#His reflection is different from the one he used to see in the mirror

[veilishvixen]

“Solas always thought Mythal would join us eventually, that she was better than the rest of the Evanuris. He made this place so she would be comfortable once she joined the rebellion. Now it’s too late.” -Felessan, a refuge for Mythal

“For whatever it’s worth, thanks for the castle.” - Inquisitor, Tresspasser

“For whatever it’s worth, you used it well.” - Solas (high approval/romance), Tresspasser

*screams from a tortured solavellan in the distance*

Also, can we please talk about the difference between his “Inquisitor!” vs “Mythal…” when they both show up at the end of veilguard? He addresses high approval inky with surprise and respect, turns his head away so they can’t see his bloody and blackened face. But it’s just the WAY he says their title, like he’s disappointed the only person in the world he might still look up to.

But his “Mythal…” sounds dreadful, almost like he’s going to be sick. He curls in on himself, eyes lowered, dagger raised for her to take like a beaten dog. It was devastating to watch someone we’ve always seen carry themselves so high be brought so low. But suddenly…it made sense as to why he never seemed to relax in inquisition, why his shoulders were always pinned back and his chin held high. It was humility that came first, then pride.

The humiliation of reducing his spiritual nature to a physical form, the humiliation of finding all his long sought wisdom being ignored, of a pure intent being corrupted, of all his painstaking effort being for naught….the humility of knowing he was once foolish and soft enough to let himself be used for an agenda that was not his own. To know that you once loved someone more than they loved you…and that when you gave them all, they gave you nothing.

“Or maybe…I’m the prideful one; imagining his broken heart so I never have to face my folly.” -romanced Lavellan.

Here we have Lav seeing right through Solas without even trying to because they are one of the same reflection. But there are two key differences that stand out to me, the first being that Lav is willing to table her pride to face this pitiful truth about herself head on…while Solas is still too ashamed to, even after all his long centuries.

The second is Lavellan is wrong; she was not imagining Solas’ broken heart over what he did to her, while Solas was imagining Mythal’s (or at least inflating it beyond truth) not only over how she treated him, but the rest of her people. “You saw the understanding Solas cultivated like a tree twisting to reach the sun.” Mythal always knew he did not see her for what she truly was. He never would have joined her if he had. Because both Lav and Solas know what it is to stare at themselves in the mirror and doubt, while Mythal and all the rest of the Evanuris did not.

“Their arrogance is half their binding,” Solas will write about the Evanuris in regard to the prison. “She was the best of them,” and yet, “They were arrogant and fickle.” She never stopped being one of them. She never wanted to. They turned on her…not the other way around, as it should have been.

“Solas always believed Mythal would join us eventually, that she was better than the rest of the Evanuris” - Felessan (a still doubtful former slave/supplicant of Mythal, and rightfully so as she NEVER joined…not even in veilguard, never wholeheartedly.)

I don’t really have any point to make here with this, just musing at the contrast between Solas’ leader/advisor dynamic with the Inquisitor vs Mythal…and how much better one was to him than the other despite not having lifetimes of history together.

A blazing light was brought to that refuge’s beacon eventually…just not from the source he’d been expecting.

[jburrgf]

summer forever, cooper flagg.

pairing: !nba draft¡cooper flagg x !girlfriend¡ reader

summary: first love, fame vs. intimacy, chosen before the spotlight.

description: on the night Cooper is drafted #1 overall to the NBA, the world sees a rising star, but behind the cameras, it’s just him and you, wrapped in the kind of love that feels like summer: golden, fleeting, unforgettable.

He was pacing again.

From the mirror to the window. From the window to the closet. Back to the mirror. And I’d swear he muttered something about sweating through his undershirt at least three different times.

I sat on the edge of the hotel bed in a silky robe, curling the last strand of hair around my finger. Watching him.

He looked like a dream.

Sharp suit. Fresh haircut. That slow-burn energy radiating off him like the second before a summer storm.

“You’re gonna wear a hole in the carpet,” I teased, setting the curler down.

He turned. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“The draft?”

“Everything. What if I trip? What if I forget how to talk? What if they call the wrong name?”

I stood up and crossed the room toward him, bare feet on the plush carpet, the hem of my robe brushing against my legs. I wrapped my arms around his waist from behind and rested my cheek against his back. He felt his heart going off like a drum.

“Cooper,” I whispered, “they’re not calling the wrong name. You know that.”

He didn’t answer right away.

I turned him toward me gently and tilted my head back to look up at him.

He looked beautiful. Nervous. A little flushed. The most human version of the boy I’d fallen for.

“Do you know what I see?” I asked him.

“What?”

I traced the lapel of his jacket, fingers gliding over the stitching.

“I see the kid who used to shoot hoops at midnight until his hands were raw. I see the boy who learned how to fold my laundry better than me. I see the man who knows how to hold me like he means it.”

He swallowed.

“I see someone who already made it,” I said. “The cameras, the lights, the stage? That’s just the world catching up.”

He looked at me like I’d just handed him oxygen.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered.

“You keep saying that like it’s not my line.”

He smiled — the real one, not the press-ready one. The one that only came out when it was just the two of us.

Then he stepped back to look at me. Really, look at me.

“You’re not even dressed yet,” he said.

I smirked. “Waiting on my glam team, duh.”

His hands found my waist. “Can I be your glam team?”

“Depends. Do you know how to zip a gown?”

He leaned down and kissed the corner of my mouth. “I know how to unzip one.”

“Okay, relax, Mr. First Pick.”

He laughed, and the sound warmed the whole room.

[…]

We'd music playing softly from my phone — a playlist I’d made for fun one night, labeled 'vibey but hot' — and the light outside was gold, bleeding slowly into the skyline. It felt like the universe was holding its breath with us.

I slipped into the bathroom to put on my dress, and for a few minutes, the room was silent—just me, the mirror, and a thousand thoughts swirling in my chest.

Not just about him. About us.

Because when someone’s whole life is about to change, you start to wonder if yours will, too. If there’s room for the girl he held through finals and flu seasons. If he’ll still kiss me the same when he’s on the cover of magazines.

I stared at my reflection, suddenly feeling the weight of it all.

But then I heard his voice through the door.

“Can I come in?”

“Yeah.”

I turned as he stepped inside.

His eyes went wide. He didn’t speak. The silence stretched for a heartbeat, then two.

“You look like something I’d only see in a dream,” he finally said.

“Are you nervous?” I asked.

He stepped closer, taking my hand in his.

“I was,” he said. “But then you walked out, and now all I feel is ready.”

And just like that, I knew: He wasn’t going to forget this night. Not because of the cameras. Not even because of the draft.

But because of this moment right here — just us, standing in a quiet room, hearts in our throats, holding hands before he took his first step into forever.

When we got there, I remember thinking I don’t think I’ve ever seen that many cameras go off at once.

The second they called his name — Cooper’s name — everything blurred. Like when fireworks explode too close to your face, and all you can do is blink against the light, try to remember what your heart sounded like before it started pounding so hard.

Cooper Flagg. First overall pick.

His name echoed across the Barclays Center like thunder, and my chest went warm. My boyfriend, Cooper Flagg, just got drafted first in the NBA. But that wasn’t what hit me first. It was the look on his face.

He turned to me before he even hugged his mom.

Like instinct.

His eyes found mine as if saying we did it without needing to open his mouth. And even though the noise, the lights, the agents, executives, and family members were crowding him, I swore it felt like we were alone for a second. Like it was just us, barefoot on some street somewhere in the middle of July. Like every fear I’d ever had just slipped out the window.

I clapped until my hands stung. I don’t even remember standing up, but I was. I was crying a little, I think. Laughing too. He looked at me with that same sleepy grin he always gives me when I say something dumb, like Do you think they have iced matcha in space?

And then he was gone, pulled into the tide of cameras and suits and reporters.

The boy I fell in love with was now the man the world wanted to know.

[...]

The gala was a blur. Velvet chairs. Crystal glasses. Too many forks. It didn’t matter.

I wore a soft blue gown that dipped in the back — he’d picked it out weeks ago, pointing at the screen and mumbling something like, “That one’s unfair. I’d be staring at you all night.”

He hadn’t lied.

Even across the room, talking to ESPN execs or shaking hands with the commissioner, he kept glancing over at me. I swear he mouthed you’re unreal at least twice.

And when he finally broke away—when he finally made it back to me—he didn’t even say hi.

He just wrapped his arms around me and pulled me in so tight I thought my spine would melt.

His whisper was hot in my ear. “You’re still the only thing that makes sense tonight.”

We stayed like that for a long time, just swaying a little. His chin on my shoulder, my hand pressed against the expensive fabric of his suit jacket, tracing the embroidered initials he never told anyone were mine.

“I can’t breathe in this dress,” I told him once we snuck outside.

“You look like a fever dream,” he replied.

We were standing under a private archway behind the hotel, just past the gala lights. You could still hear the music, but it was muffled by the ivy-covered walls. It smelled like summer — concrete still warm from the sun, perfume, something citrusy in the air. I slipped off my heels and stood barefoot in the grass.

“You gonna take your shoes off too?” I asked.

He shrugged off his jacket instead, loosened his tie. “Baby, I just got drafted. I can do whatever I want.”

I laughed, throwing my head back. “Cocky much?”

“Absolutely.”

He stepped closer, and I could see it in his eyes again — that fire that lit him up whenever he looked at me. That quiet disbelief, like how did I end up with her?

The truth was, I felt the same way.

“I can’t believe it’s real,” I whispered.

“What?” His hand brushed mine.

“You. This. All of it.” I looked up. “It feels like summer forever.”

He didn’t say anything at first. It just pulled me in again, slower this time. Like he didn’t want to wake up either.

His mouth found mine.

And that kiss — God, that kiss — it tasted like every promise we never made out loud.

[...]

Cooper’s hotel suite was bigger than my first apartment. Marble floors. A view of the skyline so sharp it looked fake. Champagne is already chilling in a silver bucket. A team of congratulatory gifts lined up along the table—designer sneakers, watches, gear from his new team, a note from LeBron that I swear made his hands shake for half a second.

But it was quiet. Just us.

And when the door clicked shut behind us, the noise of the night stayed outside.

I stepped out of my heels again — my feet had had enough — and walked straight to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city looked like it was holding its breath, lights flickering like camera flashes, like they were still watching us from down there. But up here, it felt like the world had finally gone still.

Cooper came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist, pressing his mouth to the side of my neck.

“I’ve been dreaming about this night since I was ten,” he murmured. “But it didn’t feel real until you looked at me like that.”

“Like what?” I asked, already melting into him.

“Like you were proud. Like I was already enough.”

My chest ached in the best way.

“I am proud,” I whispered. “And you’ve always been enough.”

He turned me around slowly, still holding me like he was afraid I might vanish if he let go. His eyes had that soft, glassy look — like they weren’t done being overwhelmed yet.

“You looked like magic out there,” I told him, brushing a hand through the nape of his neck, feeling the fresh cut on the tip of my fingers. “Like a star pretending to be human.”

He smiled. “You make it sound like I’m not.”

“Maybe you’re not.”

“Then what does that make you?”

“The idiot who fell for you.”

He kissed me before I could finish laughing.

It was slower this time. The kind of kiss you hold onto for the rest of your life. Not rushed. Not hungry. Just… true. I felt his hand slide down my back, tracing the curve of my dress, then flattening over my spine, pulling me in until I could feel his heartbeat.

“I love you so bad,” he whispered against my lips.

My breath caught.

He pulled back just enough to look me in the eyes. “I didn’t want to say it before the draft. I didn't want it to be part of the moment. I needed it to be just between us.”

I blinked.

“I love you so bad,” he repeated, slower this time, like a vow. “I don’t care that we are too young, I don't care if it’s crazy fast. I know what I feel.”

Everything inside me flipped.

All the fears I hadn’t admitted out loud — the ones about what would happen now, about the spotlight, the distance, the headlines, the girls, the schedules — they fell right out the window.

Because at that moment, it didn’t feel scary anymore.

It felt like summer forever.

“I love you too,” I whispered. “So bad.”

He grinned like he’d just won something bigger than the draft.

Then, like he couldn’t help himself, he kissed me again. And again. And again. His hands warm on my skin, his body grounding me, every kiss tasting like champagne and disbelief and something deeper than both.

We didn’t rush anything. We just laid there, side by side, fingers tracing invisible lines across bare arms, eyes locked like we were trying to memorize each other all over again.

“Do you think it’ll change?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“What?”

“This. Us. When the season starts. When everything gets crazy.”

Cooper looked up at the ceiling for a second, then back at me. “Maybe. But not the way you’re afraid of.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” he said, reaching for my hand. “But I know you. And I know me. And I know that tonight, I’m holding the one thing that matters more than a jersey, or a paycheck, or any camera flash.”

I swallowed.

“I don’t need a forever promise,” I told him. “I just need tonight to be real.”

“It’s real,” he said. “It’s so real I don’t know how to breathe without you.”

I closed my eyes and leaned in until our foreheads touched. The world kept spinning, but it didn’t matter. All I could feel was the rhythm of his breathing and the way his thumb stroked the inside of my wrist like it was a song only he knew.

My 11:11. That’s what he’d become.

And tonight, I got to keep him a little longer.

Even if the morning meant letting go.

[...]

The first thing I felt when I woke up was warmth.

Not sunlight — that came second, streaming through the hotel windows in soft, gold streaks. But him.

Cooper.

His arm draped heavy around my waist, face buried in the crook of my neck, curls messily crushed into the pillow. His breath was steady, and when I shifted just slightly, he stirred — murmuring something incoherent and pulling me closer like muscle memory.

“Mm. Morning,” he mumbled, voice thick and lazy.

I turned in his arms. “You drooled on my collarbone.”

He cracked an eye open, smirking. “Lucky collarbone.”

I rolled my eyes and kissed the top of his head. “We should get up.”

“Or we could never get up. Live in this bed forever. Let the league come find me.”

“Yeah,” I said, smiling. “Real strong rookie move. First pick refuses to leave bed because girlfriend’s skin is ‘too soft.’”

He didn’t even deny it. Just let out a groggy sigh and nuzzled into me again. “You’re the softest damn person I’ve ever met. Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually. It's dangerous.”

“Are you trying to get me to cry before breakfast?”

“If you do, I’ll wipe your tears with the corner of my draft suit.”

I laughed. “You’re so stupid.”

He looked up then — eyes bright and boyish. “Wanna get out of here?”

My brows lifted. “Like... breakfast?”

“Yeah. Like, a real one. Just you and me. Somewhere with too much butter and terrible coffee.”

I paused. “You’re aware you’re not invisible anymore, right? You can’t just walk around New York like you didn’t go #1 overall twelve hours ago.”

“I’m still me,” he said, sliding out of bed and stretching. “And this morning, ‘me’ wants pancakes.”

We ended up at a café in the West Village. One of those places with chalkboard menus, loud jazz playing from a vintage speaker, and two elderly women debating the ending of The Sopranos at the next table.

It was perfect.

Except for the part where, halfway through his second plate of banana pancakes, a teenage boy in a Knicks jersey stopped mid-step on the sidewalk, jaw fully unhinged.

“Yo—yo, is that Cooper Flagg?”

I saw Cooper freeze for a microsecond. Like it still didn’t register. Like he wasn’t used to being that guy yet.

The kid pressed his face to the glass, whispering urgently to someone on his phone. Thirty seconds later, two more showed up. Then five.

Cooper looked at me.

I gave him a soft nod. “Go. It’s okay.”

He kissed my cheek and stood.

I watched from the window as he stepped outside and the small crowd swelled. They weren’t loud or pushy. Just in awe. Like they couldn’t believe he was really there — hoodie half up, laughing as he signed sneakers, hats, even a dollar bill.

The way he smiled at them… God, it made my chest ache. He was built for this. Not just the game. The being seen. The way people looked at him like he was something electric.

And yet, every few minutes, his eyes would drift back through the window. Back to me.

Like I was his anchor.

When he came back in, cheeks flushed from the chill, I handed him his now-cold pancakes.

“Are they still watching?”

I glanced over his shoulder. “No. They’re posting it to TikTok now.”

He groaned. “I looked like a walking hangover.”

“You looked like someone people believe in.”

He sat back down, reaching for my hand. “You didn’t sign up for this.”

“I didn’t sign up for banana pancakes either but here we are.”

He smiled.

“Coop,” I said gently, “this is your life now.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just squeezed my fingers in his.

“I just don’t want to lose this in the process,” he admitted. “You. Mornings like this. The parts where I still feel human.”

I leaned forward, brushing my thumb against his knuckles. “Then don’t let go.”

He looked at me for a long time. The world outside moved, blurred, shifted.

But he didn’t blink.

“I won’t,” he said. “Not even if they give me the world.”

[kissingraine]

sum Blackarachnia lovee<3 eventual poly with Optimus(?) 18+

I Know The End — TFA Blackarachnia x f!Reader

This wasn't her, but it was the only version of her she still knew. Every day, she looked into the mirror and Blackarachnia was reminded of the things that haunted her. Relentless and tenacious like the silk that spilled through the unfamiliar ports on her body. Once covered in chrome and gold, now a horrific amalgamation of metal and faux organic. Each day it played out a little differently in her head: maybe she could have gotten out of there quicker, maybe she never used her abilities, maybe help had come sooner and the associates she trusted never gave up on her like she was something dispensable. There was pressure behind her multi-lens optics in a way she wasn't able to describe before. She still hadn't found a name to call it. How many cycles had passed since she tried curing herself of this disease? Of trying to separate without making it feel like she was being torn in two? Like cutting out a part of her?

It was a buzzing Blackarachnia couldn't ever get rid of. Thin strings of unfamiliar organic material clawed through pathways that once served as her energon lines. Every pulse of her spinnerets felt like treachery once—now she was numb to them. Used to, she supposed. It was a traitorous reminder that she would no longer be known as the spirited Autobot she once was. She had cast her old name into the Pit once she molted into a cruel imitation, a pseudo-spider. Not quite metal, not quite organic either. She belonged nowhere, not even to herself. And when she came online to spot her reflection, she was still surprised to see that the monster staring back at her... was still irrevocably her. But it wasn't. Because she wasn't supposed to look like that.

• Sirens still blared in the darkness when you slept, behind closed eyelids that flashed with blue and red. All you could taste on your tongue now was asphalt, coarse as it scraped your taste buds raw. Gasoline-scented smoke that only got stronger with each breath you took. Nothing helped wash it off. Not toothpaste, mouthwash, or alcohol. You considered bleach once. But the self-destruction wasn't worth it. Or so you thought when you went out one night to drown in liquid amber. You had kept yourself so well. So well up until the one-year anniversary, and when you saw that steel pole in the middle of nowhere—everything just went to shit.

• You think, sometimes, you deserve it. Detroit had nothing left for you anymore. So even if it meant losing sight, it was still yours to keep. A lasting impression. A farewell gift. Because if you couldn't keep an eye on your brother, you didn't deserve to see at all. Technically, you're their problem now. Because your new alien friends mentioned that energon wasn't volatile unless tampered with. You honestly thought it was just a flash bang that went off. So now you're getting weekly check-ins from this guy named Optimus. And his pit crew. Well, he isn't a guy and they aren't just his dysfunctional friend group. They're robots from outer space. You've always been the type to go ‘seeing is believing,’ but unfortunately, the quota changed the moment their food made you go blind.

She knows she shouldn't be watching you, especially this up close. You never notice her. Can't even see her, but she sees you. From the high beams of a hollow building, construction stopped a long time ago and left to rot, Blackarachnia crouched in the quiet stillness. A predator waiting for prey to gently brisk by her webs. Her multi-lensed sight followed your shape like a phantom as you haunted the hallways of your tiny living space. No Autobot escort or pit crew in sight. Just you, arms outstretched, as you attempted to feel out your home for the nth time this month. Pain had a scent and, like a shark scenting blood through water, it called to her own while you left it to bleed across the concrete and into it. She hated the way it called to her. Hated that it felt familiar.

