all the longing. It came rushing out like a wave too strong to stop.

It didn’t come without pain.

Aemond knew. He saw the change in you. In Aegon. And one night, he confronted you — eyes like ice.

“I loved you,” he said. “But he always got what I wanted.”

“I never belonged to either of you,” you said, voice shaking. “But I chose him.”

Aemond turned away. And for once, he didn’t fight.

Aegon held your hand in the godswood weeks later, both of you dressed in silver and black. A wedding done quietly. Not royal. Not grand.

But sacred.

He kissed your forehead, your jaw, your knuckles. And when he looked at you, it wasn’t with lust or guilt or shame.

It was love. Real, steady, bone-deep.

“You’re mine,” he said. “Not by duty. Not by force. But by choice. And gods help me, I’ll spend every breath trying to deserve it.”

You smiled.

“You already do.”

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[somanyideassolittletime]

you're gonna live forever in me

Pairing: Jack Abbot x fem!reader (3rd pov)

summary: John Mayer makes great sad song.

Warnings: angst, angst, angst.

He doesn’t even remember having this song in his phone, she must’ve added this a long time ago, he thinks. 

The great big bang and dinosaurs 

fiery rain and meteors 

It all ends unfortunately. 

But you're gonna live forever in me

I guarantee, just wait and see

Jack's hands grasped the steering wheel hard when the familiar music played in his car. He knows the song by heart – listening to an artist's discography repeatedly does that to someone, he supposed. His mind tells him to change the song and to throw away every memory he has associated with this song, but his heart tells him to listen; to reminisce about all the good times he’s had the privilege to experience. Ironic really, he’s pulling up in the driveway and this song decides to play.

“Why do you like sad songs so much, I never understand,” he once asked her, driving around the city at night, no destination on mind. “It’s not sad, J. It’s beautiful.-” She looked at him like he hung the moon, she always does. “Imagine loving someone to the point that they live forever in you,” he chuckled, “I don’t have to, you already are.” And she had cried that night, hearing him mutter those words. 

J, a nickname he once hated – how hard it is to just say Jack? He once thought – but hearing her call him J for the first time, he couldn’t help but erase his forethought on how much he hated that nickname. Hearing her call him J makes him feel young again; her tone always holds no malice every time she calls him that, for him, hearing her mutter those one letter is like a prayer, a beacon of how close she held him in her heart. 

Parts of me were made by you

And planets keep their distance too

The moon's got a grip on the sea

And you're gonna live forever in me

I guarantee, it's your destiny

His mind wandered to the one time they went to The Museum, looking around hand in hand, talking about everything all at once. 

“J, did you know that in some interpretations of the Greek mythology, human beings are made with four arms, four legs, and a head with two faces. But fearing what they could do, Zeus split them into halves, and they spend the rest of their lives finding the other half.” she had said to him, he laughed, bringing their intertwining hand to his lips, kissing it, “what a weird fact to tell me when we’re looking at a sabretooth, hon.” She had laughed too. “yeah, the timing was off, sorry” he turned to her, looking in her eyes, leaning in, “never be sorry, I love it.-” he whispers to her “also I would love to kiss you, but we’re kinda in the museum.” he leaned back, both smiling at each other like nothing else in the world mattered, both silently agreeing that they have found the other half. 

Life is full of sweet mistakes

And love's an honest one to make

Time leaves no fruit on the tree

But you're gonna live forever in me

I guarantee, it's just meant to be

The car is parked, but he can’t will himself to turn it off, not when his mind is currently preoccupied by the thoughts that kept him up most nights. He never stopped loving her, he still finds her in every day small things; a book he thinks she will love, a song he knows she’ll play in their home repeatedly until he can recite the entire lyrics. She still occupies his thoughts a lot, even after all these years. 

His mind kept repeating the night he called it off before he went to bed every night – he kept reciting all the hurtful words he had said over and over again, wishing he had said something different, something that could make her stay. And on one of those nights, when he’s been too deep in his own thoughts, he would twist the memory to the point that he can picture her in bed beside him, holding him, telling him to go to sleep, and that all that has happened was just some twisted nightmare he conjured up. 

How he wished that he would give in to the fight when he called it off instead of doing what he had always been doing, retract himself. I don’t like it when you don’t argue back, it’s like what we had is not worth fighting, J. had once said to him in one of their first fight. 

And when the pastor asks the pews

For reasons he can't marry you

I'll keep my word and my seat

But you're gonna live forever in me

I guarantee, just wait and see

He wonders if she’s moved on, if she’s found someone worthy of her love, if she’s found her a husband. If she is married, in a way, he’s glad; glad that he doesn’t have to bear seeing her walking down the aisle, glad that she’s happy, that she found herself her other half. 

She’s gonna live forever in him, that’s her destiny for him, he supposed. No matter where she is, no matter what she’s doing, what she’s thinking, part of him will still always live for her as part of her will always live forever in him. No matter what he’s doing, the memory of the time he spent with her will always live in the back of his mind, like a reminder of what he has lost. 