The bots treat you like charity. A liability, in a way, you are—but not because it's deliberate. Your weakness was designed by nature, something inherent that described your species as a whole. She knew what they saw you as even if no one said it out loud: a human footnote scorched by energon and buried in Prime's guilt. But that's not all you are. You? You're the kind to just keep going. Even as your circumstances evidently try to make your life miserable. And for reasons she doesn't want to dig up, Blackarachnia wants to watch. Curiosity, maybe. Or cruelty. The lines have blurred over the years she's spent on this rock trying to fix herself. Maybe she just wanted to know what made you so different — what made you survive the same hell that turned her into a monster.

She doesn't get the way it bothers her on some level when you fumble for the kitchen counter. Why the sound of your foot catching on a chair leg makes her flinch like it's happening to her. When you curse under your breath as you stub your toe and it echoes louder in her mind than anything Optimus ever said. Why does she care again? It's half because the Prime insists on looking over you, the other being just a passing wonder. Because you're human. Fragile. You shouldn't have made it this far, let alone gotten tangled into Autobot business. But you did.

And you're still here.

Still moving forward with a kind of stubbornness she thought only existed in machines built for war. And a part of her wants to test it. To push you and see if you're really that strong or if you'll break like everything else she's touched. But she doesn't move. Arachnia just stays in the shadows, pedipalp twitching and staring through broken glass at someone who doesn't even know they're being watched. Maybe it's recon, maybe it's spite.

Anything but hope—because for someone like her—a techno-organic beast, hope meant that someone would have arrived and no one on Cybertron gave up on her.

[steddie-island]

A cut above

Written for @corrodedcoffinfest day 6: The cutting edge Rating: G | WC: 642 | Tags: Post- Vecna, Eddie Munson lives ao3 | Divider credit

The dark eyes in the mirror were the same, but everything else in Eddie's reflection had changed. A deep red scar ran along one side of his face in a way that pulled his mouth a little tighter. The hollows of his eyes were more purple, deeper and darker than they'd ever been before. His cheekbones were more angular— he chalked that up to hospital food and anxiety eating away at his appetite.

Eddie lifted a hand to his hair, his fingers tracing over the curls. He prayed once more that he would see them bounce back to life. They stayed there, limp and lifeless, as lifeless as he'd been before Steve had pulled him up and out of the Upside Down. Only Steve couldn't save his hair. He'd tried, had spent hours with conditioner and a comb, trying to spin silk from straw. Unlike Eddie, his hair was too far gone to save.

"Are you sure?" Steve asked as he met Eddie's gaze in the mirror. "We can keep trying, take you to a salon or something…"

"I'm sure." Eddie held onto the towel around his shoulders with a white-knuckle grip. "It'll be easier this way. It's a fresh start, right?"

"Right." Steve squeezed Eddie's shoulder and picked up the scissors.

The bathroom was silent as the first cut was made, then the second. Strands of hair cascaded from Eddie's shoulders to pile up at their feet. There wasn't as much pain as he'd expected at the sight of his curls falling to their death. Instead he became fixated on the fingers lifting different sections of his hair carefully, making sure to cut everything just so, to not nick Eddie when he came closer to Eddie's ears, his forehead, to any part of him. Steve could have just piled all of Eddie's hair on the top of his head and cut it from there, but he wasm't doing that.

Each cut was made with so much care and deliberation. If it'd been up to Eddie he would've used Wayne's clippers, gotten rid of everything and called it a day. Steve, though, seemed to be sorting out the good (which there wasn't much of) and the bad (of which there was plenty).

"How's that?"

Eddie wasn't sure how long he sat there, how long Steve's hands worked him over. He'd sort of zoned out and was brought back by the softness of Steve's voice beside his ear.

Most of his hair was gone. There was nothing to pull over his face and hide behind anymore. What remained were little curls that were cropped close to his head. Everything looked neat and even and not dead.

Eddie reached up with one hand to pluck at the longest curls Steve had left in the front. "I think… it'll be an adjustment. " The curl sprang back into place and Eddie met Steve's gaze in the mirror again. "I miss my long hair." He shook the towel off over his shoulders, sending more hair raining down to the ground.

"I also think that you were right. I would've regretted it if I'd just… cut everything off again." Eddie turned to face Steve, his expression soft and warm. "Thank you, Stevie."

Steve reached up to brush the curls off of Eddie's forehead. "I think we've gotten pretty good at making adjustments by now." His hand lingered there against the scarred side of Eddie's face.

"Yeah. I guess we have." Eddie took Steve's other hand and brought it to his lips. "Do you still love me with short hair?"

"Hmm… I might have to think about that," Steve teased. He smiled and leaned in to catch Eddie's lips in a tender kiss.

Scars, a new government paid for house, short hair.

A boyfriend.

Maybe learning to make adjustments wasn't such a bad thing, with Steve by his side.

[thebettertraiaad]

Jinn!damian x human!reader blurbs melting my brain-

Not accurate so dont come for me! Bc I know only little about jinns but I do like exploring the concepts of it>⁠.⁠<

Warnings!; no smut, only weird reader, marriage, jinn!damian kinda sounds like a furry in my writing. Enjoy.

Jinn!damian being a rather adventurous and rebellious jin not staying in the post where his father told him to stay but instead wandered around the world, well feeling rather lonely he wanted a partner even as an antsy ageless being.

Jinn!damian finally having a human partner, a rather weird one as you didnt seem bothered at all by the aura around him. He does go along with anything you say or want to do since he (literally)has all the time in the world.

Jinn!damian being just as sassy and a bit playful whenever it only comes to human!reader since finally after millennia he has someone he isnt either cursing or tricking. He enjoys your naivety, since you dont seek eternal knowledge or power but only the future releases of your favorite manga/novel. Most people went insane after asking either of those things, but if your already insane thats okay too since its not to a point where its out of his own relm(which trust me he knows a lot of things, like how fungus/mushrooms is technically a man eating plant that just needs enough moisture and heat to create spores and how weirdly enough no serial killers use it or maybe its just too time consuming.)

Jinn!damian acts more of antsy teen than this all powerful being, but he isnt always like that. He's more tamed than you actually, but if it takes more time for you to reply on his text he is magically appearing in your bathroom mirror or just literally anything reflective that he can get out from.

Jinn!damians real form has him a hooked nose with more slanted almost cat like eyes but fur just visible(but rather faint) outline of his nose through his scalp where his hairs usually are. It reminds you of a porcupine because of his straight almost sharp looking hair, his robes and the golden ornaments practically wrapped around him jingle. If he hands you one of his rings or any jewelry its technically pre-wedding ring type, and how he also just really likes seeing you in jewels to be all dolled up for him.

Jinn!damian usually wears black and sage colored robes with a white under robe because it somewhat exposes him if he doesnt have an under robe, he is much taller in his actual form and Im talking BIG not just his height, his everything is(🤨) his hands are either claws like an animal or like a talons claw, but his feet are goat hooves and its fur and all in all color is black.

Jinn!damian enjoys drawing his other world that fascinated you, of course he doesnt include the horrible parts of it and only the land descriptions like the flowers being different or long term season that never rots. If you do ask for specific things he might say a few white lies so that you wouldnt be so threatened by him or treat him differently. I would like to thing he has spiral horns that are straight, kind of like going in the same direction as his hair. He sometimes would let you touch them if you were on his shoulders for some reason.

Jinn!damian being slightly curious of whatever it is you'd be thinking especially if its something he doesnt talk much to people, it could literally be the most randomist thing and it would go on and on to a point that you lost track of time. If time comes he will finally pop the question, or will just literally just marry you without you knowing since he is much doesnt want a rejection to be a thing.

Its literally like

Reader; *sigh* I wanna get married one day.

Jinn!damian; but were already married.

Reader;👁️👁️

Jinn!damian;

Reader;

Reader; since when??

Jinn!damian; since last year-

Reader; AND YOU DIDNT THINK TO TELL ME!??

Jinn!damian disgruntled agreeing to do an actual wedding, but he is fancy like that so he makes it lavish and how most of the things besides how the wedding would look was up to you. And its just pick and choose- but he made it rather private, since he still wants a small wedding no matter how big the venue is since he wants his attention to be only you. And it wont help if your whole attention is consumed by the wedding and all that.

[ricciardo133]

Austin 2017

maxiel (genderswap, magic, some oral, plus a little lactating and mentions of weight gain) written for the lovely anon who requested more of this niche au, thank you!!

Max squirms in the freshly purchased Daniel Ricciardo merch. He untucks and retucks the navy team kit into a short white tennis skirt that Daniel brought along for this ill-advised adventure that all seemed much funnier on the flight over to Austin. Max fidgets with the hem, flushing at how the material pulls tighter over much his heavier tits and wider hips. He stands at his driver's room mirror and stares at his magically, temporarily feminine reflection, jumping in shock at a sharp knock on the door.

"Maaaaax," Daniel calls in that higher pitch, beating staccato taps in a chipper pattern. "We've seen each other naked as girls before. No need to be shy."

"Just give me a second," Max calls back, pushing longer blonde hair off his shoulders. Flushed and sore from quali earlier in the day, he wonders if it's too late to back out. Still, he can't deny he is curious what the race track is like when no one can tell he's Max Verstappen. Plus, Daniel apparently is standing just outside wearing his own merch, too. Max almost feels more eager to see that than anything.

He unclasps his Tag Heuer to leave it behind. Something like this would be far too conspicuous for just a normal fan to have. He glances at the late evening time on the intricate watch face as he sets it down, closes his copy of the driver-issued and highly-secretive spell-book, and reminds himself that no one could possibly know it's really him. There are so few people who know magic is real; and, of those three dozen, only Daniel knows they're doing this. Just a few hours as girls until the spell wears off, just a few drinks with his coworker who he sometimes fucks but only when they're like this, only when Daniel's assures him it doesn't count.

"Okay, I'm coming," Max says, opening the door and feeling a light fist tap his nose.

"Oop, sorry Maxy," Daniel laughs. Max rubs his nose and feels his face heat up under his fingertips as he looks at his teammate.

Daniel's always gorgeous to Max, now just in that different light as a woman. Rivets of long, dark curls fall down past narrower shoulders and over heavy breasts with Max's number emblazoned across them. Daniel's taken a hair tie and scrunched the shirt into a crop-top, exposing his softer middle before frayed jorts, loose threads touch that quintessential tattoo over his round, smooth thigh. Max gazes down until seeing he's somehow conjured up a pair of pink cowboy boots.

"You look good," Max says blankly, gasping when he hears a door open and close down the hall. Daniel pats his shoulders.

"Relax. They think we're back at the hotel."

"Maybe this is not such a good idea. What if someone recognizes us?"

Daniel's gaze flits up and down with a perfectly incredulous look. Max loves seeing that wry grin, that suave confidence, no matter what gender Daniel happens to be at the moment.

"Gonna keep it real, Max. I highly doubt anyone will look at your face that hard while you have these," Daniel says, elegant hands gripping Max's chest. Max gasps, keening with the gentle squeeze. For a moment, he wonders if they'll get as far as they tried this in Belgium, which was just to the hotel door before falling right back into bed.

It doesn't count, he reminds himself. It doesn't count when Daniel leans in and kisses him, full lips in that familiar curve and a tongue he's never felt in his mouth as a boy. Only like this.

He breathes Daniel's name and smells Red Bull on his breath. Another set of footsteps makes Max jump. Daniel laughs and tugs on his hand, pulling them down the hall and out one of the many covert exits into the twilight of the paddock. Max stares at his last name on Daniel's shirt, peeking over Daniel's drawstring backpack. He spots appearing letters as they flit through strands of curls that dance on Daniel's back.

They stand between motorhomes. In the cool Texas evening, the paddock is still buzzing after quali. Daniel slips the backpack off one shoulder and fishes around until his fingers make purchase. Max looks at the press-on nails on Daniels hand as he holds out a paddock pass and lanyard. Daniel always is more comfortable pushing the limits, trying new things. Max's eyes flit up as he takes it, watching Daniel's mascaraed eyes close as he pulls on his own name badge. He pulls out a tube of lip balm and reapplies in the reflection of his phone. Max drags his gaze away from ogling and looks at the forged pass, nose scrunching at the credentials.

"What is this fake name, Daniel? Franziska Hermann does not sound like me. What is yours?"

Max picks at Daniel's large pass hanging from his chest, seeing girl Daniel's face next to "Frankie Hermann."

"Duh, Max. We're undercover. I wasn't going to get passes made for our little romp that just have our fucking real names on them."

"Hermann. Are we sisters? Or are we," Max swallows. Daniel recaps the lip balm, stuffs it in his pocket, and swings the backpack back on with a shrug.

"We're whatever we want to be. Right now, I'd like to be a little drunk."

Another hand hold makes Max blush as Daniel pulls them out of the safety of the shadowy alleys of the motorhomes and into the bustling paddock. Max's heart hammers, certain anyone at any moment will shatter their atypical anonymity. Only drivers and TPs and some FiA officials know magic is real, a special gift drivers get at the top level. But Max can't help but feel on edge. They still look too similar, and the fear of getting called out feels too alarming and too earth-shatteringly possible. He squeezes Daniel's hand. Daniel squeezes back.

Max tries to empty his brain and opts for instead staring at Daniel's ass as he leads them past the security gates and out into the general admission of the Circuit of the Americas.

"Yeeeehaw," Daniel says, dropping his hand to stretch. "Freedom!"

"No one saw us," Max says, amazed.

"Nope," Daniel replies with a popped p. "Oh, you still don't believe me. Max. We're fine. Unrecognizable. Just two gals on the town."

"I don't know, Daniel."

"Here, watch this."

"Daniel, wait-," Max gaps as Daniel approaches a crowd of Red Bull-merched fans nearby. Daniel taps their shoulder and they spin around.

"Howdy, fellas, who do I look like? Any...celebrity lookalikes come to mind?" Daniel says, giving a spin and striking a pose. "C'mon. Any guesses?"

An awkward pause as the random fans exchange confused glances. "Uh, Meaghan Rath?" someone posits.

"Thank ye kindly, boys," Daniel says with a faux Texan drawl, saluting and walking back to Max. "See? We're in the clear, Franziska. No one's gonna know a thing. Now, when's the last time you actually just walked around a racetrack without signing anything?"

"Probably back in karting?"

"Precisely. Now let's find a fucking pretzel and enjoy being no one. Just for a while."

Max and Daniel press through the tight throngs of people in the busy circuit. Lines for merch snake out of different team-emblazoned tents. Daniel stops by an RBR tent and takes a selfie with a big version of himself on the side. The air is thick with warm, noisy cheer. Sponsor booth chatter and rollercoasters screams and the sound of music from the nearby stage. Max feels astounded to be ignored. People push past and walk right by, unaware it's Max Verstappen they're bouncing off in the crowd. He's just here, with Daniel. As they wait in line for overpriced food, he feels Daniel's hand slip back into his.

"I don't want to lose you," Daniel says. Max glances up. "You know, in the crowd."

"Right. Me too."

They sit on a curb afterwards, people watching as race fans filter in front of them and sipping on beer that's technically out of their diet. They found out the transformation makes that not count, either. One time they tested the theory in Japan, weighing themselves before, going ham on room service as girls, then after finding themselves the same weight as guys once it wore off. Nothing counts, Daniel would say with a relieved smile.

Max glances up at Daniel who's picking at a funnel cake with glittery nails.

"It's fun, right?" Max asks. Daniel looks over and nods.

"Great fun, Maxy. We should do this every race. Hell, I may even kick it for a few days before Mexico like this. Frankie time. Catch a few shows, see the sights, kiss a few strangers." Daniel takes a piece of fried dough and ushers Max closer. Max leans in, letting his lips part as Daniel slides the warm, sweet mass into his mouth. He almost wants to take those dazzling nails in too and suck the powdered sugar off each fingertip. "It's so freeing, yeah, to not be us for a while, y'know? Trying out all this girly shit. Being nobody special. It's nice, right, just to see?"

Max nods. He doesn't know what he wants to say, except he would like to do those things anytime, as anyone, as long as it's with him. Instead he just says a simple "yeah." He sits still and lets Daniel rest his curly head on his shoulder.

Max swallows. The heat builds between his legs, thighs pressing together as a tan hand drags gentle circles along his pale skin. Daniel traces the COTA circuit into his upper thigh, nail pressing just hard enough to leave little white lines that vanish a second after they're drawn.

"Daniel," Max breathes. Daniel turns and kisses up Max's shoulder, lips pressing through the shirt's thin material. He gasps his name again as Daniel goes in for Max's throat, glossy, sticky lips on warm skin. Max feels a few strands of his hair caught under the wet press. His eyes glance up, worried and anxious for a whole new reason. Not for being recognized, but he's sure everyone passing by can tell he's about to explode in a confetti blast of horny nerves.

"You're so fucking hot, Max," Daniel breathes into Max's neck. "Sorry, Franz. Franzy."

He didn't care if Daniel called him every name under the sun. He turns and leans into Daniel's lips with his own. They work fast, too eager and too rough. Daniel's hands slip into Max's hair and hold him tight to the kiss.

"Let me," Daniel says, one hand trailing lower, squeezing a breast en route for Max's skirt. He feels wetness leak from his nipple. Max shivers, keens.

"Not here," he says back shyly.

"Where do you want it, then?" Daniel smiles into his lips, voice husky and warm. "Sneak into the garage? Let me eat you out under the raised car? Finger your tight cunt in the media pen until someone sees you gasping and begging for it?"

Max cries softly into Daniel's neck as his teammate goes back to working a hickey into his skin. "Anywhere. Just with you."

"There is one place we could try." Daniel gets up, and Max feels suddenly in the wall without his touch. He stumbles up as Daniel tosses their empty trays and cups and pulls Max's hand into a quick run.

They arrive at the COTA tower. It's closed after-hours, but Daniel apparently had the foresight to have a suspiciously large amount of cash on hand. The guard blinks in surprise at the proposal, pockets the hundreds, and lets just the two of them up into the elevator.

Daniel presses Max into the elevator car's corner as they rise. Max's hands move without a conscious thought, squeezing full breasts and slipping low to grab at his fuller ass. Daniel's sweeter voice swears in Max's ear and he nibbles on his earlobe, licking inside and breathing hot and ragged onto Max's thoroughly damp neck.

The elevator opens up on the windy balcony of the COTA tower. It's devoid of anyone, and Max feels he can finally breathe. It's colder so high up, making his body's heat feel more stark and invigorating than he's ever felt before.

"Let's not finger blast each other too close to the edge, though," Daniel laughs, pulling Max down onto the astroturfed lawn of the patio. Max falls onto Daniel to straddle his waist. His knees hit the soft fake grass. He looks up, seeing the Austin lights glitter off in the distance. He looks down at Daniel.

He's beautiful as a girl. His hair fans out as he lays below Max, chest rising and falling, making his wet breasts expand Max's logo with each heavy breath. Max slips his hands onto Daniel's soft middle. They're both much heavier as girls than as drivers, as if they're normal, removed from the world of F1 entirely. Max wonders if this is what he'd be like outside of their tightly-controlled world as Daniel also holds his belly, skating nails across the gentle swell. His fingers dip down lower, sneaking under the hem of his skirt and back to cup his wet crotch.

"Franzy," Daniel coos. Max refocuses.

"Yes...Frankie."

Daniel slips a finger past Max's lacy drawers, drifting across fine hair and leaking wetness, stealing all of Max's focus. He watches Daniel's concentrated brow as he works with reverence along the outside of his cunt. Daniel pulls back. With a move he probably stole from MMA, Daniel flips and turns Max onto his back with a gentle, sudden spin. Max laughs in surprise and then gasps as Daniel pulls off his underwear. Daniel snaps them like a rubber band off into the empty tables nearby.

"That'll be a fun surprise for someone tomorrow. Little do they know it's Max Verstappen's used pink lace panties up here."

"You're the one who bought them."

"I like to dress you up like this," Daniel smiles as he kisses down Max's torso, sucking on his hip bone before laying between his knees. Max leans up on his elbows, dizzy and throbbing as Daniel's beautiful face moves to plant kisses on his thighs. "You're so fucking hot, Max. Franz."

"Oh," Daniel. Daniel leans in and licks a line up Max's cunt. Max whines, choking on a swear as Daniel moves so fast to flick at his clit with his deft tongue. The noises he makes are high and needy, begging as Daniel works his tongue deeper. A soon joining finger presses circles into his clit, careful with long nails not to nip the skin that feels so fine-tuned to pick up every sensation, every press, every breath. Max laces his fingers in Daniel's mass of curls as he works at him. He tries to maintain the illusion, but Daniel's name spills out. If anything, Daniel works harder, faster when he says it.

Max feels the rise and build near its peak. His whole body shivers, trembles. He cries out as Daniel works and kneads and presses with such tender force until it all reaches a head. "Daniel," he gasps in shock as he comes in rush, every inch of him lighting up like end of season fireworks as Daniel places a final kiss on his dripping pussy.

He can't get another word out before Daniel's at his lips. Max tastes himself on Daniel's tongue. He moans into those lips he sees so often, pressing every sensation deep into his brain for safe keeping. When he'd see Daniel on track, he'd know this was what it felt like. It still counts, for him. It still counts.

"Let me do you," Max says eagerly.

"Slow down, cowboy. Just a moment." Daniel sits on Max's lap, gazing down at him. Max feels undressed under his gaze. "I just want to get a good look at you. Like this."

Max blinks up at him.

"Those goddamn eyes, Max. They're always that blue, huh?"

Max can't think of a thing to say before Daniel's back kissing him with a renewed vigor. He's slightly glad he can't say anything, not while spinning Daniel onto his back, not while kissing down Daniel's chest and sucking at full breasts and pulling down his shorts and licking along his cunt. Max seals away every plea for more, always, all the time. He focuses on just this as Daniel threads his fingers through Max's hair this time. A fake name cried into the cold Texas air as Daniel comes and Max's real name whispered into lips as they lie together afterwards. Max lets his forehead rest against Daniel's and feels wet beads slip out from his nearly closed eyes. He watches Daniel's eyelashes dance on his cheeks, eyes closed fully. He thumbs away a mirrored tear and says what he doesn't want to say.

"It doesn't count," Max assures them both. Daniel nods and cuddles into Max. He lets his mind go blank, not thinking of the race tomorrow or the hours they have left before the spell breaks. It's just Daniel in his arms. He squeezes tight and relishes as Daniel squeezes him back just as tightly.

[houndxxunderground]

The beast reflection moved in tandem to him; a horrible mirror image. Arms too long to be human, dark fur, those different eyes and the green glow that spilled from the vials planted into the muscles of his back.

It had gone on for so long, that Vander had built a wall between what the man had done to him and the tiny refuge of fantasy he had crafted for himself in this corner of his mind. Live among memories of happier times. Not ghosts of those gone.

But in the reflection stood the other man too and slowly it came back to him where he had seen the man's face before. Years ago in this very bar. The boy from Zaun who had managed to become an assistant to one of Piltover's councillors. Viktor. But he had changed so much; his frame was taller and straighter, but not flesh and blood either. "I'm sorry that happened to you."

And Vander was; the boy he had known had always been quiet and kind; a great mind but hindered by his own body's limits. Leaning against the countertop, he met Viktor's eyes in the reflection and the truth came tumbling out; the fear that caught in his chest. "- he still has control though. The one who done all of this." The fur, the claws and the machinery that was dug into flesh and muscle. "It's like a switch he can use and all I can see and smell is blood ... people will die."

Vander was so deep in his own grief and wariness… it seemed like every attempt to pull him out would inevitably sink him down deeper. Like a swamp that held a cold grip on his mind.

What the Doctor had done… well. Viktor could not deny that it was horrible. It was a marble of science, yes. But it also had a victim in all of it. An unwilling one. Vander had never agreed to this.

“I would not call you a monster.”, Viktor hummed, standing beside and a little behind Vander, watching the mirror image of this man. The beast that struggled in the community.

Looking at his own mirror image, Viktor suddenly lifted his hand, pulling off part of the blue robe that covered his body. Revealing the metallic whirring structures beneath that made up almost all of him now. How the Arcane surged through his veins now. How the bolts of his brace were fused to him.

“I was turned into this too. Against my will. There was shock, at first. But now I came to… appreciate my new form. I know it is not the same. But I hope you can find progress in your… new evolution. Because what else is there you can pick? To remain caged in your own mind forever? Ignore this power and let it run rampant without your input?”

[thedreamerstoryteller]

[jessamine-rose]

*lovingly tackles Aine*

Read my Yandere! Pierro longfics first ♪( ´▽｀)

Last week, my beloved mutual @ainescribe surprised me with Savior! Darling fan art and AHAI9232@2-!/! CRYING SCREAMING I WANT TO LOOK AT THIS ART AND WORSHIP YOUR VERSION OF SAVIOR THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR BLESSING ME WITH YOUR ART—

*clears throat* Anyway, now that I finally have the time to properly sit down and comment on the fan art, I’ll do just that. Feedback will be in the tags and it will be unhinged. Once again, thank you so much to Aine for drawing this <3

[widowshill]

“He is not to them what he is to me,” I thought: “he is not of their kind. I believe he is of mine;—I am sure he is—I feel akin to him—I understand the language of his countenance and movements: though rank and wealth sever us widely, I have something in my brain and heart, in my blood and nerves, that assimilates me mentally to him.” Jane Eyre, XVII.

18 / 139 / 91 / 78 / 2 / 12 / 75 / 80 / 75

[stylesispunk]

'The soldier in the armour' | part i

Marcus Acacius x f!reader

next part

summary: Lucilla arranged a wedding between you and General Acacius to protect you from Emperor Geta. Acacius doesn't love you but he has swore to protect you.

w.c: 12k>

warnings: power imbalance, age gap, arranged marriage, creep man, suicide attempt, smut, fluff, and angst.

a/n: this is a mix of two requests! I lost one of the requests in my asks so if you see it, please feel free to yell at me haha there is it! 😭 I wanted to say sorry for taking so long on this, but I made the choice to mix both because I didn't have the time to write separately and I didn't want to make you wait anymore, don't hate me, please.

| dividers by @/saradika-graphics |

There were blurry reminiscent of the life you once had. It wasn’t very different from the one you had now, but it wasn’t the same either.

The empire seemed at peace back in the day, the sun caressed your skin with the tenderness of a loving mother touch, but now it burnt your skin as if you had been set in a fire.

You remembered your grandfather death.

You recalled your uncle’s death in the arena.

Maximus death, and with him the dream of Rome died, swapping the peace of the empire away.

You recalled a brother. He was your twin, and you remembered loving him.

Lucius.

Your mother had sent him away under sacred protection, with Comodous’s death, he was the next emperor in line.

But you had stay here. After all you were a woman and your blood didn’t have the value running through your veins.

You had been forced to live with the faded memories of Lucius's blue eyes, those that mirrored your own somehow, the ones that used to gleam with the particular mischief of a kid. Now, they haunted your dreams like ghosts, a reminder of the bond torn apart by politics and promises of protection.

Each day in the palace felt like a gilded cage rusted by the passage of time, where the air was thick with deceit, and every word spoken seemed laced with hidden agendas. Emperor Geta’s obsession with you had made life unbearable. His attention was suffocating, his gaze lingering too long, his presence a constant reminder of your vulnerability as a woman in the imperial court.

Under his and his brother rules.

And when your mother and the council proposed your marriage to General Acacius, you had resisted. Marriage was meant to be a union of love, not a transaction of protection. That what you were told by her when you were a kid. Yet, as Geta’s obsession grew more unhinged, and whispers of his plans to claim you as his own wife reached your ears, you knew there was no choice.

Lucilla braided your hair, the same way she had been doing it since you were a kid. Her touch was gentle, but her face displayed her worry. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and the occasional quiver in her fingers spoke of the weight they carried on her hands, not just as your mother but as a woman who had maneuvered through the treacherous politics of the empire her entire life.

"My sweet girl," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper as she tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "I know this is not the life you would have chosen. If I could take your pain and bear it myself, I would."

You turned to look at her, meeting her gaze through the reflection in the mirror. Her eyes, though still fierce, carried a shadow of regret that seemed etched into her very soul. For a moment, you weren’t the daughter of a woman which fate as empress, had been stolen, you were just a child looking for comfort in your mother’s arms.

"But you can’t," you said, your voice trembling as you tried to hold back the emotions threatening to spill over. "You sent Lucius away, and you kept me here. You say it’s for my protection, but sometimes it feels like I’ve been sacrificed for a safety it’s not real.”

Lucilla’s hands paused in your hair. Her reflection in the mirror faltered, the weight of your words cutting deep. "I sent Lucius away because he was a target," she said, her voice breaking slightly. "I thought once he was older enough, one day he would reclaim what is rightfully his. But you... I couldn’t send you away, too. I couldn’t lose both of you."

"Instead, you bound me to this place," you said, unable to stop the bitterness in your tone. "To a life I didn’t choose, to a marriage that will feel like another cage."

Lucilla moved to face you, her hands resting on your shoulders. "Acacius is a good man," she said firmly. "He may not have been the man of your dreams, but he is a man who will protect you. And I swear to you, I chose him because I saw something in him. Something that told me he would be more than just a shield for you”

Her words hung heavy in the air, and you didn’t respond. Deep down, you knew she believed she was doing the right thing, but it didn’t make the ache in your chest any less sharp.

“I wish I was dead” you whispered to yourself only.

The wedding day arrived cloaked in grandeur, yet it felt suffocatingly hollow. The palace was adorned with gold and crimson, every corner lit by the soft glow of countless lamps. Musicians played melodies meant to celebrate unity, but their music tortured your aching heart. Guests gathered in their finery; faces painted with polite smiles masking their true thoughts. You stood at the heart of it all, draped in a gown of ivory silk embroidered with golden threads, a symbol of wealth and duty, not love.

As you walked towards Acacius, flanked by your mother, the room blurred, as if it wasn’t truly real. The man awaiting you at the altar stood tall and composed, his features carved from stone. Acacius wore a ceremonial armor, the white and gold catching the light, but his expression was unreadable. His eyes met yours, steady and unyielding, and for a fleeting moment, you wondered what he truly thought of all this.

The vows were spoken. His voice was deep, calm, and detached. When he slipped the ring onto your finger, his touch was light, almost hesitant. There was no tenderness, no sign of warmth. Only duty. The ceremony ended with applause that echoed in the vast chamber, but the sound felt distant. You were bound now, not by love, but by necessity.

Emperor Geta would stop his courting towards you.

Later that evening, you found yourself alone with him in your new chambers. The fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across the walls. You sat at the edge of the bed, your hands folded tightly in your lap, while Acacius stood near the window, his back to you. He seemed restless, as if the weight of his armor had been replaced by the burden of this union.

"You don’t have to speak to me if you don’t wish to," you said quietly, breaking the silence. Your voice was steadier than you expected, though your heart raced. "I know this wasn’t your choice any more than it was mine."

He turned then, his gaze settling on you. For a moment, his cold exterior softened, though only slightly. "It wasn’t," he admitted, his tone measured, as if he were weighing every word. "But it was necessary. Your mother asked me."

His honesty stung, even if it wasn’t unexpected. You nodded, unable to meet his eyes. "My mother,” you echoed, her title feeling heavy in your mouth.

Acacius sighed and ran a hand through his hair, the movement breaking his usual composed demeanor. "This isn’t what I imagined for my life either," he said, his voice quieter now. "But I’ve sworn to protect you, and I will. Even if this arrangement feels..." He paused, searching for the right word. "Unnatural."

"Unnatural," you repeated with a bitter smile. "What a lovely way to describe a marriage."

His jaw tightened at your sarcasm, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he crossed the room, stopping a few steps away from you. His presence was imposing, yet his movements were deliberate, careful, as if he were afraid of overwhelming you.

"I will do my duty," he said finally, his voice firm but not unkind. "And I will honor you as my wife. But I can’t pretend to feel something that isn’t there.”

His words were a knife, cutting through the fragile hope you hadn’t even realized you’d been clinging to. You swallowed hard and nodded, keeping your gaze fixed on your hands.

"If you need anything, you only have to ask. I’ll be in my chambers." he said. And then he was gone, leaving you alone in the vast, empty room.

That night, you lay awake, staring at the ceiling, the weight of your new reality pressing down on you. Acacius’s words echoed in your mind, and though they weren’t cruel, they felt colder than any rejection. You couldn’t blame him, not really. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

You wished you could close your eyes and be anywhere else. In the gardens with your brother, in the safety of Lucius’s protection, or even in the quiet stillness of a life unbound by imperial chains. But instead, you were here, in this gilded cage, with a husband who was as much a stranger as the walls around you.

The following days were a blur of formality and silence. Acacius remained distant but civil, his actions guided more by duty than emotion. He escorted you through the palace when required, his hand resting lightly on your arm but never lingering. At meals, he was polite, engaging in conversations when prompted but offering little more than what was necessary. You were a pair in appearance, but the gulf between you was undeniable.

Lucilla watched it all silently. She offered no commentary, but her concerned glances betrayed her thoughts. Her belief that Acacius was the right choice remained unwavering, yet even she couldn’t deny the strain in your union.

One evening, after the day’s obligations had ended, you returned to your chambers to find Acacius standing by the window. He was in his tunic, having removed the heavy armor that seemed to weigh him down as much as the marriage itself. His posture was stiff, his shoulders tense as he gazed out into the fading light of dusk.

“Do you regret this?” you asked softly, breaking the silence. The question had been clawing at you for days, and you couldn’t keep it bottled up any longer.

Acacius turned to you; his expression unreadable. “Regret isn’t the right word,” he said after a pause. “This wasn’t what I wanted, but it’s the path I’ve chosen. I will honor it.”

You crossed the room, stopping a few paces from him. “You speak of honor as if it’s enough to make this work,” you said, your voice trembling slightly. “But what about us? Are we just to coexist in silence, fulfilling obligations without ever truly living?”

His brow furrowed, and for a moment, his cold demeanor cracked. “Do you think this is easy for me?” he asked, his tone sharper than you expected. “I didn’t ask for this any more than you did. But I’m trying. I’m doing everything I can to give you the life you deserve.”

“The life I deserve?” you echoed, anger bubbling to the surface. “I deserve a life where I’m not a pawn, where my choices matter. I deserve a marriage built on something more than duty.”

Acacius looked away, his jaw tightening. “And yet, here we are,” he said quietly. “Bound by something neither of us chose.”

Silence hung between you, heavy and suffocating. You turned away, wrapping your arms around yourself as you tried to hold back the tears threatening to spill. “I didn’t ask for this,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him.

“I know,” Acacius said, his voice softening. You felt his presence behind you, and a moment later, his hand rested lightly on your shoulder. “I can’t change what brought us here, but I can promise you this; I will protect you. Always.”

“Why do you don’t like me as a person?” you asked, unable to meet his gaze

Acacius’s hand froze on your shoulder, and for a moment, he didn’t respond. The weight of your words hung in the air; unspoken questions laced with vulnerability. Slowly, you turned to face him, your arms still wrapped around yourself as if shielding your heart from the answer you feared.

“Why don’t you like me as a person?” you repeated, your voice trembling. “Is it because you didn’t choose this? Because I’m nothing more than an obligation to you?”

Acacius’s jaw tightened, his eyes searching yours as if debating whether to speak the truth or spare you further pain. Finally, he exhaled deeply, stepping back to create some space between you. His hand fell to his side, the warmth of his touch fading.

“It’s not that I don’t like you,” he began, his voice low and measured, as if choosing his words with care. “You’re intelligent, strong-willed, and far braver than anyone gives you credit for. But... this isn’t about you. It never was.”

Your stomach twisted, the pit forming at his words. “What do you mean?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He turned away, running a hand through his dark hair as he stared out of the window. “Your mother,” he said finally, the words falling like stones. “I... I loved her.”

The breath caught in your throat, your chest tightening as if the room had suddenly closed in on you. “What?” you managed to choke out, disbelief coloring your tone.

Acacius turned back to you, his expression a mixture of regret and resignation. “Lucilla. I loved her long before any of this. Long before Commodus fell, before your world became this mess of alliances and power struggles. But she...” He hesitated, his gaze softening.

“Asked you to marry her daughter because of Geta’s courtesy” you ended his sentence. You felt disgusted by his confession and guilty for destroying the chances of your mother and Lucilla of being happy together.

Acacius's eyes widened slightly at your words, but he didn’t deny them. Instead, he looked at you with a mixture of shame and helplessness, as though he carried the weight of his choices like chains he could never cast off. “It was more than just Geta,” he said quietly. “Lucilla believed—she hoped—that this union would keep you safe from him. And I thought... I thought I could do that for her.”

You stepped back, your heart pounding. The walls of the room seemed to close in, suffocating you under the weight of his confession. “And in doing so, you destroyed any chance you both might have had for happiness,” you said, your voice trembling. “Because of you, she sacrificed everything—for what? To tie me to a man who doesn’t even want me.”

“Hey,” Acacius said quickly, stepping closer, but you held up a hand, stopping him in his tracks.

“Don’t,” you said, your voice breaking. “Don’t try to justify it. You will never love me, and now I know why. Because all you see in me is her shadow.”

“No.” His voice was firm now, his eyes blazing with an intensity that startled you. “You’re wrong. I never wanted this to be about her, and I never wanted you to think I see you as anything less than who you are. But I can’t bury my feelings, and I can’t undo the choices we made.”

Your stomach churned with anger, disgust and despair. “Do you even realize what you’ve done?” you demanded. “You’ve tied me to a life I never wanted, a life where I’ll always wonder if I was just a piece in someone else’s plan. I’m always trapped in the middle of something.”

The tears you had been holding back finally broke free, spilling down your cheeks as sobs wracked your body. The weight of Acacius’s confession, of everything you had endured, crushed you, and the walls of the room seemed to close in around you.

“I can’t do this,” you said, your voice trembling, thick with emotion. “I can’t stay here.”

“Please,” Acacius began, his tone urgent as he stepped toward you, his hand outstretched. But you recoiled, shaking your head fiercely.

“Don’t!” you cried, your voice cracking. “Don’t come near me! Don’t tell me it’s going to be okay when nothing ever is. You’re just another person who’s used me, another person who doesn’t see me.���

The rawness of your words hung in the air, and for a moment, Acacius froze, his face etched with a mixture of pain and helplessness. But you couldn’t bear to look at him any longer. The walls of the room blurred as your tears continued to fall, and you turned abruptly, your feet moving before your mind could catch up.

You fled the room, your sobs echoing in the empty corridors as you ran blindly through the villa. Servants and guards turned to look at you, startled by the sight of their lady in such distress, but you ignored them. You needed to get away, away from Acacius, away from the suffocating weight of expectations, away from everything.

Eventually, you found yourself in the gardens, the cool night air biting at your skin. The sky above was scattered with stars, their distant light doing little to ease the turmoil within you. You collapsed onto a stone bench, your arms wrapping around yourself as you cried, the sound of your grief swallowed by the rustling of the trees.

You had tried so hard to find a place in this world, to make peace with the life forced upon you. But tonight, every fragile piece of that illusion had shattered, leaving you adrift in a sea of uncertainty and pain.

As your sobs subsided, a cold breeze swept through the garden, chilling you to the bone. For a brief moment, you thought of Acacius, of the way his eyes had softened when he spoke, of the regret laced in his voice.

But the anger and betrayal still burned too brightly within you to let those thoughts linger.

The cool night air stung your cheeks as you sprinted through the gardens, past the rows of manicured hedges and marble statues. The villa loomed behind you, its walls suffocating even at a distance. Your lungs burned, your heart hammering against your ribs, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. You didn’t know where you were going—only that it had to be far away from Acacius, from the weight of his confession, from the life you no longer recognized as your own.

Your feet carried you to the outer grounds of the villa, where the shadows grew darker, the torchlight dimmer. The muffled sound of distant voices reached your ears, guards patrolling the perimeter, but you veered away from them, toward the narrow dirt path that led to the forest. The trees ahead beckoned like a sanctuary, their darkness promising solitude.

You barely noticed the snap of a twig behind you until a voice cut through the silence.

Before you could gather your thoughts, you heard soft footsteps approaching once more. Your heart lurched. "Acacius?" you called out tentatively, but when the figure stepped into the moonlight, your breath caught.

It wasn’t Acacius.

It was Geta.