The song has changed now, he wills himself to turn the ignition off, walking into his home, bag slung on one shoulder.  Putting the key in the slot, he can’t help to think that maybe, just maybe, she’ll greet him on the other side of the door, hug him, and kiss his cheek like she always does. But he knows better than to hope. 

He emptied his pockets on the table, looking around the house – now feels too big, too empty, too cold – and sighed. His phone lit up with a notification, one he knew not from her. He picked up his phone, with a recent game score notification on the front screen. Not knowing what to do. 

It's like his hand has a mind of its own, his thumb now hovering over her number, and suddenly his phone felt hot in his hand. He contemplates longer than he usually does. 

So he did the best thing he should’ve done all those years – he listened to his heart – and pressed the call button. With his heart hammering in his chest. 

She picked up in the third ring. She had, after all, promised him that she was just one call away, but that was when they were together. She hadn’t backed up from her promise, it seems. 

“Jack?” 

Not J, not anymore, not to her. But maybe he wanted to be reckless and let himself hope.

[vaaaaaiolet]

ohhhh yeah baby, this is the good shit. i'm popping the cork off this fic and watching its bubbles shimmer in the dimmed light.

miss ma'am you OWN the luxury upper penthouse setup for fics. your decadent writing style is like the cherry on top. i didn't listen when my mom told me to stop making faces or they'd freeze like that because i COULD NOT get the stupid dopey grin off my face while reading this 😭

Simplicity is nice. Especially when it’s with someone who makes you feel like the center of their universe and not like one of its many, insignificant moons in orbit. Your mind is already made up—you intend to thank him for his patience, kindness, and company in the only way you know how: with sex.

assassin reader my beautiful, wonderful girl who deserves all the love in the universe. i want to hug her so tight UGH.

it was that last line that put the victoria monet song in my head </3 THIS DYNAMIC IS SO DELICIOUS TO READ BC LEON'S NOT THE QUICKIE KIND!! i'm reading this directly after your "wanna take my time with you" drabble and mentally i'm giggling knowing how invested leon is in this fwb situation (cocky as he might pretend to be. he's not fooling ANYONE) while reader's already got her mind made up. GOOD FOOD.

The warmth of his body permeates through your skin. There’s static and pheromones sparkling between you as he cautiously clasps your zipper. He has a hand on your waist to keep you steady, and it’s like being burned by fire. The sound of your zipper dropping is the most jarring noise in the room.

sorry sorry oh my goodness but my eyes actually ROLLED BACK IN MY HEAD at the writing here my god you have a gift. i can feel the tension on my SKIN, his breath on the back of my neck, see the crushed velvet curtains. i feel like a fragrantica reviewer talking out of my ass. your writing style always sends my imagination RUNNING, bunny.

This thing between you doesn’t have a name. Not yet. Sure, you’ve kissed and held hands and played house. But he isn’t one to jump to conclusions, and it’s damn near infuriating how patient he’s been with you while you took time to figure yourself out again.

reader:

and i know it has leon STRESSED LMAO. let him take his time with you goddamn it!!! he doesn't want to rush something this good!!

He’s still a man. Still has desires, and he’s not afraid to appreciate pretty things. So, forgive him for being a little breathless and taken aback as you shimmy the dress off your waist and down to the floor. He can’t help himself this time. Completes his thoughts, dragging his knuckles down the notches of your spine, down your bra clasp, and ending his study at the small of your back. Did you really wear this cute little set for him? Black, lacy bra. Matching thong. He chuckles inwardly. All for him, huh?

I'M WEAK I'M WEAK. I LOVE HIS THOUGHT PROCESS GOD I COULD JUST EAT HIM UP!!!

and one last line especially favorite lineo f mine to keep you from rereading the entirety of the masterpiece you just wrote and BLESSED US WITH.

You’ve been nothing but sunshine to him. So forgive him for wanting to return the favor.

i will never be over this man. and it's entirely your fault >:( <3333

back on my leon bullshit. @blessdunrest @vaaaaaiolet @zozo-01 tagging you because this is your fault.

Leon takes you on a nice, laid-back date somewhere low-key.

You’re used to luxury—six-course meals, restricting dresses, smiling all alluring amid politicians and the scum of the underworld. But with Leon, it’s…different.

It’s easier to drop your defenses. Just a little bit. 

Leon makes you smile without really trying. He’s a gentleman beneath the teasing and the cockiness. Looks amazing in a suit. Feeds you bites from his plate, profusely compliments the dress you got off the rack of some quaint little boutique, and he keeps you laughing all stupid throughout dinner.

Simplicity is nice. Especially when it’s with someone who makes you feel like the center of their universe and not like one of its many, insignificant moons in orbit.

Your mind is already made up—you intend to thank him for his patience, kindness, and company in the only way you know how: with sex.

He can’t be too oblivious. He acts like he doesn’t know what you’re hinting at sometimes, but you suppose that’s just him being chivalrous.

You rented a room near the restaurant he took you to. Something downtown. Comfortable, charming, unassuming.

He chuckles as you tug him from the elevator, stumbling behind you to keep up with your quick, smaller strides.