He stood there, his face shadowed yet unmistakably troubled. The smugness on his face was characteristic but still you couldn’t name his expression you couldn’t place what he was feeling, desperation? Anguish? The way his chest rose and fell told you he’d been running, as if chasing you had been his sole purpose.

“Emperor Geta? wha-what are you doing here?” you demanded, your voice shaking, not with fear but with a volatile mixture of emotions you couldn’t quite name.

“I was on my way to pay a visit to our beloved General” he answered, his sinister smile still on his face, "I must admit," he said, stepping closer, his tone dripping with false amusement, "I didn’t expect to find you wandering out here all alone. What would dear Acacius think, hmm? Leaving his precious wife unguarded in the dead of night?"

Your heart pounded harder now, but for an entirely different reason.

Geta took another step toward you, and you fought the urge to recoil. The air between you felt suffocating, charged with a tension that made your skin crawl.

"You’re drunk, emperor" you said sharply, hoping to mask the fear creeping into your voice. "Go back to the palace, Geta.”

But he only laughed, a cold, hollow sound. "Oh, I’m perfectly sober," he said, his eyes narrowing. "And I think it’s time we had a little... talk, you and I.”

“What more could you possibly want from me, Emperor?”

His eyes met yours, and for the first time, they weren’t cold or calculating. They were raw, bare, and filled with an emotion that made your stomach churn.

“You,” he said, the word barely above a whisper.

Your blood froze. “What?”

“I’ve loved you,” he said, his voice trembling. “For as long as I can remember. And I’ve hated myself for it, but I couldn’t stop. Not even when I tried to keep my distance. Not even when I told myself it was wrong.”

The ground seemed to shift beneath your feet. This was a nightmare—a fever dream born of the turmoil of the night. It had to be.

“No,” you said, shaking your head vehemently. “No, you can’t—you don’t mean that.”

“I do,” he said, stepping closer, though he didn’t reach for you. “I’ve tried to bury it; to pretend I could be the dutiful emperor everyone thought I was. But every time I see you, every time I hear your voice...” He broke off, his hands clenching into fists. “It is like I am set on fire.”

“I—” you started, but words failed you.

Geta took another step forward, his desperation palpable. “Do you see now?” he asked, his voice softer but no less intense. “I’ve only ever seen you as mine.”

“Stop,” you said, your voice trembling as you raised a hand to keep him at bay. “Just stop. Whatever you think this is, whatever you feel—it’s wrong.”

He froze at your words, his face twisting with a mixture of pain and defiance. “Wrong?” he repeated, his voice cracking. “How can it be wrong when it’s the only thing I’ve ever been certain of?”

“Because I don’t feel the same!” you shouted, your tears spilling over now. “I will never feel the same. I’m married.”

Geta flinched at your words as though you’d struck him. His face, already a storm of emotions, darkened further. “Married,” he spat, his voice low and bitter. “To a man who will never truly see you. A man who cannot love you the way I do.”

Your chest tightened as anger began to bubble within you, momentarily overpowering the fear and confusion. “Love?” you repeated, your voice trembling. “This isn’t love, Geta. Whatever you think this is, it’s twisted. You’ve turned me into some...some object to claim, a possession to own!”

His jaw clenched, and his hands balled into fists at his sides. “I have done nothing but love you,” he said through gritted teeth. “When no one else cared about your happiness, when they made you a pawn in their schemes, I thought of you. Always.”

“Then why didn’t you stop it?” you demanded, stepping forward despite yourself. “Why didn’t you, with all your power, say something? Do something? If you loved me so much, why didn’t you fight for me?”

Geta’s gaze faltered for the briefest moment, a crack in his otherwise unyielding façade. “Because I couldn’t,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “Because to love you openly would have been to destroy you. You think I don’t know how they look at me? How they whisper? They already call me unfit to rule, unstable. If they knew how I felt, they would have turned their wrath on you.”

“That’s not love,” you said, shaking your head, your voice breaking. “Love doesn’t hide in shadows. It doesn’t tear someone apart from the inside. It doesn’t...” You trailed off, pressing a trembling hand to your mouth as sobs threatened to escape. “It doesn’t feel like this.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence was deafening, broken only by the distant rustle of leaves in the night wind.

“I didn’t want this,” Geta finally said, his voice almost a whisper. “I never wanted to hurt you. But watching you with him, knowing you’re his...” His voice cracked, and he took a shaky breath. “It’s killing me.”

“I’m not yours,” you said firmly, the words sharper than you intended. “I’ll never be yours.”

Geta’s face hardened at that, the softness of his confession replaced by something colder, more dangerous. “We’ll see,” he said quietly, his tone chilling in its calmness. “The gods have a way of changing fates”

The sound of hooves pounding the earth broke through the tension that had built between you and Geta. The rhythmic thundering grew louder, and you instinctively turned toward the noise, your heart racing in your chest.

Acacius appeared from the shadows, his silhouette cutting through the night as he rode forward, leading a group of horses. His eyes immediately locked on you, and in an instant, his expression shifted—darkening, as though a storm had formed within him. When his gaze flicked to Geta, the atmosphere around them changed.

Geta remained still, but his eyes narrowed. He knew exactly who had arrived. A low tension crackled in the air, like two opposing forces on the verge of collision.

“Emperor Geta,” Acacius said sharply, his voice hard, his stance unwavering. His hand instinctively tightened on the reins of his horse as if it were a weapon, a subtle warning. “It is too late for you to be out in the middle of the night”

For a moment, Geta didn't respond. The intensity of his stare met Acacius’ head-on, the challenge in his eyes unmistakable. But Acacius didn’t flinch. His presence was commanding, and even Geta, in his turmoil, could sense the shift.

You stepped back slightly, the weight of the situation dawning on you. The conflict between these two men was palpable, and it made the ground beneath your feet feel unsteady. Your heart pounded, not just from fear, but from something deeper, more painful. The realization that you were now caught between these two men who seemed to hold pieces of your life in their hands.

Geta’s lips curled slightly in a sardonic smile, though there was an edge to it.  “I bet is too late to pay a visit to our beloved general"

Acacius ignored the provocation, his eyes now focused solely on you, his voice softening. “Are you all right?” he asked, though it was laced with an undertone of concern, almost as though he was afraid to hear the answer.

You could feel your chest tighten as Acacius’s eyes met yours, the concern in his voice stirring something deep inside of you, something vulnerable. You wanted to say something, anything to ease the tension, but the words wouldn’t come. Your emotions were a storm, a swirl of anger, fear, and confusion that made it impossible to think clearly.

Before you could respond, Geta’s voice cut through the moment like a knife. “Does he really care, or is this just about keeping control? Do you really think he’s here for you?” He sneered, stepping forward as if trying to push Acacius out of the space between you. “Or is it just the idea of you that he wants to control, the power that comes with your bloodline?”

The truth was beyond the obsession Geta had towards you, there was fear. He was aware your blood belonged to the realm, so you weren’t a lover he wanted to possess but a treat he wanted to eliminate.  

You weren’t just a woman who caught his eye; you were the reminder of the power he feared losing. Your existence in the realm, your connection to the throne, made you a target in his mind. His twisted love for you wasn’t love, it was a deep-seated need to control, to erase what he couldn’t possess or manipulate.

Your marriage to the General of Rome put you in a place where you could go back to ruling the empire.

Acacius stood tall, his eyes still fixed on Geta, the tension between them thick enough to choke the air around you. His expression was hard, his jaw clenched with quiet fury, but it was the protective energy that radiated from him that caught your attention. He wasn’t going to let this spiral any further.

"Whatever matter you think needs discussing, Geta," Acacius began, his voice steady but firm, "it can wait until tomorrow. Not tonight. Not in the presence of my wife."

The words were sharp, final. There was a strength in them that sent a clear message, a line that Geta could not cross. Acacius’s gaze never wavered as he took a step forward, a silent challenge to Geta, daring him to try anything more.

You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, torn between relief and dread. Acacius's words were a shield, but they didn’t seem to do anything to quell the storm brewing between the two men.

Geta’s face hardened, the flicker of emotion that had passed through him earlier replaced by a steely resolve. “Your wife, Acacius,” he said, the venom in his tone unmistakable, “is a part of this empire, and the future of it is bound to her. Don’t think for a second you can keep her out of this.”

Acacius’s grip tightened on the reins of his horse, his knuckles white as he kept his stance, unwavering. “I’m not keeping her out of anything,” he said, his voice low but deadly. “But as her husband, I will not let you use her to fuel your delusions of power.”

For a moment, the air seemed to freeze, the threat hanging between them like a sword poised to fall. But Geta, ever the strategist, knew when to back down. He held your gaze for one last moment, his expression unreadable. Then, without another word, he turned away, his posture stiff, and he strode off, leaving the two of you standing there in the quiet aftermath.

You exhaled shakily, feeling a weight lift from your chest, but it didn’t last. The shadows of what had just transpired seemed to cling to you, the fear, the confusion still buzzing in your veins. Acacius’s protection, though fiercely given, couldn’t erase the uncertainty of everything that had just happened.

He turned to you then, his expression softening, though the hard edge from earlier remained in his eyes. “Are you all right?” His voice was gentle now, and the concern in his gaze pulled at your heart in a way you couldn’t explain.

You nodded but soon after you moved your head, everything went completely black.

The world slowly came back into focus, the heavy weight of unconsciousness lifting from your mind like a veil being drawn aside. You blinked, the sharp light of the morning creeping through the windows, and the gentle rustle of sheets beneath you signaled you were no longer outside. You were back inside, in the cool, quiet comfort of your chambers.

Your body felt heavy, as though every muscle had been drained of energy, but the pain from the night before had faded, replaced by a strange weariness that seeped into your bones. You tried to sit up, but a soft voice stopped you before you could move.

“Careful,” Lucilla said, her tone gentle but firm. She was sitting by your bedside, her eyes fixed on you with a mixture of concern and calm reassurance. “You need to rest.”

Your heart raced for a moment, the fragments of the night’s events rushing back to you. Geta’s confrontation, the threat in his voice, and Acacius standing between you, the tension thick enough to choke the air. You could still feel the sharp edge of fear in your chest, but for now, you were safe.

“Mother…” you whispered, your voice hoarse. “What happened? Is… is everything all right?”

Lucilla’s eyes softened, and she reached out to brush a lock of hair from your face, her touch soothing. “You fainted, my lady. After the confrontation with the emperor, you collapsed. Acacius was frantic. He had you brought inside immediately. He’s been by your side all night.”

Her words made your heart flutter, a strange mixture of emotions flooding you. Acacius had been there, waiting, watching over you, just as he always did. But there was something else in the air, something unspoken between you and him that neither of you could ignore.

“He stayed with me?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. The thought of him there, protecting you, made something twist inside your chest.

Lucilla nodded, her expression softening. “Yes. He didn’t leave your side for a moment. He’s worried about you.”

As Lucilla’s words settled into your mind, the door to your chambers creaked open. You barely had time to turn your head before Acacius stepped inside, his figure towering in the doorway. His presence seemed to fill the room, his eyes immediately locking with yours. There was a quiet intensity in his gaze, a depth of emotion you couldn’t quite decipher. For a moment, it felt as though the world outside of your small room had disappeared, leaving just the two of you, caught in the stillness of the moment.

He took a step forward, but it was the way he looked at your mother that made your breath catch in your throat. The same tension you had felt between you and him last night now seemed to make sense. The raw honesty, the confession he had made—the admission of his feelings, the vulnerability in his voice—was clear in that single glance. And in that moment, something inside you recoiled.

You were a burden.

“Acacius…” you whispered, barely able to speak, your mind reeling. You could feel the panic rising inside you, suffocating, as if there was no room to breathe in his presence. Was this what you had been running from all along?

He stepped closer, his voice steady but strained. “You’re awake,” he said quietly, almost as if he was still processing the fact. His eyes softened when they met yours, but there was a flicker of something darker behind them, something you couldn’t place.

“I was worried about you,” he added, his tone still holding a thread of concern, as if your well-being was his sole focus.

You swallowed hard, your mouth dry, and for a moment, you couldn’t find your voice. Lucilla, sensing the weight of the moment, quietly excused herself, leaving you and Acacius alone in the quiet of the room.

As the door clicked shut behind her, the silence between you two seemed to grow heavier, more suffocating. He took another step closer, his gaze never leaving yours, but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet it fully. Every part of you screamed for distance, for space, and yet, he remained close—too close.

“Acacius, I—” you started, but the words caught in your throat. How could you put into words what you were feeling? The confusion, the fear, the overwhelming weight of it all? It wasn’t just about what Geta had done or said; it was about the emotions Acacius had stirred in you, emotions you didn’t know how to deal with.

You wanted to feel loved in a way your skin felt when the sun caresses your face in the midst of a cold winter.

But Acacius could never love you.

The days passed like slow, heavy drops of rain. The storm of emotions that had churned inside of you seemed to settle, but it wasn’t a calm; it was the oppressive stillness before something darker took hold. Acacius remained by your side, always present, but the warmth that once ignited in your chest when you saw him, when you felt his concern, began to dim. His confession, those raw words of love for your mother, left a lingering sting that you couldn’t ignore, no matter how hard you tried.

Each time you saw him, you felt a coldness creeping into your heart, like the chill of winter settling into your bones. It wasn’t that you hated him, far from it, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that something fundamental had broken. You had wanted to feel cherished, wanted in a way that made you feel whole, like the sun warming your skin during the harshest of winters. But instead, you felt like the shadows of something lost were all that remained.

The days blurred together as you drifted through them in a fog. The joy that once accompanied your moments with Acacius, his gaze, his touch, seemed to fade with each passing day. You were still there, still functioning, but you weren’t alive in the way you had once been. You were a shadow of the person who had laughed freely, who had dreamed of a future with the man who had stood beside you through every storm.

Now, his presence only reminded you of what could never be. Every word from him felt weighted, laced with an unspoken truth you couldn’t escape. He was there, yes—but it was Lucilla’s name that seemed to linger in the air between you, a constant reminder of what could never happen.

You stopped meeting his gaze as often, your conversations clipped and polite, but distant. You couldn’t pretend anymore that things were the same. You couldn’t ignore the hollow feeling that had taken root inside you, gnawing at you like a slow, insidious poison.

The days felt endless. The life you had once felt for each moment, for each glance he gave you, slipped away bit by bit. You told yourself you were strong, that you would move on, that you could adapt to the life in front of you. But the spark that once filled your soul, the fire that had kept you going, was slowly being smothered. Each day without clarity, without answers, without that spark, made you more resigned, hollower.

The days blurred into weeks, and life continued its chaotic, inevitable march forward. The grandeur of Rome, its towering structures and ancient streets, became a distant backdrop to the turmoil that had taken root within you. Despite the growing tension surrounding you, your presence at the grand events of the empire remained. There were battles in the Colosseum—events that had once stirred the blood, filled with anticipation and excitement. Now, they were merely noise, the sounds of clashing steel and roars of the crowd unable to penetrate the numbness that had taken hold of your soul.

Geta's obsession with you deepened, his presence more frequent, more invasive. His eyes never seemed to leave you, and every word he spoke, every look, was an attempt to assert control, to draw you into his tangled web of fear and power. But his attempts only felt more suffocating. You were trapped, like an animal in a gilded cage, unable to escape his watchful gaze. He wasn’t interested in you as a woman; you were a symbol to him, something to manipulate, to dominate, to erase the threat you posed to his fragile claim on the empire.

Despite your growing isolation, Acacius remained at your side. His concern for you was evident, though he seemed to be walking on a thin line, careful not to overstep or push you too hard. He knew you were withdrawing, knew that something had shifted between you, but he didn’t know how to reach you. He could see the distance in your eyes, the way you pulled away when he tried to comfort you. And it broke him, though he never spoke of it.

There were feelings he didn’t know he was able to feel, appearing.

The battles at the Colosseum grew more brutal, the spectacle becoming more and more gruesome with each passing day. The roar of the crowd no longer thrilled you. The sight of blood, the cries of victory and death—it all blended into a backdrop of life that felt increasingly distant, like you were watching it all from behind a veil. You were alive, yes—but you weren’t truly living.

One evening, as you sat beside Acacius in the grand hall, your hand in his, you tried to force a smile. You knew he was watching, hoping for some sign that the woman he once knew was still there. The fingers that held yours were strong, steady, but you felt a chill crawl up your spine. His warmth didn’t reach you anymore. His presence, once a comfort, now felt like a reminder of everything you had lost.

"Smile," he whispered, his voice gentle, coaxing. "Just for tonight. For me."

You nodded, a small, strained smile curling at the corner of your lips. But as you smiled, something inside you felt hollow. You knew what he saw—the facade of a woman who was still whole, still alive. But inside, you were dying. The life that once burned brightly in you had been extinguished, snuffed out by the weight of betrayal, fear, and a love that could never be returned. And as you smiled for him, you felt like an actor playing a part—faking a life that wasn’t truly yours anymore.

The crowd cheered as Acacius raised your hand, the symbol of his victory and his loyalty to Rome. But you couldn’t feel the victory. You couldn’t feel the joy. You just felt death. Not the death of your body, but the death of everything you had once been. The woman who dreamed, who hoped, who believed in love and light, was slipping further away with each passing day.

Acacius, for all his strength, could never reach you. You could see the worry in his eyes, the way he would glance at you when he thought you weren’t looking, as if he was searching for something—anything—that would tell him you were still there. But you weren’t. You were a shadow, a flicker of the woman you used to be, trapped in the space between life and death.

As the days stretched on, Geta’s obsession with you grew more dangerous. His presence became a constant reminder of your captivity, the ever-present shadow of his desire to control. He wasn’t content with merely watching anymore. No, now he was making his move, pushing harder, testing boundaries. You could feel the weight of his eyes on you, even when he wasn’t in the room. He was always there, lurking, waiting.

Acacius noticed it too. He saw the way you tensed whenever Geta entered the room, the way your eyes darted nervously, the way your smile faltered. He knew you were becoming a shell of the person you once were. And for the first time, Acacius found himself unsure of how to help you. He had always been your protector, your constant, but now, it felt like he was failing you.

“You don’t have to pretend for me,” he said one night, his voice rough with emotion. He reached for your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I see it. The distance. I see you slipping away from me, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

You wanted to tell him, to let him in, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, you turned your gaze toward the distant horizon, watching the sun set behind the buildings of Rome, casting long shadows across the streets. It was a beautiful sight, but you couldn’t appreciate it. The beauty of the world was lost on you now.

"I’m sorry," you whispered, though the words didn’t feel like enough. They would never be enough.

Acacius squeezed your hand tighter, as if trying to hold onto you, to keep you from slipping away entirely. But you knew, deep down, that it was already too late. You were already gone.

The days continued to stretch on, the weight of your own existence pressing down on you with each breath you took. You moved through life like a specter, haunted by your own thoughts, consumed by the shadow of everything that had transpired. The air around you felt thick, suffocating, and nothing seemed to reach you anymore.

One evening, after yet another long day of feigned smiles and empty conversations, you retreated to your chambers. You had long since stopped caring about the grand appearances, the masks you were expected to wear. In the silence of your room, the darkness that had begun to take root in your heart felt heavier than ever before. It was as though the weight of your despair had become a tangible thing, pulling you under, drowning you from the inside.

You moved toward the bath, the cool marble surface inviting you with its quiet promise of solitude. You sank into the warm water, hoping, if only for a moment, to drown out the noise inside your mind, to forget the suffocating reality that had become your life. The water enveloped you, and for a brief moment, you felt weightless, free—free from everything that bound you, from Geta's obsession, from the looming presence of the empire, and from the love you could never have.

But the peace was fleeting. The thoughts came rushing back, overwhelming and relentless. Acacius’s touch, his words, his confession of love for your mother—it all swirled in your mind like a storm, too much to bear. And in that moment, something inside you snapped. You wanted it all to end. The pain. The confusion. The crushing weight of everything.

As the water rose higher, you slipped under, the coolness surrounding you like an embrace. It was quiet. So quiet. The pressure in your chest intensified, a cold finality settling in. Your body felt heavier, the world fading as you sank deeper into the water. The voices in your head quieted, the darkness enveloping you completely. And for the first time in a long while, you felt... peace.

But fate had other plans.

Just as the darkness threatened to consume you completely, a sudden hand gripped your arm, pulling you from the water with desperate force. The world rushed back in an instant, blinding, harsh, and you gasped for air, coughing, choking as water flooded your lungs.

“No!” a familiar voice cried out, filled with fear. “Don’t you dare do this!”

Your vision swam as Acacius’s strong arms pulled you up, his face a mask of panic and determination. He moved quickly, his hands steady as he worked to lift you from the bath and cradle you against his chest. His voice was shaky, though he tried to hide it.

“Stay with me,” he urged, his voice breaking as he held you close, his hands pressing against your wet skin. “Please. Don’t leave me.”

You were too weak to respond, your body trembling, your mind foggy. But his words—don’t leave me—cut through the haze. They echoed in your ears, but they didn’t make sense. Why would he want you to stay when you were nothing more than a burden, a shadow of what you once were?

“Acacius…” you whispered weakly, your throat raw as you fought to speak. His name felt like the last thread that held you to this world. "Why...?"

His grip tightened on you, his body radiating warmth as he looked down at you, his eyes filled with desperation and anguish.

“Because I want to love you,” he said, his voice shaking but steady with resolve. “I’ve always wanted to love you. You don’t have to carry all of this alone. I don’t care about the empire, about the danger, or the expectations of the world. I care about you. I want to be there for you—to love you.”

His words hung in the air like an echo, reverberating through the silence that had settled between you. You wanted to believe him. You wanted to reach for that spark of hope, the promise of love he was offering, but the weight of everything you had been through, everything you had lost, held you back.

You closed your eyes, your breath still shaky, and tried to push away the wave of conflicting emotions that surged within you. Acacius’s love, though it was sincere, felt like a distant dream—a dream that you didn’t deserve. How could you accept his love when you felt so broken, so consumed by the darkness inside of you?

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, but filled with the depth of the regret you felt. “I’m not who you think I am. I’ve lost so much of myself...”

Acacius gently cupped your face in his hands, his touch tender and comforting, as though he were trying to steady you from the storm that raged inside of you. He was quiet for a long moment, his gaze soft but unwavering.

“You’re not lost,” he said, his voice low but steady. “You’re not alone, even when it feels like it. I’m here. I will always be here, whether you believe it or not.”

The warmth of his touch seemed to seep into your skin, like a quiet promise. But even with that promise, there was still a part of you that resisted. You were drowning—not just in the water, but in the weight of your own thoughts, your own feelings. How could you possibly let yourself love again, after everything that had happened?

“I don’t know how to let anyone love me anymore,” you admitted, the words slipping out before you could stop them. "Not after everything I've been through... everything that's been taken from me."

He leaned closer, his forehead resting gently against yours as his hands moved to hold you more firmly. "You don’t have to figure it all out right now. Just let me be here with you, for as long as you need. You don’t have to carry the world on your own anymore."

His words settled in your heart, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to breathe, to feel his presence. It wasn’t a solution to all that haunted you, but it was something—something real.

“You’re not alone, either,” you whispered, your voice still fragile but more certain than before. “I don’t want to be alone, either.”

The quiet between you felt like an unspoken promise, an understanding. You didn’t have all the answers, and you didn’t know how to fix what was broken.

Acacius carefully lifted you in his arms, his movements gentle yet strong, as though he feared breaking you. The room was quiet, save for the sound of his steady breathing and the soft rustle of the sheets as he settled you onto the bed. His hands lingered at your sides, making sure you were comfortable, as though he couldn't bear to be too far away, even for a second.

You lay there, your body trembling from the cold of the water and the emotions that had swirled through you in such a short time. But there was a warmth now, a steadiness in the way Acacius was with you, something that grounded you amidst the chaos. His presence filled the space between the silence, and you wanted to hold onto that feeling, to keep it close as though it were the last thread that could save you from the darkness.

But even as your thoughts tangled, your voice came out soft, barely a whisper, as if afraid to disturb the fragile calm that had settled around you.

"Acacius," you said, your voice catching slightly. "Stay... please."

The words hung in the air, vulnerable and raw, and you could feel your heart beating faster as you waited for his response. You weren’t sure what you were asking for—comfort, reassurance, or simply the presence of someone who cared when everything else seemed so uncertain.

Acacius didn’t speak at first. He simply moved to sit on the edge of the bed, his gaze intense, but filled with an understanding that pierced through the barriers you had built around yourself. His hand gently rested on yours, his thumb brushing over your skin in slow, soothing motions.

"Of course," he finally said, his voice a soft promise, like the calm after a storm. "I’m not going anywhere."

He pulled the blanket over you, ensuring you were warm and comfortable, and then he settled beside you, close but not too close. His presence filled the space beside you, but there was a tenderness in the way he lay next to you, giving you the space you needed while still remaining close enough to feel his warmth, his care.

You turned your head slightly, your eyes meeting his in the dim light of the room. The vulnerability in your chest, the fear of asking for too much, made you hesitate for a moment. But then, with a shaky breath, you spoke again, this time more urgently.

"Stay with me," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "Just... for tonight. I don’t want to be alone."

Acacius’s gaze softened, his lips curling into a faint, reassuring smile. Without saying a word, he shifted closer to you, his arm slipping around you as he pulled you gently against him. His warmth enveloped you, and for the first time in a long while, you allowed yourself to rest, truly rest, without the weight of the world pressing down on you.

In that moment, as you felt his heartbeat steady against yours, the storm inside you quieted, if only for a little while. The darkness still lingered at the edges of your thoughts, but Acacius’s presence, his steady, unyielding care, was a reminder that, for now, you didn’t have to face it alone.

And so, you closed your eyes, letting the warmth of his arms around you pull you into a fragile peace, knowing that, for this one night, you were not lost.

In the days that followed, something shifted between you and Acacius. It was subtle at first, like the quiet change of seasons, but it was unmistakable. His devotion to you became more evident in every action, in every word. It wasn’t just the caring gestures—though those were abundant—but the way his gaze lingered on you, the way his touch seemed to convey more than words ever could. You could feel the change in the air, like the warmth of the sun breaking through the clouds.

Acacius, the loyal general, who had always been steadfast in his duties to the empire, had turned his focus entirely toward you. His thoughts, his actions, and his very presence were now centered around ensuring that you were safe, that you were cared for.

Every morning, he would bring you breakfast, a small smile on his lips as he placed the tray before you. He would sit with you, talking about the day’s events, but his attention was always on you, his eyes soft with concern, his every movement thoughtful. If you showed signs of fatigue, he would insist on helping you with whatever you needed, no matter how small. And when the nights came, he would always stay, watching over you as you slept, keeping his promise to never let you be alone.

At times, you felt the weight of his care, the devotion he gave so freely, and it both soothed and unsettled you. The fear of being a burden gnawed at your mind, but each time you tried to withdraw, Acacius was there, offering reassurance, pulling you back from the edge.

“What about when you have to go into battle again?” you asked once, your voice barely above a whisper. The question had been haunting you ever since your marriage. No matter how much Acacius promised protection, he was a general first—a soldier bound to the empire’s whims.

He hesitated, his eyes meeting yours. For a moment, the confident, stoic mask he always wore faltered, and you saw the man beneath it, a man burdened with duty and uncertainty.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I will make sure you’re safe before I leave. Always.”

His honesty was disarming, and for once, it didn’t feel like an empty reassurance. Still, the thought of him riding off to battle, leaving you behind in the suffocating grip of the palace, sent a shiver down your spine.

“And what if you don’t come back?” you pressed, your voice trembling.

Acacius stepped closer, his gaze steady. “I will come back,” he said firmly. “I’ve survived countless battles, and I’ll survive the next one. Because now, I have a reason to.”

His words made your breath catch, and you turned away, unwilling to let him see the tears welling in your eyes. “Don’t say things like that,” you murmured. “Don’t make promises you might not be able to keep.”

“I’m not making promises,” he said, his voice softer now. “I’m telling you the truth.”

You looked at him then, your emotions a whirlwind of fear, anger, and something else—something you weren’t ready to name. “You make it sound so simple,” you said bitterly.

“It’s not,” he admitted, his expression unflinchingly honest. “But I’ve faced death more times than I can count, and I’ve always fought to live. Now, I fight for you, too.”

The weight of his words settled over you, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. Finally, you broke the silence, your voice raw.

“I don’t want to be the reason you don’t come back.”

He reached out, hesitating for a moment before placing a hand on your shoulder. “You won’t be,” he said. “If anything, you’re the reason I will.”

The vulnerability in his voice was almost too much to bear. You closed your eyes, taking a shaky breath. “I don’t know how to do this, Acacius,” you admitted. “I don’t know how to let myself care for someone when everything in my life has been taken from me.”

He stepped closer, his hand sliding down to take yours. “You don’t have to figure it out all at once,” he said. “But let me stay by your side while you do.”

His grip was firm yet gentle, and in that moment, you felt a flicker of something you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel in years: hope.

“Just... come back,” you whispered, your voice breaking.

“I will,” he promised, his gaze unwavering. “Always.”

And for the first time, you allowed yourself to believe him.

After the gladiators’ fights had concluded in the Colosseum, you and your mother, left the arena, your minds still lingering on the chaos of the day. Acacius had been by your side throughout the event, his protective presence never wavering. But you noticed something had shifted in him—the tension in his jaw, the restlessness in his eyes, as if his mind was elsewhere. It was as though the very air around him had grown heavier.

As you made your way back to the villa, you could feel the weight of the looming battle on his shoulders. The orders from Emperor Geta and Caracalla had been clear: Acacius was to return to the front lines in two days. The idea of losing him, of seeing him walk into another battle with the same fierce determination he had shown every time, filled you with dread.

The villa felt quieter that night, the cool breeze brushing against the stone walls, but inside, the silence was almost suffocating. Acacius was pacing in his chamber, his armor now set aside, but his mind seemed far from peace. You watched him from the doorway for a moment, your heart aching as you saw him battle with his own thoughts.

"Acacius," you said softly, stepping closer.

He didn’t look up right away, but when he did, his eyes seemed to carry the weight of the world.    "I’m sorry," he muttered. "I know you want more from me, but right now, my duty—my loyalty—it demands more than I can give."

You walked toward him, the soft sound of your sandals barely reaching his ears. "You don't have to apologize," you said quietly, touching his arm. "But I can see it... you're restless. You're carrying the burden of something you shouldn't have to face alone."

He sighed deeply, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I have no choice. The orders are clear. If I don't return to battle, I dishonor my men, and if I do... I risk everything. Including you."

Your heart fluttered at his words. You moved a little closer, your voice softer now. "You don't have to risk everything alone. I’m here, Acacius. If you need my company tonight, I will stay. I will help carry your burden, if only for this one night."

For a moment, he stood still, as if weighing your words. Then, slowly, his hands reached for you, gently pulling you closer until there was no distance left between you. The tension in his shoulders softened, but only slightly. His eyes, filled with uncertainty and longing, met yours.

"I don’t deserve you.” he murmured, his voice rough.

You shook your head, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "You are more than that. You are the man who has kept me safe, and for that alone, I would follow you anywhere."

He seemed to hesitate for just a breath, then, with a sudden urgency, he kissed you. It was gentle at first, a soft press of his lips against yours, as if he were testing the waters. But the moment your lips met, everything else faded. The weight of the empire, the war, the orders—none of it mattered in that instant. The world outside was silent, and the only thing that existed was the warmth of his kiss, the soft but undeniable spark between you.

As he pulled away slightly, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing a little faster, your hearts racing. His voice was low, almost a whisper. "You’ve made this so much harder”

You smiled softly, your hands resting against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingers. "Maybe that’s exactly what I want," you whispered, a playful glint in your eyes.

His lips brushed against yours again, this time more urgently, more desperately, as if the fear of losing you in the battle, or the fear of losing everything in the coming days, had driven him to this moment.

And in that kiss, you both found something you hadn’t realized you were searching for. You had been lost in the chaos of the empire, in the uncertainty of what came next, but in this moment, with him, everything felt right. You weren’t alone anymore.

As you pulled away from the kiss, Acacius didn’t let go of you right away, his hands still resting on your shoulders, as though afraid you might slip away. His breath was uneven, his chest rising and falling in time with your own. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the world outside the villa’s walls completely forgotten.

Carefully, he brought his hands to your shoulders, traveling down your arms, at the same time your skin bristled under his touch. You had never felt this before, the mixture of nerves and lust of being touched with delicacy and love that you didn't know could exist.

He carried you to his bed gently, in slow steps without taking his gaze from your eyes that looked at him with curiosity and lost in the ecstasy of the moment.

Lust and desire.

The fabric of your dress felt suffocating against your skin and as if he had read your mind, he peeled your clothes off your skin leaving you completely exposed under his gaze. You gaped at him, half embarrassed, half impressed, then he pulled his lips back upon yours, palming your breast, as he made his way to his bed.

You chuckled as you lay there, and his face matched your smile as he continued to kiss you down your neck. The warmth of your uneven breaths mingled, enveloping you both as he quickly worked on his garments, and as soon as his clothes were removed, there was nothing to keep you apart. You curled your fingers in his hair as he kissed you all over your body for the first time. You could sense the emotions, but the intimacy and lust were like a fire in your core.

You felt Acacius' lips against your hips and angled them up for him. You were already dripping as he licked a route from your thigh to your cunt before sucking on your clit and pressing his fingers against you.

You whimpered while holding his head between your legs. His cock hardened as the sound from your lips and you clenched around his fingers. He sucked like he was hungry, forcing your legs apart till you had one calf under his shoulder. His free hand moved up your torso, grabbing your breast, as his nose rubbed against your clit. For instinct, you buried your heel into his back and dragged him closer until all he could taste was you.

He fucked you slowly, taking his time to taste your wetness on his lips before locking eyes with you. You were flustered, and your eyes shone.

"You...fuck," you whispered.

"I want you; I need you before leaving" he whispered desperately, going forward between your legs, forcing your knees up to your breasts, and plunging into you easily. You sighed and leaned forward to kiss him. Your hands were on the back of his neck, and he was on your breasts, attempting to touch you everywhere. As you both kissed, you raised your hips to fuck up into him as he drove down into you, attempting to be as cautious as possible.

You mumbled "Acacius, I love you" into his ear before he reclaimed your lips. He leaned down and sucked your nipples, lightly biting your breasts.

“I’ll come back for you cara mia” he promised, between thrusts, grinding his cock as deep as into you as it could go as you encouraged him with your moans and nails scratching down his back. Those marks would accompany the wounds of thousands of battles.

He slid his hand down to your pussy and rubbed along your clit. You fucked yourself harder on him by thrusting back against him right away.

When you came, he whispered something on your neck. You clutched around him and your hips trembled even as he continued to fuck you. Soon after, he began thrusting into you and eventually pulled out while making uneasy gasps in your shoulders. After that, the only sound in the room was the mingling of your breaths.

Acacius was nosing at your throat, promising he would come back alive to continue his life adoring you

The room was quiet, save for the soft rhythm of your breaths, which mingled together in the stillness. Time seemed to stretch, the weight of the moment settling around you like a gentle, unspoken promise.

his warm breath grazing your neck, and you felt a shiver run down your spine. His hands, still holding you with a tenderness you hadn't known before, seemed to search for something, as though memorizing the contours of your skin, tracing the lines of your jaw, your shoulders, your breath.

"I’ll come back," he murmured, his voice hushed, as though sharing a secret only meant for you. "I promise, I will come back to you. I won't leave you alone."

His lips brushed lightly against the soft skin of your throat, and you could feel the intensity of his words in that simple, delicate touch. You felt a sudden knot tighten in your chest, a mixture of longing and fear, but more than that, a deep, consuming need to believe him, to trust in the promise he was making.

"I will continue my life loving you," he continued, his voice thick with emotion, as though each word was a vow, a binding thread between you two. "When the battles are over, when the storm has passed, I'll be here and I will adore you for as long as I live."

You closed your eyes, feeling the warmth of his body pressed so closely against yours, the heat of his devotion seeping into your soul. For a brief, fleeting moment, it felt as if everything else faded away—the empire, the scheming, the endless pressures. It was just the two of you in that room, your hearts beating as one, a bond forged in the quiet moments when nothing else mattered.

You took a deep breath, feeling his hands gently cradle your face, his thumb brushing away the stray tear that had escaped. Your hand instinctively reached for his, holding onto him tightly as if the act itself could somehow make his promise real, could anchor him to you forever.

"I need you to come back," you whispered, the words escaping before you could stop them, your voice trembling with the weight of the truth behind them.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, his hands steady and comforting. Then, with a soft and almost hesitant voice, Acacius finally asked, "Could you stay with me tonight? Sleep beside me."

The vulnerability in his words surprised you. Acacius had always been the strong, unshakable general, the one who carried the weight of the empire on his shoulders with unyielding resolve. But now, in the quiet of your shared space, he seemed as human as anyone, his guard lowered, his needs simple, yet profound.

Your heart gave a quiet thud in your chest, and without hesitation, you nodded. "Of course," you said softly. "I’m not going anywhere."

His eyes softened, the slightest flicker of relief crossing his features. He led you over to the bed, the weight of the day seeming to leave him as he settled beside you. The soft rustle of the sheets was the only sound as he adjusted, his body tense but slowly relaxing as you lay beside him.

For a moment, neither of you said anything, simply sharing the same quiet space, your presence the only comfort either of you needed. But the closeness was enough. It was as though the war, the orders, the empire itself could not reach you here, in this space that was just yours and his.

"Stay with me," he whispered after a while, his voice barely audible in the stillness of the room. His hand found yours in the dark, his fingers threading through yours, a simple but grounding gesture.

You squeezed his hand gently, resting your head on the pillow beside him. "I’m not going anywhere, Acacius. I’m here. And I’ll be here tomorrow, and the day after, no matter what happens."

The words hung in the air, simple but true, and in that moment, you both found something precious, peace in the storm, a promise without words. Acacius’s breath slowed, his body finally releasing the tension that had held him captive for so long.

Acacius woke slowly, the gray light of early morning spilling softly into the room. For a moment, the heaviness of his reality came crashing down on him—the orders from Geta and Caracalla, the battle that awaited him, and the uncertainty of what lay ahead. The weight was still there, pressing on his chest like an unrelenting force, refusing to let him breathe freely.

But then, he became aware of something else.

You.

Your warmth was pressed against him, your head resting on his chest, your hand lightly curled over his heart. The soft rise and fall of your breathing matched the quiet rhythm of the room, and for the first time in days, maybe even months, Acacius felt the smallest flicker of peace.

He glanced down at you, his eyes tracing the curve of your face in the gentle morning light. You looked so calm, so trusting, nestled beside him, as though you belonged there. A part of him still couldn’t believe you had stayed, that you had given him this small gift of solace before he left for what could be his last battle.

Carefully, as though afraid to wake you, he lifted a hand and brushed a strand of hair from your face. His touch lingered for a moment, his fingers barely grazing your skin, and he let out a quiet sigh. How had it come to this? How had you, someone he had been ordered to protect, become the person who made him feel safe?

The thought brought a bittersweet smile to his lips. He knew he didn’t deserve this, didn’t deserve you. And yet, here you were, giving him the strength he hadn’t even known he needed.

You stirred slightly, nuzzling closer to him in your sleep, and he froze for a moment, unsure if you were waking. But you only let out a soft sigh and settled against him once more. He couldn’t help the way his arm tightened around you, holding you closer, as though he could shield you from the world for just a little while longer.

His voice was barely a whisper, more to himself than to you. "What have you done to me?"

As the minutes passed, Acacius let himself stay in that moment, letting go of the weight of his duty, if only for a little while. With you there, the storm within him seemed to quiet, and for the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to hope.

When you finally began to stir, blinking sleepily up at him, he felt his chest tighten. Your eyes met his, and though your expression was soft, he could see the worry lingering there.

"Good morning," you murmured, your voice warm and still tinged with sleep.

"Good morning," he replied, his voice lower than usual, as though the morning had stolen some of his strength.

You reached up, your fingers brushing lightly against his cheek. "You didn’t sleep much, did you?"

He shook his head, his lips quirking into a faint smile. "No. But this... this helped."

You smiled at that, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. "Then let me help you more. Whatever you need, Acacius, I’m here."