“What’s this about?” he asks against your ear from behind, smiling like an enamored fool with his hands falling to your waist as you open your hotel room’s door.

You flash him a smile over your shoulder before you push inside, dragging him along with you. He stands in the entryway, admiring his surroundings—the lush bedding, the posh decor, the ambient lighting. Hands on his hips, his gaze slides to you as a smirk crooks his lips.

“Well, at least you bought me dinner first before you tried to get into my pants.”

You snort from across the room, slipping out of your coat and kicking off your heels. You turn away from him towards the balcony, sweeping your hair over one shoulder, and peering back with a gaze that burns like cinders.

“Help me take off my dress?” you beseech, playing all coy.

Leon owlishly blinks at you, unsure what to do with his hands. They open and close a few times at his sides. His eyes are round, mouth spilling open. It takes him a few seconds to process your implications before he covers the distance between you in slow, shaky strides.

“Uh, sure.”

The warmth of his body permeates through your skin. There’s static and pheromones sparkling between you as he cautiously clasps your zipper. He has a hand on your waist to keep you steady, and it’s like being burned by fire. The sound of your zipper dropping is the most jarring noise in the room.

You sigh, relieved, when the give of your dress loosens. You cast Leon a playful look as you slide the straps off your shoulders, teasingly slow.

He gets a look at your back. Sucks in a breath at the scars littering your pretty skin, yet they don’t at all detract from your beauty. His fingers twitch near your spine with the urge to touch, but he hesitates.

This thing between you doesn’t have a name. Not yet. Sure, you’ve kissed and held hands and played house. But he isn’t one to jump to conclusions, and it’s damn near infuriating how patient he’s been with you while you took time to figure yourself out again.

He’s still a man. Still has desires, and he’s not afraid to appreciate pretty things. So, forgive him for being a little breathless and taken aback as you shimmy the dress off your waist and down to the floor.

He can’t help himself this time. Completes his thoughts, dragging his knuckles down the notches of your spine, down your bra clasp, and ending his study at the small of your back.

Did you really wear this cute little set for him? Black, lacy bra. Matching thong. He chuckles inwardly. All for him, huh?

You turn in the midst of his ruminating, and your eyes bleed sin beneath the feigned innocence. You slip your hands onto his shoulders, standing on tippy-toe, and your lips pan in before claiming his in a rush of breaths and heat.

You nearly knock him off kilter. But he’s got a handful of your hips, and you’re pressing all warm and pliant against him, singeing him down to the bone. He groans something strained into your mouth, feeling like he’ll never get his fill of your taste. You snake your arms around his neck, fingers sifting through the fine hairs at his nape, and when your tongue seeks out the wet glide of his, he nearly loses it.

His mind’s all foggy, so he doesn’t fight back when you suddenly pull away, taking him by the lapels of his jacket, and shoving him towards the bed. You don’t give him much time to adjust to the change in scenery because you’re climbing onto his lap like a dangerous little feline. Sealing your lips to his, all pretty and perfect in his lap.

When you’re winding your body like that, baring down on his lap, pressing your full breasts against him, he can’t think. You’re robbing him of all thought and reason, smudging his lips and chin with the dangerous rouge of your lipstick. Tearing through his hair, sighing and moaning into his mouth like you’ve never wanted anyone or anything more.

As wonderful as you feel, and as much as he adores you, his conscience kicks in. A jarring little voice at the base of his skull like nails on a chalkboard, and he reluctantly draws back with tender hands clasped around your sides.

You blink, bewildered, gaze lidded, simmering like heated liquid. Your brows pinch in the center, lips parted and kiss swollen, and it takes all of him not to pull you back in.

“What’s wrong?” you breathe, rubbing the back of his neck. Dragging your hand down his chest, adjusting on his lap.

Leon swallows, biting back a distressed noise. You’re undeniably sexy and wonderful, and what he wouldn’t give to make you his girl. But he’s gotta be sure you’re not pushing yourself to do something you’re not ready for. Charting dangerous terrain because you feel like you should versus you wanting to.

He chuckles, all sticky and disbelieving. Smooths his hands up and down your waist, looking everywhere else but at your gorgeous face. “I just…wanna be sure you want this. With me.”

You give him a perturbed look that morphs into one of amusement before gathering his stubbled cheeks between your palms, coaxing him to look you in the eye. God, that smile you give is devastating. The color of your eyes is mesmerizing. To him, you’re like a siren ushering fishermen to their watery graves, and he supposes he’ll gladly be amongst them.

“Of course I do,” you whisper, sweet as sugar. Pull him closer until your breaths intermingle. Until you’re both dizzy from the proximity and the friction, and he shivers when your lips graze his.

He’s kissing that smile off your face before he knows what’s about. Standing with your legs wound about his hips, and how effortlessly he picks you up steals the air from your lungs. He turns to deposit you onto your back against the goose down comforter, and your eyes glaze over with lust when they find his as he kisses down the stretch of your body, kneeling at the foot of the bed.