He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning into your touch as though it was the only thing keeping him steady. When he opened them again, his gaze was clear, filled with something deeper than gratitude.

"I’ll remember this," he said softly, his voice carrying a promise you didn’t fully understand but felt all the same. "No matter what happens, I’ll remember."

[phantomwithbreakfast]

DANNYMAY DAY 04: Eyes

Day 03 • Day 05

⟢ I love drawing eyes—their silence is louder than any scream. They don’t just look at you—they look through you, peeling back the layers you thought were hidden. Eyes are traitors to the soul, holding secrets no mouth could ever speak. They’re the one part of the body that never lies. (More under the cut)

Genre: Angst / Hurt / No Comfort • TW/CW: Graphic Content (Implied) — Trauma — Emotional Distress • Scarred For Half A Life (phic), my head canon • AU — OOC

Before the fall

His eyes used to be soft. “Ocean blue,” Jazz once said—like he had the whole world in front of him. Danny smiled more back then. He didn’t know what it meant to be—to be afraid of your own reflection. He didn’t know what it meant to be… to be haunted by yourself.

The moment it all changed

Then he died. Sort of. The portal lit up and swallowed him in stars. Pain, light, nothing. When he opened his eyes again, they weren’t his anymore. Something burned into the surface—a crackling, glowing scar. A warning etched into the iris. He stepped out different. He even thinks… part of him stayed inside.

After the nightmare

They broke him. Piece by fragile piece. Cut, shocked, bled, questioned. Loved, maybe. Hated, definitely. His eyes stopped crying long before his voice did. He forgot what warmth looked like. Sometimes he stared into a mirror just to see if he was still there. Sometimes… he wasn’t.

The return

He’s back. Not hole. Not healed. But he has power again. And rage. And scars no one can see. His eyes don’t plead anymore. They don’t hope. They hunt. “You took everything from me. So I’ll take something back.” And you’ll know it when he looks at you.

⟢ The second pair of eyes, someone had shared it—and I thought it was so freaking cool! Tragic, but awesome! Being zapped by 14.000 volts of electricity. The effect was two star-shaped electrical burns into his eyes. That’s just… so Danny coded!

⟢ For those still questioning the scarring on the left side of his face and the damage to his left eye—it’s a Lichtenberg scar, the result of sustained high-voltage electrocution during forced compliance in experimental procedures. Specifically, it formed when he refused to obey during one of their more aggressive sessions. The current surged through him, burning its dendritic mark into his skin. But the damage ran deeper. The shock ruptured the inner structures of his eye—tearing apart the iris and pupil from within, possibly detaching the retina. The result—permanent trauma-induced blindness in that eye. Almost blind. It’s even more tragic than it sounds.

[berrryparfait]

❝ i don't look good in this dress... ❞ ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥

♥︎ featuring: sylus, zayne, rafayel, xavier, caleb x fem!reader | prompt

— ༉‧₊ᐟ premise: you don't think this dress looks good on you... he begs to differ. 「i really don't see what you're seeing, babe.」

— ༉‧₊ᐟ tags/cws: fluff, shopping date, reader tries on a dress that hugs her curves and doesn't like how it looks, mentions of weight loss, insecurity, reassurance, he's whipped and worships the ground you walk on

— ♫₊ᐟ soundtrack: lipstick – charlie puth

✧ a/n: requested work that i rushed to complete because i wanted all of u to know that u are GORGEOUS. do us all a favor and wear that dress girl ♡(>ᴗ•)

Nothing makes you happier than a shopping date with the love of your life. The way he’d been so eager to plan this day—to put a smile on your pretty face as if your happiness were his own… Well, it is.

You’d made preparations of your own, too. You had a rough idea of what you wanted to try on, and you’re determined not to leave empty-handed today. All that’s left is to slip into the dresses you’ve picked.

But when you finally zip this one up, it’s… not what you’d hoped for. And deep down, part of you knows—it’s not the dress’s fault.

“Babe, I don’t look good in this dress…”

Sylus lounges on the fitting room couch, one arm stretched out on top of the backrest. He’s been sitting here this whole time, thoroughly enjoying the view each time you emerge from behind the curtains.

He’s cleared out the store today for you to shop “in peace,” so it’s just you, him, and two store assistants in the room.

He frowns at your words, raking his piercing eyes up and down the length of your body once more. A disbelieving smirk curls his lips as he drawls, “Don’t be ridiculous, sweetie. You look ravishing in this dress—in fact, I’ll have them ring it up for us right now—”

“I-I don’t think I want this one, babe…” You sigh as you gaze at your reflection in the mirror, the dress cinching your body in all the wrong places. It just looks…unflattering.

Sylus waves the assistants away and studies your expression once more, realization dawning. He’s always thought you pulled off everything you’ve ever worn—to him, this dress is no different. But he knows about your insecurities…

“…I’ve made my opinion clear, Kitten, but you can’t seem to get it in that head of yours that you are unreasonably beautiful.”

You smile at his words, though it doesn’t quite meet your eyes. You’ve heard him compliment your looks a thousand times now, but insecurities aren’t so easily vanquished. They start and end with… well, you. No one else can touch them.

“I love you for that, Sy—but it’s not that simple. I’ve lived with these thoughts my whole life.”

His arrogant stance softens, and though the sureness in his voice remains. To him, your beauty is fact—an indisputable one.

“I don’t mean to undermine what you’ve been through. I only mean to highlight my perspective.” He stands up and twirls you around like you’re dandelions waltzing through a ballroom of wind, his hands memorizing every curve, every dip of your body. “If you could only see yourself the way I do… I’d squander the world for just another glimpse.”

Zayne leans against a wall, your leather purse in hand. He waits patiently while you try on each piece of clothing, occasionally pulling out his phone to skim through articles on cardiothoracic surgery training in Japan.

You step out of the fitting room wearing a form-fitting black dress, unsure what to think of it. It feels a little tight around your hips, and though you’ve been eager to try it on for days, you can’t help but feel disappointed. You glance at your reflection in the mirror and fight the urge to retreat into the fitting room before anyone else sees you.

Zayne catches the panic in your eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

“It’s just… This dress makes me look chubbier, don’t you think?”

He tilts his head and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “It accentuates your curves, which is hardly something to be upset about. You look beautiful—as always.”

His words warm you, but the tightness in your chest remains, your insecurities gripping your ribcage like a clawed hand. “I should lose some weight…” you mutter.

His brows knit together as he steps closer, concern softening his features. “Don’t sacrifice your health and wellbeing for the sake of meeting society’s so-called 'beauty standards. They’re unrealistic, fabricated, and frankly, unattainable. Your natural body is perfect just the way it is, and I mean that." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "This dress is gorgeous because you’re wearing it.”

He cups your cheek in his palm, and you smile up at him. Sensitive, adoring Zayne. While it’ll take more than an ultra-romantic speech to quiet the voice inside your head, his reassurance soothes the ache you’ve carried for years.

What once was a scar is now a patch of healing tissue—thanks in part to Zayne’s unwavering affirmations, and in part to your own efforts to love and accept yourself.

A group of girls are parading their outfits a few booths down from yours, giggling and squealing as they pose for photos. They’re stunning—slim and toned in all the right places, with flawless skin and sculpted jawlines.

You glance down at the dress you’re wearing, and it feels like a punch to the gut. How can you ever compete with girls like that? How do you look next to them? A nauseating wave of envy and self-doubt crashes over you, and your eyes instinctively seek out Rafayel for reassurance.

He’s staring at you with wide, hazy eyes, lips slightly parted as his gaze roams over your body. You blush, self-conscious, crossing your arms over your torso.

He jolts back to reality, the misty look on his face evaporating. “What was that for? I was enjoying the view.”

“You don’t have to lie, you know. This dress isn’t for me…”

He shakes his head, clearly baffled, and closes the distance between you in two strides. A half-smirk pulls at his lips as he says, “You’re kidding me, right? You look fuckin’ hot.” His hands trail down your thighs, raising goosebumps in their wake. “Can we get this one? Please?” he murmurs into your ear.

You gently push him away. “...Nah. It’s unflattering on me.”

Rafayel scoffs, but there’s a surprising tenderness in his eyes when he says, “Listen, babe, you’re the most drop-dead gorgeous woman on earth, and the fact that you can’t see that? It genuinely breaks my heart. Tragic, really—”

You smack his arm and chuckle, the heaviness in your chest already starting to lift. Bless Rafayel and his ability to pull you from the depths of your own mind. Turning back to the mirror, you glance at your reflection again and think… It does make your ass look amazing. “…Maybe I will get it.”

“That’s my girl.” His grin turns wicked. “I can’t wait to take it off you…”

Xavier is dozing off on the couch, his head drooping and his eyelids fluttering. It’s an adorable sight—one that nearly distracts you from the reflection in the dressing room mirror.

Your hands smooth over the fabric of the blue cocktail dress, its fit on your body…disappointing. This isn’t how it looked on the mannequin, you think, heat blooming in your cheeks. All at once, your insecurities come crashing down, suffocating you with reminders that you’re “less than”, that you’ll never feel truly comfortable in your own skin—

“I like that dress. You look good.”

You spin around to see Xavier now sitting upright, his gaze fixed on your back. “You think so?”

He nods, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. But then again, everything looks good on you. It’s you.”

You bite your lip, hesitant to turn around. “You don’t think it makes me look… I don’t know…bigger?”

“Uhh…?” He frowns, confused. “What do you mean? Turn around. I want to see it.”

Slowly, you turn to face him, baring the gentle curve of your breasts and the mound of your tummy. You avert your gaze, fidgeting under the weight of his stare.

“Oh.”

“You don’t like it?” your voice wavers, your heart freezing as the blood drains from your face.

He shakes his head rapidly and shifts in his seat. “N-No, it’s not that… I just— I—” He quickly folds his arms over his lap, and you understand immediately.

A laugh escapes your lips.

He glares at you. “Don’t.”

“I’m sorry! You’ve just really boosted my confidence today, that’s all,” you say between giggles. Suddenly, the mirror doesn’t seem so cruel. If this turns him on just by looking at it…

“Yeah, yeah, you’re hot. We get it…” he mutters, still throwing you dirty looks on the car ride home.

You spin around in the yellow sundress, the fabric hugging your curves and accentuating your hips. It looked different when the model wore it online…

Caleb is gawking at you from outside the fitting booth, arms crossed over his chest. “That dress looks so sexy on you, Pips. Let me get it for you—”

“Wait! I, uh… I don’t know how I feel about it…” You try not to betray your emotions, shoving the knot of insecurity down your throat. You’ve always struggled with body image, but you don’t want to worry Caleb by bringing it up.

Or worse—put those ideas into his head.

He steps forward, placing his hands gently on your waist as he takes in the way the fabric cascades down your legs, how it emphasizes your soft curves and full breasts. The very sight of you in it steals the breath from his lungs.

“Is this about your body?” he asks carefully, clearly afraid of striking a nerve.

You look down at your feet and shift uneasily, the nagging feeling intensifying beneath the weight of his gaze.

Caleb leans in and tilts your face up to meet his. “...Hey. I’ve traveled the world, and you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever laid eyes on, okay?” His thumbs stroke your cheeks with the softness of a summer breeze. “Why else would I be dating you—your personality?”

You glare at him, fighting to suppress a smile.

He wraps you in his arms before you can argue, and you melt into his embrace, allowing yourself—for once—to believe him.

You’re strong, funny, determined, and kind; and let’s not forget the fact that you pulled Caleb, the hottest pilot in any airport and the only man who sees you for exactly who you are.

“You’re the eighth wonder of the world, babe. Inside and out.”

— ⋆˙⟡ ©berrryparfait

《 please do not copy / plagiarize / translate my works or publish them on any other platforms. 》

[whos-the-seme]

Shen Qingqiu was doomed.

He stood still, fluttering his fan nervously and trying to avoid catching his counterpart's, the real Shen Qingqiu, glaring eyes from across the room. Instead, he idly observed the other Cang Qiong Mountain Peak Lords, trying to spot the differences between the ones he knew and their alternates.

Liu Qingge had brought back a strange artifact from one of his hunts to the monthly Peak Lord meeting. It was a mirror, rimmed an ugly tarnished gold, topped with a decoration that was shaped into an unidentifiable creature with ruby red eyes.

[Important Artifact Detected: Red-Eyed Sphinx's Mirror! Quest starting...]

Shen Qingqiu had been trying to remember where it might have appeared in PIDW when the surface of the mirror suddenly began to glow a dull yellow. It quickly brightened until it obscured everyone's vision.

And then, there stood another set of peak lords across the room, facing them down.

System, what on earth is going on???

[Quest started: Lost Long Spirit in My Reflection! Other characters have been transported to this universe. Host must find a way to send them back without revealing his identity as a transmigrator.]

WTF? I didn't agree to this!

[Good luck!]

System??? Get back here!

While the two Yue Qingyuans and Xu Qinglis conversed together to try to understand what had happened, the other peak lords had begun to mingle with each other, curious about their counterparts.

Shen Qingqiu tried to suppress his panic, sticking close to Shang Qinghua. His Yue Qingyuan occasionally flicked his softened gaze towards the alternate Shen Qingqiu, likely noticing that the other still acted as he used to before his qi deviation. In fact, several of the peak lords he had gotten to know over the years were sending some looks at the other Shen Qingqiu.

With the original goods right there, how long would it be before something exposed him as a fraud?? What if he was confronted about why he acted so differently?

[Host must avoid having his identity exposed. Being revealed as a transmigrator will result in Host being immediately sent back to his old body.]

Yeah, yeah, same shit as always!

Looking to his side, Shang Qinghua seemed to be experiencing the same threats, desperately looking away from the more dead-eyed Shang Qinghua across the room who, luckily, was barely paying him any attention.

Fuck, what do we do?

---

Shen Qingqiu continued to glare at the Other Shen Qingqiu in the room. The other Shen Qingqiu was so obviously a fraud, he could tell within minutes of being here. While his alternate seemed somewhat familiar, he didn't act like him at all, his mannerisms were all off, and despite the attempt at keeping a poker face, Shen Qingqiu could tell that he was nervous. Probably at being caught out.

His alternate self had likely been replaced with a bodysnatcher or some sort of spirt, if they truly were supposed to be the same person. Was everyone else stupid, or had they had their brains sucked out by a Heart Mouthed Lobster-Squid?

Or maybe they simply like the bodysnatcher better and didn't bother to investigate.

Shen Qingqiu's face became stormier, turning his glare to the Other Yue Qingyuan, wondering if he had felt happier once his precious Xiao-Jiu had vanished. The other Yue Qingyuan's face grew even more pathetic. Tch. Typical.

"That stupid System--" Shen Qingqiu nearly snapped his neck in looking at the bodysnatcher upon hearing his murmur. The fraud, upon noticing his sudden attention, clammed back up and looked away. But Shen Qingqiu knew what he heard.

Xi Tong.

He hadn't heard those words in years, not since--

He stepped forward, scanning the other once more. Upon a second, more thorough look, Shen Qingqiu realized that he grew more familiar. He wore his hair in the way that Shen Qingqiu wore it, but looser and less severe. His eyes were clearer and lighter, with hints of a smile, despite his nerves. He occasionally quickly glanced up and to his left, as if seeing something there, before bringing his attention back to the room at large.

No. It couldn't be. He was long dead, despite Shen Qingqiu's best efforts. Even if the fake had some similar things about him, that doesn't mean--

Shen Jiu had once had a brother, besides Qi-ge. Slightly smaller than him, despite the fact that Shen Jiu passed him along as much food as he could when on the streets. He smiled so much despite their circumstances, and was so kind despite Shen Jiu constantly telling him that he was making himself a target. But he looked so, so similar to Shen Jiu himself. They could have switched their clothes and looked exactly the same, if one didn't notice the difference in their demeanors.

His brother has also always been a little odd, talking to himself and arguing with an imaginary friend that only he could see named Xi Tong. One of the reasons that they survived as long as they did on the streets was due to the inexplicable knowledge that his brother seemed to have. Somehow, his brother knew about the various plants or small animals that they could hunt and sell for a pretty coin in the markets. Shen Jiu never asked, not looking a gift horse in the mouth.

But his brother was dead. He had died years ago, in the time during when they were in Qiu's manor. During a punishment for Shen Jiu's attempt to get them both to join Wu Yanzi; he had switched their clothes and taken Shen Jiu's place and died for it. That had been the final catalyst that made him set the manor ablaze and escape, mourning his brother's death as his fault for daring to be free. Cursing Qi-ge for not coming back for them.

Dazed and his vision dim, Shen Jiu took another step forward, and another. Hope, something he thought he had killed off long ago, slowly rose in his chest.

Had his brother survived in this world? Had he managed to escape alongside Shen Jiu? Or had Shen Jiu died in his place? Dimly, he can't help but think that the world would be far kinder if that were the case. If his brother had made it to Cang Qiong Mountain and became a peak lord all on his own and still managed to keep his smile. If he didn't have Shen Jiu dragging him down with him.

The other Shen Qingqiu, not having noticed his approach, laughed at something the other Shang Qinghua said ("Wonder if Shang Qinghua is a traitor here, too," Shen Jiu thought dimly). His laugh was the same. He rose his fan to hide his face, but Shen Jiu noticed how his nose crinkled, and his eyes nearly closed in delight, exactly like--

"A-Yuan?"

[onlypinkslut]

“ mirror, mirror” personal trainer!toji x fem!reader

cw: nsfw +18, personal trainer!toji, body image issues, praise kink, oral fixation, messy pussy obsession, gym setting, possessive filth, light dubcon, overstimulation

you joined the gym to fix how he saw you. but toji saw everything from the start. the softness. the stretchmarks. the way you looked in that mirror. even unshaved, even insecure he couldn’t stop staring. and once he touched you, he never stopped.

“you know, maybe if you worked out like her, you wouldn’t look like this.”

your boyfriend voice wasn’t even angry. it was worse—flat. dismissive. the kind of tone people used when talking about a dish they didn’t like at a restaurant. impersonal. cruel in how casual it was.

you stood in the doorway holding the plate of food you’d just made him, steam still rising from the rice, the smell of garlic and butter clinging to your shirt. you hadn’t eaten yet you were waiting to eat with him. like you always did. stupid.

but he hadn’t even looked up from his phone.

you watched his thumb flick mindlessly across the screen, scrolling through reels, muted videos of women dancing, posing, stretching. your eyes landed on one of them a girl in a gym bathroom mirror, flexing her abs in a bright green matching set, fake lashes fluttering as she did a full spin to show off her backside. thousands of likes.

your heart twisted.

“i made you dinner,” you said after a long silence, voice soft and tight.

he blinked. didn’t even glance at the plate.

“wasn’t hungry.”

your hands tightened around the dish.

he sighed like you were the problem.

you stepped forward, carefully placing the plate on the table between you. his beer bottle sat next to it, nearly empty. you picked it up and carried it to the sink, just to keep yourself from snapping.

“you haven’t eaten all day,” you said quietly, back turned to him. “you’ll get a headache.”

you heard the smirk in his voice. “don’t worry, you eat enough for both of us.”

your spine stiffened.

he laughed. like it was funny. like he hadn’t just hit every nerve you’d tried to bury all week.

your chest tightened, shame blooming hot across your skin. you looked down at yourself old t-shirt, your favorite one. soft. comforting. you could feel how it clung to your body. the swell of your stomach where it curved out just slightly. the way your thighs brushed together when you shifted.

too soft. too much. always too much.

you turned around, eyes burning. “you don’t have to say things like that.”

he finally looked up.

“like what? i’m just being honest.” he nodded at the phone screen, showing it to you. another girl. this one bent over in leggings so tight they looked airbrushed on. “look at her. she probably eats clean, lifts heavy. maybe you could take notes.”

your lips parted. the sting of humiliation mixed with a thick, hot ache in your chest.