He wants to savor this. Savor you. He doesn’t know the full semantics of what your life looked like before him. You’ve fed him bits and pieces, and he’s gleaned his own things from the way you move, talk, and present yourself. But judging by the scars on your back and the constant twitch of your fingers like you should be holding something—a gun, a knife—he knows your life wasn’t all sunshine and daisies.

So, he wants to love you slowly. Dismantle you to build you back up again. Worship every inch of skin, savor you like his final meal.

You’ve been nothing but sunshine to him. So forgive him for wanting to return the favor.

[radioactivatedspider]

Blind as Hell

Main Masterlist Supernatural Masterlist

Pairings; Sam Winchester x Reader

Genre; angst, drama, hurt/comfort

Warnings; mentions of dead Jessica:(

Summary: Dean's fed up with the googly eyes.

685 words

Dean slammed the Impala’s trunk shut with more force than necessary, the clang echoing through the quiet motel parking lot. He turned around just in time to see Sam helping Y/N out of the passenger seat—again—with that look in his eyes. The same damn look he’d been giving her since high school. Like she was the moon and he’d just discovered it was made of freaking chocolate.

“Unbelievable,” Dean muttered.

“What?” Sam asked, eyebrows raised, Y/N still smiling beside him like they hadn’t just almost gotten killed by a pack of ghouls.

Dean pointed between them, irritated. “That. Whatever that is.”

Y/N blinked. “We were just talking, Dean.”

“No, you were whispering and giggling like a couple of teenagers at prom.” He threw his hands up. “You know, it was bad enough when Dad pretended not to notice, but now you two are practically spoon-feeding each other during stakeouts. I’m this close—this close—to making you ride in the trunk.”

Sam frowned. “Dean—”

“No, don’t ‘Dean’ me. Everyone sees it. Bobby sees it. Hell, even Jessica—dead Jessica—saw it.”

The air stilled.

Y/N's face fell just a little, but Sam's jaw tightened. “That's low.”

“What’s low is making me watch this slow-burn chick flick play out on every damn hunt,” Dean snapped. “You guys act like you’d die for each other—fine. But maybe just admit you’re in love already so I don’t have to third-wheel through another apocalypse.”

Y/N and Sam looked at each other.

And for the first time, neither of them smiled.

The silence after Dean’s words stretched out like a canyon. None of them moved for a long beat, like shifting even a little might crack everything wide open.

Finally, Y/N broke the stillness. Her voice was soft but steady.

“You want honesty?” she asked, looking between the brothers. “Fine. I’m in love with him.”

Dean didn’t flinch—but his jaw locked. She turned fully toward Sam now, eyes shining, vulnerable in a way she hadn’t let herself be in years.

“I’ve been in love with you for a long time, Sam. But I didn’t say anything, because... I knew it would make everything complicated. And dangerous. And real.” She let out a shaky breath. “But almost dying tonight? Again? I’m tired of pretending like this isn’t killing me anyway.”

Sam stared at her, like maybe he’d forgotten how to breathe. “Y/N…”

She kept going, voice cracking just a little. “I know it’s selfish. But I’m tired of waiting for a world where it’s safe to say it. So I’m saying it now. Even if it’s just once.”

There was a beat of stillness. Then Sam took a step forward, slow and deliberate, like any sudden movement might spook the moment away.

“You think I don’t feel the same?” he asked, voice rough. “You think I’ve been looking at you like that since high school for no reason?”

Y/N’s lips parted, but no words came out.

“I’m in love with you,” Sam said. “God, Y/N, I’m so in love with you it hurts. Every time we go out there, I think—what if she doesn’t come back? What if I don’t? And I never told her?”

He looked over at Dean, whose face was unreadable.

“I didn’t say anything because I knew how you’d react.”

Dean exhaled slowly and stood, stepping between them—not to stop them, but just to be seen.

“I’m not your damn keeper,” he said, softer now. “I just… I didn’t want to lose the only family I have left. You two go down together, and I’m the one stuck picking up the pieces.”

Sam reached out and took Y/N’s hand, fingers tangling tight.

Dean glanced at their joined hands, then met their eyes. “So you better not screw this up.”

Y/N smiled, small and trembling. “We’ll try not to.”

Sam nodded. “We won’t.”

Dean grunted, grabbed another beer, and turned toward the bathroom. “I’m not hugging either of you, by the way.”

The door shut behind him.

And for the first time in a long time, Sam and Y/N just stood there—no lies, no secrets. Just breathing, finally, like it was allowed.

[cuubism]

Good Horses| dreamling | rated T | ~30k (Part 2)

teen au, young love, friendship, neurodivergent dream, myth & folklore, human/no powers au (kind of), coming of age. cw: abusive childhood, some violence

(sheltered rich boy dream/feral child hob, except it got a lot weirder)

A good horse runs even at the shadow of the whip. But we are not good horses. ("Reverence", Sarah Manguso)

-

Dream did not have to linger long in the park, that Saturday night, before Hob appeared, bounding from seemingly nowhere to sit beside Dream on the bench again. There were no birds, at this hour, so Dream was just watching the steadily rising moon, and the streetlights blinking on.