“that’s what you want, right?” you asked. “someone who looks like that?”

he rolled his eyes, tossing the phone onto the couch. “what i want is for you to stop being so sensitive. jesus. maybe if you actually tried signed up for a gym or something you wouldn’t be so fucking insecure all the time.”

you didn’t respond.

but that night, after he fell asleep, you curled up in the bathroom with your phone and signed up for a free trial at the closest gym.

the gym was too bright. too open. mirrors everywhere, glass walls, windows that let in too much light. you could see your reflection in at least five different angles and you hated all of them.

girls passed you in groups or alone, sleek and tight in matching sets. flawless ponytails, winged eyeliner, flat stomachs. bodies that belonged here. they moved like they knew how to use every machine, like they didn’t flinch when someone looked at them. they didn’t tug at their tops or pull their shirts down. they didn’t care who was watching.

your beige leggings clung too tightly around your thighs. you’d bought them months ago but barely worn them. you could feel the soft bulge of your stomach pressing over the waistband, your bra digging into your ribs. everything about you felt wrong.

you pulled your oversized hoodie down to cover as much as you could. your palms were already sweaty.

you just wanted to do a few machines. nothing serious. just… move. be away from him. pretend you weren’t made of all the things he hated.

you were halfway toward the back treadmills when a deep voice stopped you.

“first time?”

you startled.

turned.

and nearly forgot how to speak.

he was… tall. too tall. towering. broad-shouldered and solid. dressed in black gym gear that stretched over thick muscle, his biceps wrapped in veiny cords and a towel draped casually around his neck. his hair was a little messy, like he’d just finished a set and didn’t care to fix it. a scar cut across his lip. dark eyes, sharp and steady, locked on you.

your heart jumped.

you nodded slowly. “yeah. that obvious, mm?”

he gave a one-sided smile. more amused than mocking.

“not really. just recognized the look. lotta people walk in here like the floor’s gonna eat them.”

you gave a breathy laugh. awkward. unsure. his eyes lit up just a little at the sound.

“i’m toji,” he said, offering a hand. “trainer here.”

you took it. his hand was warm, dry, firm. yours felt small and clammy inside it.

“you got a schedule? anyone show you around yet?”

“no, i was just gonna… figure it out on my own.”

he cocked his head. “gonna start with squats?”

you blinked. “i guess?”

he nodded, already walking toward the racks. you followed like you didn’t have a choice.

“if you don’t start right, you’ll mess up your form for months,” he said, not unkindly. “i’ll show you.”

you nodded, biting your lip.

at the rack, he adjusted the bar for your height, then stepped behind you.

really behind you.

you could feel his presence at your back. taller than you. broader. heat radiating off him in waves.

“feet shoulder-width apart,” he murmured. “good. now, hips back, chest forward. relax your core.”

your stomach tensed automatically.

“nope. don’t suck it in. breathe normal. let your body do the work.”

you exhaled shakily and let go. your hoodie had ridden up an inch, exposing the plush curve of your stomach.

you felt disgusting. exposed. why did i wear these leggings?

and then his hand.

big. steady. resting just above your waist.

you froze.

“don’t worry,” he said softly, adjusting your posture. “just guiding you.”

he felt it.

the softness. the gentle give of your skin beneath his palm. the way your hips curved into his grip. how your stomach moved when you breathed.

she’s so fucking soft, he thought. not squishy in a bad way. in a real way. warm. perfect. fuck, i haven’t felt this in

he caught himself.

you were still holding your breath.

“you alright?” he asked, voice lower.

you nodded too fast. “yeah. just… nervous.”

he leaned down a little. his breath brushed your ear.

“you’ve got nothing to be nervous about.”

you didn’t know why, but the way he said it made you want to cry.

you sat alone on the small bench near the dumbbell racks, hoodie bunched up around your waist, cheeks flushed, thighs still trembling slightly from the sets. your water bottle was empty. your back was damp with sweat.

and still, you felt ugly.

your eyes drifted to the girls across the gym. a trio of them by the squat machines matching outfits, perfect nails, waist trainers cinched so tight they looked like hourglasses sculpted by hand. one was taking a selfie. the others posed behind her, laughing like they hadn’t even worked out. not a single line on their foreheads. their makeup hadn’t moved.

you pulled your hoodie down again.

your phone buzzed beside you. a message from your boyfriend.

don’t overdo it lol. i don’t like when you get all red and sweaty. not cute.

your throat tightened.

what the fuck am i even doing here.

“you’re still thinkin’ too much.”

you jumped.

toji was leaning against the wall beside you, arms crossed over his chest, towel draped around his neck. he must’ve been watching you maybe this whole time. he didn’t look away when you turned to him. just raised a brow.

“you’re staring at them like you’re not supposed to exist in the same room.”

you looked down. “i wasn’t”

“you were.”

heat bloomed up your chest.

you let out a breath, small and bitter. “they just look like they belong here.”

“how many of ‘em you think paid to look like that?”

you blinked. looked back at him.

his gaze was hard. unbothered. like he didn’t care if you got offended.

“waist snatched. ass perfectly round. hips tight. you think that shit comes from a dumbbell? nah. that’s surgery.” he uncrossed his arms. “genetics if you’re lucky. but most of it’s fake. i’ve trained a lot of girls. i’ve seen the receipts.”

you swallowed.

“that doesn’t mean they’re not..”

“pretty?” he cut in. “yeah, sure. but they’re not you.”

your breath caught. you didn’t know what to say.

his eyes flicked down your frame. quick, but thorough. you could feel it.

“i’ve seen what fake looks like,” he muttered, almost like to himself. “you got something better.”

your throat went dry.

he straightened, rolling his shoulders. “don’t let that clown you’re dating make you forget that.”

your head whipped up. “how..”

he smirked. “your phone’s not exactly private when your face changes every time it buzzes.”

you froze. cheeks burning. “he’s just he didn’t mean it like that.”

toji stared at you like you just told him water wasn’t wet.

then, quietly “yeah. he did.”

he didn’t say it cruelly. he didn’t say anything else.

he just turned and walked away, towel slung back over his neck, veins shifting under his arms as he made his way toward the machines again. like he hadn’t just peeled you open and told you the truth no one else dared to say.

you sat there, heart pounding, hands clutching your bottle.

you could feel his eyes on you before you even reached the squat rack.

your legging clung to your thighs with every step, the soft cotton riding up no matter how many times you tugged them down. your hoodie was too warm, clinging to your damp skin. you were already flushed. already doubting your decision to try and look cute.

and toji had barely said a word since you walked in.

he just looked.

like he was trying to decide something.

his gaze had lingered too long at your waist. then your thighs. then your chest how the white sports bra hugged and lifted just enough to show the curve of your cleavage when you leaned forward to stretch.

you caught him staring in the mirror.

he didn’t look away.

“ready?” he finally said, voice lower than usual.

you nodded, throat dry. “yeah.”

he followed you to the rack, watching your hips move, your ass sway slightly with each step. he wanted to grip it. press into it. bite it. fuck.

but he kept his hands to himself for now.

“same stance,” he muttered behind you, already stepping in close. “feet apart. point your toes out a little. yep.”

you adjusted. heart racing.

his hand landed on your hip.

you flinched.

he didn’t move it.

“relax,” he said, voice softer now. more… coaxing.

you swallowed hard.

his palm was wide. warm. calloused. fingers spread over the round curve of your waist like it was his. thumb brushing against the softness above your shorts, resting right where your hoodie had lifted just enough to expose skin.

“tuck your hips under. breathe in. good now down slow. real slow.”

you bent at the knees. thighs trembling.

the stretch pulled your stomach in, then let it fall again as you sank. your ass curved outward. soft. full. your thighs spread. the motion made your body press back into him. not all the way but enough.

and he didn’t move.

you whimpered softly. barely audible. but toji heard it.

his breath hitched.

his hand squeezed your hip.

“don’t hold your breath,” he said roughly. “breathe through it.”

you nodded, too dizzy to answer.

you pushed back up.

and this time you pressed against him fully.

his hips met yours.

hard.

the front of his sweatpants ground into the swell of your ass for just a second. enough to feel the heat. the shape. how solid he was. how hard he was getting.

you let out a tiny, involuntary sound barely a breath.

“again,” he muttered, voice like gravel now.

you dropped down again. slower.

this time, his hand moved. slid from your waist to your lower stomach. fingers grazing the curve of it. he didn’t grab not yet but he traced along it like he needed to feel the way it softened under his touch. his other hand found your inner thigh. adjusted it slightly. skin on skin.

you whimpered again, this time louder.

he leaned down, lips near your ear.

“that’s it,” he murmured. “just like that. you feel that stretch, sweetheart?”

you nodded shakily. couldn’t speak.

his hand lingered on your stomach, thumb rubbing slow circles against the curve you always tried to hide. your breath came out in shudders. your thighs trembled.

“you’re stronger than you think,” he muttered.

god, you were soaked with sweat. not just from the squats. but from the heat of him. the way he was touching you like no one had ever touched you before. like he saw you. like he wanted you.

“tired?” he asked, a little too close to your neck.

“mm nnh…” you tried to answer but your voice came out broken. weak.

he smirked.

you pushed back up one last time.

your ass pressed flush against him again, the soft curve jiggling slightly as your muscles gave out. your legs wobbled, body collapsing forward with a gasp. and that’s when both his hands caught you one on your belly, one gripping your thigh.

you whimpered again, lower now, more desperate.

“easy,” he muttered, lips near your jaw. “don’t push past your limit.”

you nodded, dizzy.

you could feel his breath against your cheek.

feel the way his thumb still rubbed circles into your stomach like he couldn’t stop.

feel how his hand dipped too low on your thigh. how your shorts rode up higher.

he stayed there. pressed behind you. breathing deep.

you smelled like shampoo, sweat, and something sweeter underneath. even your sweat made his eyes roll back for a second. he didn’t know why. didn’t care.

she’s so soft. so fuckin’ soft.

he had to pull away.

he had to.

but he didn’t. not yet.

he whispered into your ear

“you did good today.”

and this time, you believed it.

not because you felt strong. but because the way he touched you made you feel like maybe you were worth holding. maybe even craved.

the gym was nearly empty by the time you finished.

you liked it that way quiet. no more eyes. no more perfect bodies in matching sets. just the hum of machines winding down and the sound of your own breath echoing through the space.

you stood in the locker room, towel wrapped tightly around your body, damp hair clinging to your neck. water still beading down your skin from the quick shower you’d taken just enough to rinse off the sweat, not long enough to enjoy it.

not freezing. not unbearable. but cold in the way gym tile always was clinical. empty. distant. every sound echoed. your wet feet made faint slaps on the floor as you walked toward the row of benches, towel wrapped tight around your body. hair still damp. the scent of soap clinging to your skin. your body felt too bare, too exposed, even though you were technically covered.

you dropped your phone on the bench beside you and sat down with a quiet exhale.

you didn’t check your reflection. you didn’t want to see what your body looked like in fluorescent light.

you just wanted a second to breathe.

but your phone buzzed. twice. three times.

you glanced down. saw the notification.

it was your boyfriend.

another comment under another girl’s reel some fitness influencer with a surgically perfect waist, performing a deadlift in seamless leggings and a sculpted sports bra. she looked like she belonged in a commercial. face made-up, lip gloss catching the gym lights. captioned with some quote about hard work.

he’d commented fire emojis. a drooling face. “jesus.”

you stared at the screen.

something in your chest folded in on itself.

you weren’t surprised. not really. he’d done it before liked, commented, saved. but this felt different. more obvious. more… mocking.

your towel clung to your thighs, the fabric damp where it touched your skin. your body felt heavier now. all the softness you carried felt like weight someone else had thrown onto you and walked away from. like dead mass. like something he’d never wanted.

you looked down. you could see the edge of your stomach pressing into the towel. you could feel your thighs spreading slightly against the bench.

you felt disgusting.

the first sob came sharp. out of nowhere.

you buried your face in your hands.

and then you heard it.

weights clanking faintly. a low voice muttering under breath. the sound of someone still working out, somewhere just outside the locker room. someone who hadn’t left yet.

you tried to stay quiet. breathed through your nose, rubbed your eyes fast, tried to wipe the shame off your face.

but a second sob broke through. softer. cracked in the middle.

and then footsteps.

a pause.

a knock.

you didn’t answer.

you weren’t decent. you weren’t presentable. you weren’t okay.

“you alright?”

his voice was quiet. rough.

you swallowed. cleared your throat.

“yeah,” you managed. “fine.”

a pause.

“can i come in?”

you froze.

your heart jumped. your hand gripped the towel tighter.

but before you could say yes or no the door creaked open. slow. careful.

you didn’t look up. you stared at your knees, water dripping from your hair onto your collarbone.

he stepped in. the door shut behind him. and then silence again.

until he moved closer.

toji.

his shoes squeaked slightly on the tile. he stopped a few feet away, then sat down beside you on the bench. not too close. not touching. but near enough that you could smell the remnants of sweat on his skin, the faint trace of cologne, the clean cotton of his shirt.

he didn’t speak at first. didn’t ask again.

he just sat. breathing like he’d run a set before coming in. steady. solid.

you stared ahead.

“i know it’s not my business,” he said finally, “but… you sounded like you were breaking.”

your throat tightened.

you wiped your face again.

then you whispered, “i just saw something.”

he didn’t push.

you didn’t stop.

“my boyfriend,” you said quietly. “he commented on this girl’s post. the kind he always watches. flat stomach. tight ass. fake tan. you know the type. she was showing off her body. and he…”

you paused.

“he never comments on mine. never looks at me like that. and i’ve been trying. i come here. i sweat. i push myself. and still”

your voice cracked. your hand shook where it clutched the towel.

“he still looks at them. like they’re worth something.”

toji didn’t move. didn’t interrupt. just listened. watched your profile out the corner of his eye.

you felt his gaze before he spoke.

“they’re curated,” he said finally. “airbrushed. made for people like him. people who don’t know how to touch something real without breaking it.”

your lips parted slightly.

you felt the weight of his words, but couldn’t look at him yet.

he shifted. closer now.

his hand rested on the bench. between you. his fingers brushed the side of your thigh. not intentional but not avoided either.

your breath caught.

he noticed.

“can i show you something?” he asked, voice low.

you hesitated.

then nodded.

his hand moved. up slow. cautious. to the curve of your waist, where the towel had slipped just slightly. he stopped there. didn’t grope. didn’t pull. just pressed his palm against the softness. his thumb dragged along the flesh like he was mapping it.

you flinched slightly.

he paused.

“i’m not gonna touch you if you don’t want it.”

you closed your eyes.

“it’s not that,” you whispered. “i just… i hate how it feels.”

he exhaled. through his nose. controlled.

“i don’t.”

you opened your eyes.

his face was close now. closer than before. his eyes fixed on you not just your body. your mouth. your expression. your pulse fluttering under your throat.

his hand moved again. higher. over your ribs, the soft swell above your belly button. his palm covered the area like it belonged there.

and then he leaned in.

not to kiss you.

not yet.

just to press his forehead to yours, so lightly you barely felt it.

“you think this is something to be ashamed of?” he whispered.

you didn’t answer.

his hand slid back down over your belly, your hip, your thigh. slow. reverent.

“this,” he murmured, “is what real feels like. not carved. not starved. not filtered.”

his other hand reached up. thumb wiped another tear from your cheek.

then he kissed you.

not your lips. not yet.

your cheek. once. then lower. under your jaw. near your ear. his breath hit your neck, warm and trembling slightly now. his body was tense. like he was holding back something stronger.

you felt the heat of him between your legs, not even touching yet. just near. his knees spread slightly as he sat beside you, his body leaning in until your shoulder brushed his chest.

and his hand still on your stomach was rubbing slow, subtle circles now. not for you. for himself. like he couldn’t stop.

“you’re not too soft,” he whispered, almost angrily. “you’re not too much.”

you trembled.

your towel slipped another inch.

his eyes dropped.

and he groaned softly under his breath.

it wasn’t loud. it wasn’t dirty. not yet. but it was raw just a sharp pull of air through his teeth, like he’d been punched in the gut with want.

his gaze was locked on the space where your towel had loosened across your thighs. where it dipped low, barely clinging to the swell of your hip. your legs were parted slightly now from the way you’d been sitting. instinct, maybe. exhaustion. defeat. but it made the gap between your thighs more visible. made the soft skin of your upper legs crease and curve naturally, plush and warm-looking under the fluorescent lights.

his hand moved again.

slow.

down your side, from the soft fullness just beneath your chest, tracing that warm belly you hated so gently you almost didn’t feel it until he grazed the edge of the towel, his knuckles brushing your skin.

you inhaled sharply.

not fear.

but not readiness either.

your breath shuddered.

his hand stilled.

you could feel the heat of his palm against your bare side. warm and rough. not groping, not clutching just holding. anchoring. like he wanted you to feel that someone was there. someone who wasn’t disgusted by the softness. someone who didn’t recoil from it. someone who craved it.

you glanced up at him.

his expression had changed.

it wasn’t flirty. it wasn’t even lustful in the way you’d feared it was reverent. like he was looking at something sacred. something he hadn’t touched in a long time.

his thumb traced a path across your hipbone, slow enough to draw goosebumps.

“can i take this off?” he asked, voice low like it cost him something to say it out loud.

you hesitated. your fingers twitched where they held the towel against your chest.

you were still damp from the shower. still swollen from crying. your face was blotchy. your thighs sticky. your stomach full and soft. your body was in every state you’d been taught was unattractive.

but he hadn’t stopped looking at you like he wanted to worship the parts you always hid.

you nodded.

just once.

his hand moved slowly to the top of the towel. his fingers brushed yours, easing the grip loose. not ripping. not yanking. just… waiting.

and when you let go he took over.

he peeled it down carefully.

inch by inch.

the cotton slipped over your breasts, baring them to the cold air, then slid lower, over your ribs, your stomach, your hips. he didn’t rush. he didn’t let the fabric fall. he held it cradled it as it passed over your body, like he was unwrapping something fragile.

your arms twitched to cover yourself on instinct.

he stopped you lightly hands catching your wrists, guiding them down.

“don’t hide,” he said, quiet, almost hoarse. “not from me.”

and when the towel dropped to the bench beside you, he didn’t say anything else.

he just stared.

his eyes moved slowly down your figure, like he couldn’t decide where to look first. your thighs sprawled slightly, heavy and trembling from the strain of the day. your stomach soft, warm, rising and falling fast beneath his breath. your chest bare and vulnerable, nipples hard from the chill, your skin flushed from embarrassment.

he reached out again.

his fingers touched the center of your stomach. not with pressure. just presence.

then they spread. his whole hand flattened across your belly fingertips stretching over the curve you hated, palm fitting against your skin like it belonged there.

you flinched.

but his other hand found your jaw. guided your face toward his.

“look at me.”

you did.

his fingers traced your ribs, circled your navel, moved downward slowly until his hand settled low on your stomach, right where the flesh dipped into the crease above your pelvis.

he exhaled through his nose, thick and shaky.

“you’re fucking perfect like this.”

you blinked hard. “you’re just saying that to make me feel better..”

“no.”

his voice sharpened just enough to silence you.

“you don’t get to argue with me about this. not when you’re sitting here crying, not when your skin’s still damp and warm from the shower, not when you smell like fuckin’ heaven.”

he moved closer. his thigh brushed yours now. his arm curled around your back.

“you don’t get to tell me your body isn’t good enough when it’s the only thing i’ve thought about since the first time you walked in this place.”

you made a small, broken sound in your throat.

his hand moved again sliding down to your inner thigh, fingers grazing the crease between your legs, right where the skin was softest.

you spread your legs just slightly. barely enough for him to notice. but he noticed.

he leaned in.

his lips brushed your jaw first. then lower. down your neck. not kissing yet just breathing you in. letting his mouth hover close enough to warm your skin.

his other hand moved again, fingers finding the underside of your breast. lifting it slightly. brushing his knuckles beneath it like he wanted to memorize how it fit in his palm.

you whimpered.

he kissed your shoulder. slow. reverent. then kissed it again, lower this time, near your collarbone.

“tell me to stop,” he whispered.

you didn’t.

his lips grazed your nipple next, tongue flicking against it softly testing, tasting, not rushing.

you gasped. your back arched slightly.

his arms caught you.

“just let me touch you.”

his voice was deeper now. breathless.