Again, he’d lied to get out. Fabricated some acceptable form of social event, university networking, and escaped. The lies roiled in him. He knew he would be found out. His mother had already been suspicious, for Dream did not usually do social events willingly, but ultimately had let it go, perhaps in the hope that Dream was finally becoming normal. He would be found out, eventually. He would just have to enjoy it while it lasted.

“I promised you food,” Hob said, and dropped a takeaway container of chips in his lap. Dream barely caught it before it could fall.

But he hadn’t eaten dinner, again, so it took him barely a second to start tearing into them while Hob chuckled at his side.

“Don’t choke yourself, Dream, Jesus. You’d think you don’t get fed at your fancy estate.”

“You would be surprised,” Dream said, between mouthfuls of chips.

Hob plucked one from the container and chewed on it thoughtfully. It was just on the edge of cold, this night, and he had a fleece-collared jacket on over his familiar t-shirt. Dream was starting to regret his own meager black jumper.

“I have something else for you,” Hob said. “Hold out your hand?”

Dream did so, and Hob placed something in his palm. At first Dream thought Hob had given him a live bug, but realized swiftly that while it was sharp it was not moving. It was, in fact, a metal spider, barely the size of a pound coin. Its legs were folded metal wiring, its round body more wire twisted together, tiny jaws protruding from one end, and eight tiny eyes made of translucent red beads barely the size of a pinhead.

“Did you make this?” he asked, touching lightly at the fold of each sharp leg.

“Uh-huh,” said Hob, rocking back in his seat. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you losing your spider. Even if it did technically get away in the end.”

Dream marveled at the tiny, intricate sculpture. It was beautiful. He could not remember the last time someone had given him something so… personal. Just because he had mentioned something he cared about.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured, and carefully closed it in his hand, chest tight. “Thank you.”

Hob smiled to himself, pleased. He had a very appealing smile.

Dream tucked the spider carefully into his pocket and continued eating the chips. Hob occasionally took one, but didn’t seem particularly hungry, or at least decided to leave the food to Dream. When Dream had devoured all the chips—far too quickly, if he was honest with himself—Hob stood and held out his hand.

“You wanna go for a walk?”

Dream had expected this this time, and stood. He had been brought around quite well to the appeal of walking after his last escape. He turned towards the street they had gone down last time, but Hob gestured him another way.

“Wanna show you a different path,” he explained. “Since it seems like you never get out.”

He led Dream a different way out of the park, down an alley between houses and out onto a dirt path that seemed to lead into the fields outside of town. Possibly following someone he still barely knew out into the wilderness was a bad idea, but Dream had already decided that he trusted Hob, or at least that he did not care if Hob decided to murder him.

So he followed.

-

As it turned out, it was just a walking path through the fields, past occasional small copses of trees, not secretly a road into Faerie or whatever Dream’s paranoid and fantastical mind might have conjured.

It wasn’t even completely wilderness—they passed farms and houses, sheep and horses in paddocks, wandered alongside trimmed hedgerows and through well-oiled gates. But it was strange to be out in the fields, especially at night. The moon shone high above through the clouds, casting an eerie silver light over the grasses and trees. In the middle distance Dream could see the lights of nearby houses, but beyond that was darkness.

It was strange, but also freeing. Nobody was out here, not at this hour. Just him and Hob and the night insects, the livestock grazing in their pastures, and the wild nocturnal animals that presumably prowled in the nearby forest, foxes and the like. Dream almost hoped to see one.

“I like how quiet it is out here at night,” Hob said, walking slowly with his hands in his pockets.

“Me, too,” said Dream, though it was a new love for him, just kindled in this darkness. Hob cast him a smile.

They passed another field of grazing horses, the farmhouse visible on the far side of the fencing. The horses looked up as they passed, eyes glowing silver in the moonlight. One that was near the fence stretched its head over to them, huffing. Dream knew horses, had taken riding lessons once upon a time—one of the few activities pushed by his parents that he had actually enjoyed—and stroked his palm down the horse’s long nose as they passed. It lipped at him, looking for treats.

“Do you like horses?” Hob asked, stopping beside him.

“Yes,” said Dream. There were few animals he would say he didn’t like, though he had little opportunity to interact with most. And he did like horses, their silly antics, their quiet pride.

“Me too,” said Hob.

The horse turned to look at him, ears pricked at attention. It didn’t poke out its nose at him, but it stayed focused on him, blowing out a hard breath. Hob gave it a little wave, and then gestured Dream on.

“Do you spend a lot of time wandering out here?” Dream asked as they walked. He was getting especially cold now, with the sun properly set, but he didn’t want to turn around. He just tucked his hands deeper in his trouser pockets. The sharp legs of the spider Hob had made him poked at his fingers.

“Oh, yeah,” said Hob, and led him down a narrow, winding side trail through some trees. Dream picked his way carefully over exposed roots and stones, brushing branches out of his way. Here between the trees it smelled of wet leaves and soil, so different from the sharp floral scent of his mother’s garden. Wilder. Running water burbled somewhere in the trees. “I don’t really like to be inside. It’s way more interesting out here. Watch your step, it gets steep.”

He jumped down off a small ledge, landing beside a narrow stream, now visible through the widening tree cover. He held out a hand to Dream, and Dream took it, clambering down much less elegantly beside him. Hob’s hand was warm in his own, and he was reluctant to let go.

“Are you cold?” Hob asked as he sat on a wide, flat rock beside the stream. Reluctantly, Dream nodded, hoping Hob wouldn’t press for them to head back, but Hob merely shrugged out of his jacket and draped it around Dream’s shoulders, popping the collar so it covered his neck. The interior was fleece-lined, and warmed by Hob’s body, and Dream pulled it tighter around himself with hesitant fingers. Hob was only in a t-shirt now, but didn’t seem bothered by the cold.

“Why are you so kind to me?” Dream asked quietly, barely audible even to himself over the running water. He watched the way the stream parted over rocks and fallen logs instead of looking at Hob, took in the clean water scent, and the squish of the mud under his shoes.

“Why not?” said Hob.

Dream shrugged. In his experience, people weren’t just kind because they felt like it.

“Besides, I like you,” said Hob. “Even if it seems like you haven’t left the house in your entire life.”

Dream’s lips tipped up in a half-smile. Hob was hardly wrong.

“I like you as well,” he said. “Though I think you are strange.”

Hob laughed. “Not wrong. But only if you admit that you’re strange, too.”

Dream knew this well already.

“Why haven’t you left the house?” Hob asked, turning to him, elbows on his knees. “Just don’t want to?”

Dream suspected that Hob meant this in a somewhat metaphorical sense. A question as to why Dream hadn’t really experienced life, as opposed to why he hadn’t physically left his home, which he obviously did.

“My parents are particular,” Dream said. That was one word for it. “Mother, especially, does not trust us to conduct ourselves appropriately without her supervision. She is… very concerned with reputation.”

“No kidding,” said Hob, frowning. “Well, good for you to get out, then.”

Dream was uncertain of this. He had managed thus far because he knew how to operate within the boundaries of rules. Even so, he often hit unexpected walls. Suddenly blasting through these locked doors… it could not possibly end well for him.

“It is peaceful out here,” he said. No yelling or sharp voices. No doors slamming. Only leaves rustling in the wind, the burble of the stream. Somewhere deep in the woods, an owl hooted, calling the night.

“Yeah,” said Hob, leaning back on his hands. “I like this spot. Been coming out to these woods since I was a kid.” The chill wind ruffled his hair. He closed his eyes, tipping his head back. Moonlight fell through the leaves in a dappled pattern over his face. This space seemed so natural to him, while Dream still felt out of place, no matter that he was enjoying being here, and especially being with Hob. He could not help but feel that this tiny taste of freedom was only temporary, and soon it would all be stripped from him again.

They sat in silence for several long minutes. Dream tried not to think about having to return. He did not want to go back to his house, he wanted to stay here, by the river with Hob. He tried to put it out of his mind. But he was not so good at putting worries out of his mind.

“Dream,” whispered Hob, just as Dream had closed his eyes, resolving to let the night sink into him as best he could. He tapped Dream’s arm. “Look. But shhh.”

Dream opened his eyes and looked where Hob was pointing.

On the opposite riverbank, right by the tree line, a fox was prowling. It was so careful and quiet in the dark that Dream might not ever have spotted it if Hob hadn’t pointed it out. Its red coat faded into the dark underbrush, its trotting footsteps silent in the fallen leaves, bushy tail bouncing with the movement.

Dream watched, fascinated. It was beautiful. Sleek and clever, assured in its prowling. The fox trotted far enough along the riverbank that it was directly across from them, and then stopped. Turned to look. Its eye caught the moonlight. Dream didn’t breathe at all as it watched them.

The fox fixed its gaze on them for several long seconds, absolutely still. Then it bounded away into the underbrush.

Dream pressed his hands to his mouth, holding back a smile. When he finally tore his eyes away from the darkness the fox had vanished into, he found Hob looking at him, a smile tugging at his lips.

“What?” Dream asked.

“You’re smiling,” said Hob. So Dream hadn’t been so successful at hiding it. But perhaps he did not have to, when it was only Hob here. “It’s cute.”

Cute. Dream’s mouth popped open, and then shut again. “It is—” he started indignantly, on instinct, and then stopped. Because the quick flush that had come to him at Hob’s words wasn’t the flash of hurt and indignation he was used to from criticism or backhanded compliments. The feeling was sweeter. Foreign. He was blushing, he could feel the heat at the tips of his ears. “…not,” he finished lamely, ducking his head.

“Is so,” Hob said. He chucked Dream on the cheek, and Dream stilled, staring at him, breath caught. Hob’s touch was brief, but fond, and Dream touched his own cheek in its absence.

Finally he looked away, back at the water. Feeling jittery and nervous but also good. He felt… wanted. Hob had only known him for such a short time, and yet Dream felt like his company was wanted here. And that was so rarely the case.

“When were you sad and alone?” he asked, and Hob laughed, startled. “You said,” Dream explained hastily, “when we met.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Hob said. He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Oof. Who says I’m not still? At least a little bit.”

“But—” Dream bit his lip, stymied. “But you are…” Outgoing. Likable. Easy.

“Sometimes you’re just a bit alone,” Hob said, scuffing the heel of his shoe against the rock they were sitting on, “for reasons outside your control. Isn’t that the way?”

“…In my experience,” Dream agreed, deflating. He had hoped— he did not know what he’d hoped. That Hob had some secret? He had already determined that even under different circumstances, he would not have been like Hob. Not even his surface-level gregariousness and apparent ease of being. He did not know what he had possibly been hoping for.

“It’s okay, though,” Hob said. “Means I get more time out here by myself. Or—” he nudged Dream’s arm “—with new company.”

Dream gave him a small, strained smile. “I suppose.”

He was used to being alone. It was both comforting and disturbing that Hob might feel the same. Perhaps there was no true way out of it, other than to try to seize these small friendships when they miraculously arose. Like this one, this strange connection with Hob.

He did not know much about Hob, he realized. But when he sat beside him, he did feel less alone.

“I have enjoyed your company,” he admitted, and, tentatively, took Hob’s hand.

Hob’s smile was bright as the sunrise. He squeezed Dream’s hand. The warmth of his strong grip grounded Dream as much as drawing did. He hadn’t ever thought he would find something else like that. The cool night air, and the weight of Hob’s jacket on his shoulders, the bubbling stream, and Hob’s hand in his—what he felt… was peace. Such a rare, fleeting feeling.

When they finally made their way back to the trail towards home, Hob let go of his hand. Dream wished he wouldn’t, but to ask for more felt like stealing. Still, it was calming to walk side-by-side through the trees, across the fields, past the paddocks with the horses and the underbrush holding all manner of creatures. He was sad to reach town, sadder to know it meant an imminent return to his family’s estate, with its perfect edges and manicured gardens. The twisted branches of the forest felt like a much safer place.

When they reached their meeting place in the park, Dream took off Hob’s jacket, immediately starting to shiver, and offered it to him.

“You can keep it,” Hob said, then gave Dream a cheeky grin. “Give it back to me next time.”

“I had better not,” Dream said, with chagrin. There would be questions. And he did not want to talk about Hob with his family. They would only ruin things. Or force him to stop leaving his house entirely.

“Alright.” Hob took his jacket back and put it back on. He studied Dream for a second, brow pinched, as if considering something. And Dream really did not want to go home, he wanted to stay here with Hob, even if that meant just being here in the middle of the street, and—

Hob hugged him.

Dream went still on reflex, like a prey animal in the gaze of a wolf. Then melted into him. Wrapped his arms around Hob’s back, let himself lean into him. It was so easy to want to be around Hob. Too easy. He shouldn’t let himself lean on something that could be ruined. That he could ruin.

But. He wanted it. And there were so few things that he wanted nowadays, especially ones that felt even tangentially within reach.

“Take care of yourself, Dream,” Hob said, as he pulled away and released him.

Dream studied his face, memorizing this moment. “You, too.” He savored the taste of Hob’s name. “Hob.”

-

Returning home, this time, was worse. Dream had tasted peace, had tasted freedom, and burgeoning friendship, and stepping back onto his family’s estate felt like willingly returning himself to prison.

He had never thought of it quite like that before. Home had been… normal to him. Its rules, its frictions, they restrained him but they had become familiar walls. Now... he had tasted the night air in the forest, and Hob’s conversation, and the stern stone walls of the house felt so much taller and sturdier than before.

He slunk inside, rubbing his arms from the cold, wishing he still had Hob’s jacket.

He didn’t make it past the kitchen. It was later than he’d realized, almost ten p.m. — he’d spent much longer with Hob than he’d thought, though the time had passed quickly — and his mother was waiting for him, face set in a furious scowl.

“Are you trying to humiliate me?” she demanded.

Suddenly, Dream was so tired. It was strange to feel that, instead of fear, when faced with his mother’s anger. “What?”

“I will not tolerate lying, Dream,” she said, voice harsh. “Pretending to be at society events and then not showing up? What could you have possibly been doing instead?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dream muttered with a petulance he usually didn’t show to her. He had tasted the freedom of being with Hob, and being pulled back from it was now more frustrating than depressing. Even if it was expected.

“Don’t talk back,” she snapped, and Dream flinched. Mother sighed as if truly wounded by him. “You’ve always caused so much trouble for me. Don’t you know how much stress you cause? Can’t you just do what you’re meant to?”

Dream did not generally cause trouble, he preferred to keep to himself and not draw attention. He suspected she meant the fact that he was not naturally good at the things that she wanted him to be good at. Things like socializing at events, and making friends—the right kind of friends, anyway, the right kind of friendships—and making their family look good. Dream was too awkward, too bad at connecting with most people, to manage any of that. Even his attempts at friendships at school were not with good enough people, and usually ended up being dashed as a result. It was for the better, his almost-friends did not need to be subjected to his family anyway.

Dream just wanted to be left alone to do his art and spend time with the vanishingly few people he was capable of befriending, but this was not good enough.

“Apparently not,” he said, and turned to leave. “I have school assignments, Mother. I am going upstairs.”

She grabbed his arm and yanked him back. “Don’t walk away from me, Dream.” Dream didn’t bother pulling away, though he winced from the pressure, and eventually she released his arm. “I don’t know what has possibly gotten into you lately.”

I do not know either, thought Dream. It only hurt more, to feel this way. To feel nothing but resignation was surely better, better than having a sliver of hope cutting his palms.

“You’ve become such a disappointment,” she said. This, at least, did not hurt. Dream knew it already. “Sneaking out. Impulsive behavior. Don’t make me ground you.”

For the amount that Dream left the house as it was, being grounded would make little difference at all. Except that it would make it even harder to go meet Hob.

“Nothing to say for yourself?” she demanded.

Dream gritted his teeth. “I am sorry, Mother,” he said, flatly.

“You certainly will be if your father finds out,” she warned, then turned back to her work, finally dismissing him.

Dream shuddered. A worse threat than grounding, that.

His hint of a good mood successfully dashed, he finally crept away to his room. Didn’t bother to change before crawling under the covers of his bed, cloaked in blankets and darkness, his favorite way to be. He could still smell the woods on his jumper.

He unlocked his phone, and scrolled through his text thread with Hob. He didn’t text again, he would become such a bother if he kept it up too often. But rereading the texts made him smile.

And eventually, he fell asleep like that, still with his head under the covers.

[chericherilvr]

I'm supposed to be sleeping right now, but I can't stop thinking about jungsu😞

he's just so cute and I wanna cuddle him so bad. I also keep thinking about when he said that he cannot sleep without hugging something (which I can very much relate to)

i wanted to ask if you could maybe write something fluffy about cuddling him or falling asleep with him? 🫶

Lucky to be loved - Jungsu x reader

summary: Jungsu can't sleep without hugging something—or that one time he found someone to sleep with. w/c: 626 warnings: fluffy, I go on my existential cute rants, reader likes to think (used I and you pronouns for that part to symbolize you and Jungsu, but overall it's in second POV) I don't think I cursed… but there's the usage of death as a metaphor of the love experience (it's cute I promise) overall FLUFF a/n: took me a while to be able to write but hope you enjoy it!!

The night shall come once the sun is down. It's the only way we even have the concept of time. The pattern realisation that, things change, the sky doesn't stay the same way. I wonder who first looked at the sky and saw the sun fade away. I wonder if the first time, the moon was full—or if the emptiness of it left them surrounded by darkness, scared of it. Who first realised that it happened each day? Who choose the word to talk about it with their peers? Who was the first person to have a night routine and, how did it look?

I sometimes get scared of the concept of day and night. Now that I talk with people around the world, it amazes me how they can still see the sun—while the moon looks scared to be seen in my sky.

All the stars that we see are dead. Did you know that? The light reflecting from the beautiful masses of light can be so far away that, by the time we get to see them, they don't exist any more. Time in the universe works so funnily; if seen from far enough, you could still see dinosaurs walking on earth.

So when I stare up at the sky, in search of connection, hoping someone is looking back at it—day or night—wishing for the same: I stare at all the dead stars and bask in their corpse; I bask in their light. I've never felt as comforted by something like by the stars. They still shine even when they are gone. They are still present even though far. Like a good memory from long ago—it might not exist any more, but it still lingers and warps its arms around me.

In all honesty, the comfort the universe gives me could never be matched. We're truly just in a floating dead rock following mass, that is following mass, that is following mass. It's so dead it's alive. It's so meaningless, all of it, that moments like this gain meaning. Without you, there's still life. But I am so lucky to be loved by you, I am so lucky we decided to give meaning to each other.

"You're being all philosophical again," Jungsu groans rolling in your arms to face you.

"How did you even know? I thought you were asleep by now."

He keeps quiet closing his eyes and stretching his arms out behind you with a sigh.

"Never let me be small spoon again," he says shaking his head.

Jungsu's arms fold carefully around your body, tension melting away. His lips curl into a smile—the kind you can't force yourself to do. He rubs your back for a while and, when he is satisfied, he straddles his leg over your waist and hugs you closer.

"So no to small spoon, but yes to choking me to death?" Your voice gets lost in between Jungsu's hair, who moved his face to be buried on your neck.

"You love it," he kisses your skin softly.

"You know, the first time you asked me to sleep with you, I thought you meant something completely different…"

Jungsu let's out some incoherent complaints. And by the time you try to ask him what he said, he was already out.

The day shall come once the moon is down. But lord was it the worst time of the day. Morning meant movement, and the only movement I want is to be here. Oh, to be drowned by your touch, by your comfort. I sometimes wish for death; to lay in your arms forever, like this, may we be so close we melt into one being. Thus, this world might hold no meaning, but here, I am a worthy being.