“let me show you what it feels like to be wanted.”

his thigh slid between yours, spreading your legs wider.

you rolled your hips forward without thinking just chasing pressure, contact, anything.

his hand caught your ass, squeezed. his lips found your throat again.

your body, the body you’d hated in silence, was pressed against his raw and bare and trembling.

and he was holding it like it was something holy.

the air shifted.

your skin was burning.

he was looking at you like no one ever had, like he wanted to eat you alive and worship every inch at the same time, and for a second you let yourself believe it.

until your own mind caught up.

you flinched again.

and this time, you reached for the towel.

toji froze.

your hand grasped the damp cotton and dragged it back over your chest, across your stomach, down your thighs, fumbling, not even securing it properly just needing something between your body and his eyes.

“i can’t,” you said, voice breaking. “please, i can’t.”

his brows knit, breath still heavy. his arms pulled back just enough to give you space, but not enough to leave.

“what happened?”

you looked away, face flushing. you couldn’t look at his body not like this. not with yours exposed, messy, ruined. his chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, damp with sweat, veins prominent beneath tanned skin. broad pecs. thick biceps, still swollen from his last set. narrow waist. thighs thick and solid, resting open, bulge still outlined under his gym pants.

he looked like a man carved out of instinct. out of use. out of need.

and you were everything he wasn’t.

your voice cracked again. “you’re so fuck, you’re so attractive. i mean, look at you.”

your eyes moved to his arms, his shoulders. “you’re perfect. your so handsome and every girl in this place would kill to get fucked by you. and me? i’m sitting here crying with stretch marks and thick thighs and a stomach that rolls when i bend over”

your chest clenched. “you’re probably just fucking with me. or pitying me.”

he didn’t move.

didn’t even blink.

his jaw clenched, that scar above his lip pulling slightly.

“you think i’d waste my time pitying someone i can’t stop staring at?” he said, low. steady. “you think i’d touch you like that if it didn’t mean anything?”

you didn’t answer.

his voice dropped.

“you think i don’t see you? every time you walk into the gym, wearing that hoodie like it’s armor, hiding under layers, tugging your shirt down when you think no one’s watching”

he leaned in again.

“i see all of it. and it drives me fucking insane.”

your breath stuttered.

“you want to talk about stretch marks?” he said, hand sliding under the towel again, finding your waist, your hip. he dragged his fingers over the lines there. “these? these aren’t flaws. they’re just… fucking real. proof you exist. proof you live in that body, not some rented one off a screen.”

he moved closer. his breath hit your face.

“i’d rather fuck a real woman than jerk off to a filter.”

your heart kicked.

his hand found the edge of the towel again. this time he didn’t rip it off he just let it open slightly under his palm, fingers pressing against your belly. the contrast was too much his hand hard and dry, your skin soft and warm.

his voice cracked just slightly.

“you think this doesn’t affect me?” he said, glancing down at the bulge straining in his pants. “i’ve been hard since i felt that softness into the squat rack this morning.”

you blinked.

he leaned in. close enough for your lips to brush.

“you don’t know what it’s doing to me… how soft you are… how you feel against me. fuck”

you whimpered.

and then you kissed him.

hard.

not gentle. not pretty.

you were still crying. your cheeks were wet. your hands shook.

but your lips crashed into his with a desperation that made him growl low in his throat. his mouth opened against yours, tongue meeting yours, deep and messy, not searching taking.

he kissed like he was starving.

his hands gripped your sides now, rougher, dragging you closer. your chest pressed into his, soft curves smashing against solid muscle. you felt the sweat still clinging to his shirt, to his neck. you smelled it salt and musk and something earthy beneath. he hadn’t cleaned up yet. he hadn’t wiped himself down. and it made you dizzy.

you moaned into his mouth. helpless. shocked by how good it tasted.

he groaned back. grabbed your thighs.

his bulge ground against your hip now, slow and firm, impossible to ignore.

you gasped.

his voice broke against your lips. “feel that?”

you nodded.

“that’s what you do to me.”

his teeth grazed your bottom lip. his hands were everywhere now cupping your ass through the towel, gripping your waist, fingers digging into the back of your thigh to pull you across his lap. and when you straddled him fully, thighs spreading across his thick legs, towel slipping from your body again

his cock twitched underneath you. thick. hot. trapped beneath layers of fabric and pulsing like it hurt.

you rolled your hips once just once and the growl he let out made you clench around nothing.

your bodies didn’t match in shape, in tone, in anything. but pressed together like this, it didn’t matter. his was hard. yours was soft. and the combination felt like friction like balance. like tension and collapse all at once.

your breath hitched.

his mouth found your throat again.

“you’re gonna fuckin’ ruin me,” he whispered, teeth grazing skin.

and this time, you believed it.

his hands were on your ass.

gripping. kneading. pulling you tighter against his lap like you belonged there. like he was trying to fuse your softness into the solid heat of his cock still straining under his sweats.

you were straddling him fully now towel forgotten on the floor, your thighs slick with sweat and heat, your body trembling every time you rocked your hips down. the thick shape of his cock pressed perfectly between your folds, the pressure obscene even through the layers of fabric.

you could feel every ridge.

every pulse.

he was so hard it hurt to grind.

and still you couldn’t stop.

“fuck,” he groaned into your shoulder, voice ragged, hands gripping tighter as you moved again. “you’re gonna make me lose my fucking mind.”

you whimpered against his neck, nails digging into his biceps.

your body soft, flushed, soaked rubbed against his with every movement. your stomach against his abs. your tits against his chest. your thighs spreading further as he adjusted his legs beneath you.

you felt his teeth drag against your skin. not biting just marking. like he needed a reminder that you were real. that this was happening.

and then he stood.

just stood up with you still wrapped around his waist, your legs locking instinctively around him, your arms around his neck.

you gasped.

he carried you two steps across the locker room toward the full-length mirror mounted on the wall near the lockers. harsh gym lighting still flickering overhead, sweat still clinging to both of you.

“look.”

his voice snapped.

you opened your eyes.

he was holding you in front of the mirror. one arm under your thighs. the other gripping your lower back. your body on full display hair messy, skin flushed, nipples hard, stretch marks glowing like ribbons across your thighs.

he looked massive behind you. towering. his shirt soaked through with sweat. chest heaving. jaw clenched. cock still caged behind his waistband but twitching now. ready. angry.

he growled into your ear.

“look what he’s missing.”

your throat tightened. your breath broke in your chest.

“this is what he gave up? this?” he shoved his hips up into yours, grinding his bulge against your cunt with slow, punishing pressure. “this body? this heat?”

you moaned choked and soft and real.

“he treated you like trash,” toji spat, voice trembling with heat. “like you weren’t worth touching. worth fucking.”

you whined, burying your face in his neck.

he gripped your hair. pulled your face back toward the mirror.

“don’t hide. look at yourself. look at what i’m about to fuck.”

you stared.

your reflection was unrecognizable. desperate. undone. lips swollen, eyes glassy, thighs trembling from being held like this. your body clung to him like gravity.

and his expression god.

his mouth was parted. his teeth clenched. his eyes locked on the way your thighs spread around his hips.

“you see that?” he whispered. “how soft you are? how good you look against me?”

his cock twitched again.

and then he finally yanked his sweats down one rough pull, fabric hitting the floor.

his cock slapped against his abdomen. thick. veiny. flushed. already dripping precum. you could feel the heat of it before he even touched you with it.

he spit in his hand. stroked his cock once, twice, then lined it up under you.

your breath stopped.

“toji”

“nah. not running now.”

and then he thrust up.

hard.

you cried out full-body, involuntary. his cock stretched you wide, deeper than you thought possible, the first push already too much.

your hands clawed at his shoulders. your forehead dropped against his.

“fuck, toji i can’t ! it’s so big.”

“yes you can,” he growled, teeth gritted. “you’re fuckin’ taking it.”

he slid in again. deeper. harder. your cunt sucked him in, clenching from the pressure. your walls fluttered, your thighs shaking.

“look how tight you are,” he hissed, hips dragging back before slamming up again. “like you’ve never been fucked right before.”

you sobbed.

your body trembled from the force of every thrust. his hands gripped your waist like a man possessed, his abs flexing, sweat slick between your bodies.

“you feel that?” he panted, breath hot against your neck. “this cock was made for you. made for this body.”

you were already shaking.

your nails dug into his shoulders, your hips struggling to keep up with the force of each thrust. you were perched on his lap, thighs spread wide, legs dangling just barely past the edge of the bench, and he was deep inside you buried to the base, stretching you around a cock that felt too thick, too hot, too much.

your body had stopped trying to fight it. now, it just clung to him.

but your mind

“i’m not.. not even that pretty..”

the words slipped out before you could stop them.

and then he slammed into you.

so hard your body bounced. so deep you choked on a sob.

“say that shit again,” he snarled through gritted teeth, voice rough and ragged. “say it again and i’ll fuck you harder. say it while your pussy’s clenching for me like it can’t stand the thought of being empty.”

your breath caught. your head dropped against his shoulder.

“toj i’m gonna i can’t fuck”

he groaned, deep and guttural, when he felt it your cunt choking him, fluttering around his cock as your orgasm overtook you. not a neat little finish. no. it ripped through you like your body was cracking open from the inside.

you sobbed.

loud. broken.

your nails raked down his back. your thighs locked up. your entire body jerked forward, curling into him, needing to hide but he wouldn’t let you. his hand was in your hair, his other around your waist, keeping your body pinned to his cock as you spasmed.

“that’s it,” he hissed into your skin, still thrusting up into you like he was losing his mind. “cum on it. soak it. make it yours.”

you moaned through the aftershocks, breath catching every time he slammed up again. your thighs trembled around his waist, sweat dripping between your bodies. your whole body burned. overstimulated. stretched. used.

and he still wasn’t done.

he was fucking you through it through the trembling, the sensitivity, the moans that turned to hiccupped gasps.

he adjusted his grip. angled his hips deeper. your eyes rolled back.

“you’re so deep, fuck,” you cried, barely able to speak. “i can’t.. I can’t..”

“yes you fuckin’ can,” he growled, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your chest. “this pussy was made to take it.”

he thrust again. rougher. more desperate.

the sounds in the room were obscene wet, slick, filthy, the bench creaking under the weight of your bodies. your slick dripped down his cock, pooling at the base, coating his thighs and his abs and everything between.

his voice dipped, darker now. “that piece of shit ever make you cum like this?”

you shook your head frantically, too overwhelmed to lie.

he grabbed your jaw.

hard.

forced your eyes to meet his in the mirror.

“say it.”

“no he never!”

“damn right he didn’t,” he spat. “he didn’t even deserve to look at you.”

he shifted again, angled upward his cock dragging perfectly against that spot inside you that made your mouth fall open in a silent scream.

his thrusts got shorter. sharper. his chest pressing to yours, abs flexing every time he ground into you.

“you’re not too much,” he whispered, almost angrily.

his breath was loud in your ear. ragged. falling apart.

“you’re exactly how i like it.” he muttered, voice low, guttural.

his palm moved lower across your belly, down to the dip of your waist, the curve of your thigh. he groaned when you clenched around him.

“feels so fuckin’ good around my muscles,” he breathed. “you’re like a soft pillow against all this hard tension. makes me wanna stay buried in you for hours.”

he squeezed your thigh, pressed it higher against his hip, and gave one slow, deliberate thrust so deep your breath caught.

“you fit me too good. it’s not just sex it’s like your body’s made to give me relief.”

“you belong right here. on me,” he said, voice tight. “fuckin’ made for me.”

“toji please fuck.”

“you want it?”

“yes god, yes”

he groaned, loud now. feral.

and then he slammed into you one last time bottoming out, cock buried to the hilt, the head punching so deep it knocked the air from your lungs.

you cried out. mouth open. arms clinging to him like you’d fall apart if he let go.

his cock twitched inside you.

and then you felt it.

thick, hot pulses. his release. deep, raw, possessive.

you could feel his cum fill you. every pulse marked you. every throb claimed you. his body didn’t move. he just held you there, shoved onto his cock like he couldn’t stand to be anywhere else.

he stayed buried as you spasmed again, another wave rippling through you from the sheer heat and stretch of it.

he groaned into your neck. thrust again. shallow. slow. dragging his cock through the mess inside you like he wanted to paint your walls with it.

you collapsed forward, trembling in his arms. face pressed to his neck.

he was drenched. his body soaked. he smelled like sex and sweat and something animal.

his arms wrapped around you, tight.

one hand rubbed your back. the other cupped your ass, pulling your thighs wider, still seated on his cock.

you whimpered.

his palm found your stomach again. the soft part. the part you always covered.

he squeezed it. kissed your temple.

“this is mine now,” he whispered.

you nodded. dazed. silent.

he kissed your shoulder. then your jaw.

his mouth brushed your ear.

and he whispered, low and dangerous

“next time, i’m fucking you in front of him.”

thank you for reading this. i hope you enjoy it

onlypinkslut

[gutsby]

License to Kill

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Marital bliss becomes a bloody massacre within hours of your wedding. Bucky has run the gamut of organized crime from gunrunning to public extortion, but an attempt on your life is a whole different ballgame. A honeymoon-turned-manhunt has Bucky out for blood.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Semi-public sex. Beefy, mob boss Bucky really wants to give you a baby. Praise kink. Size kink. Facefucking. Sex on a private jet. Attempted murder. Arms trafficking. Guerrilla warfare.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Any postnuptial banquet was bound to be the talk of Santorini when a groom arrived beaten half to death.

At least that was what you’d told yourself, what had plagued your mind for hours before the start of brunch, and what Bucky presently refused to acknowledge with so much as a bat of his eye or a word spoken in between.

“You worry too much,” he said as he sheathed himself inside you for the third time that morning.

Bucky seized your throat in one hand and tilted your chin to make sure you were capable of eye contact while he fucked you in front of the mirror. It didn’t seem to bother him at all that the face in his own reflection was bruised, bloodied, and sewn up like a patchwork quilt behind you.

Hazards of the job, he’d said.

Three masked assailants breaking into your villa the first night of honeymooning? Customary. Being yanked out of bed and made to kneel as your husband took the beating of a lifetime just minutes after consummating your marriage? More common than you would think.

Bucky hadn’t even blinked when he got pistol whipped by a gold-plated Beretta. Didn’t flinch when he was held to a wall and pummeled like a freestanding punch bag.

Almost smiled when he took a hard right hook to the nose and felt a torrent of blood flood out of his nostrils.

If anyone were to be accused of behaving too calmly in a home invasion, it would be Bucky Barnes. It seemed as though he’d seen this all before and had no qualms about getting the shit kicked out of him every now and then. Why he hadn’t so much as lifted a finger to fight back was still beyond your comprehension, though.

At length, he tightened his grip on your neck and tried to smile, his upper lip slashed in two and bruised a grim, violet hue.

“Who’s my girl?” he murmured an inch from your ear.

You whined when he delivered a particularly hard thrust, both of your hands flying to the mirror to steady yourself as he pounded you from behind.

“I-I am,” you whimpered.

The stretch was still something you were getting used to, but now Bucky knew just how to spread you open without making it hurt. He’d glide a thick finger between your folds, slide it down to your clit, and leave it there as long as you’d let him, rubbing quick circles while you bucked and moaned under his touch. And, in spite of all his cuts and bruises, your husband made sure to kiss your shoulder every now and then to let you know he still loved you—even if he was fucking you like he didn’t.

Bucky trailed his lips behind your ear and watched you writhe in time with every stroke he gave. Pressed his face close to yours, watched a desperate, fucked-out expression take over your features, and smiled to himself knowing that no one but him got to see you like this.

“Who likes getting stuffed full of this cock?” he taunted.

“I do.”

“Who loves making daddy feel this good?”

“I do.”

He never thought the sound of your vows could be repeated out loud in such an obscene way—his sweet bride bent in half with a thick, throbbing cock wedged between her legs—but he loved it nonetheless.

Bucky was rutting his hips at a breakneck pace and holding your head to the mirror like he’d never let go. Your climax was quickly coming close into view, and you felt your toes curl in the hardwood floor beneath them.

Suddenly, the chirp of a ringtone diverted your attention.

Bucky brought his phone to his ear as he continued to pound you mercilessly.

“Yeah, Steve?”

The mob boss’s business never took a break, it seemed.

“So what?”

“Yeah, no, I heard you the first time.”

“Well, I’m plowing my wife right now, can it wait?”

Your cheeks warmed with embarrassment at Bucky’s blunt choice of words. You saw his brow pinch behind you, his thrusts getting faster and sloppier, and in spite of the distraction, you sensed he was getting close too.

You yourself were right on the brink. Your gaze met Bucky’s in the mirror with a soft, pleading look, and before you knew it, your husband was bidding an abrupt farewell to his friend and chucking his phone to the side.

“Ready to cum for me, honey?”

You whimpered and nodded.

“Alright then,” Bucky said with a near-expectant look, weaving the fingers of one hand into your hair and pulling it back, tight, “Cum all over daddy’s cock.”

With a shriek you feared might carry throughout the whole banquet hall, you finally reached your peak and released around Bucky’s length, tears springing to your eyes as you closed them tight and moaned his name.

And, ever the cheeky fuck, Bucky leaned right in and kissed the sides of your face to collect all the moisture he could—‘Shit, honey, you taste as good as you look’—while he smirked. Would’ve grinned even bigger if he wasn’t so overcome with pleasure; but, as it was, he couldn’t keep from blowing his load just seconds after the last spasms of your orgasm. Bucky leaned over your torso and squeezed your body tight to his, fucking his cum deep inside you as far as it could possibly go.

For a few, dizzying moments, the man’s mind wandered to more primal thoughts of making it stick, knocking you up, and Bucky had to clench his jaw hard to suppress the groans that were threatening to spill through his teeth. Every time he fucked you, it was like something just clicked; he couldn’t rid the thought of giving you a baby.

But no, for now, the two of you were still on wedding time; before you could jet off to your real honeymoon destination—someplace in the Caribbean, if Bucky remembered correctly—your mother had insisted that you host one post-wedding event that day: a brunch.

Naturally, that meant you were obliged to serve a four-course meal on the terrace of the Canaves Oia Hotel.

The mother of the bride had been one hell of a staunch advocate for keeping this wedding party going as long as possible, and who was Bucky to tell her no? He reasoned he would have plenty of time to get you pregnant after all the wedding festivities had ended, so he didn’t mind.

At present, you tugged your panties and your dress back into place with a wince.

“I think you displaced my cervix, James.”

Bucky couldn’t deny he felt the smallest twinge of pride seeing you walk a little funny to collect the rest of your belongings and attempt to freshen up. It also gave him the perfect excuse to scoop you back up in his arms and pretend to be apologetic about your present dilemma.

“Did I really?” he asked as you giggled and tried to swat him away, “I’m awfully sorry, Mrs. Barnes.”

“Like hell you are.”

With Bucky still draped over your body, proffering his apologies again and again as he assailed your face with tiny kisses, you’d barely made it two feet toward the door before you collapsed against a table and almost toppled a centerpiece. The pair of you would be expected outside any minute now, where the rest of your post-wedding party was likely trickling in and wondering where the hell the bride and groom had gone, but Bucky seemed adamant on keeping you to himself a little while longer.

That was until the back exit swung on its hinges and a familiar, frazzled groomsman stumbled in.

“Can you horndogs hurry the hell up?!”

So Sam had heard you after all.

You just might’ve blushed if you weren’t being pushed out the door a second later, the hurried, chiding tone of your husband’s friend ringing low in your ears.

“Your old man’s ready to hit the roof,” he mumbled to Bucky, “Won’t start drinking until you two show face.”

“Probably still thinks my bride escaped in the middle of the night,” Bucky mused, flitting a look to you.

The man behind rolled his eyes and continued to usher you both outside. Sam Wilson knew exactly what had happened last night; he’d been the one to bring in the cavalry to save you both from imminent death, after all.

As you had come to find out, Sam wasn’t just a friend of your husband’s but also a close associate of sorts—the kind that would wait in the wings and do whatever it took to keep Bucky safe. When the wait staff at the villa hadn’t been able to reach you for room service delivery last night, reporting some ‘strange sounds’ inside, Mr. Wilson had sprung into action. Called the rest of your husband’s entourage and was up to your room in minutes, where they’d dealt a swift, and final, blow to your attackers. You hadn’t asked many questions after—just thanked him. Profusely.

“You look like hell,” the man observed with a sidelong glance in his friend’s direction.

“Really? I feel great,” Bucky replied.

The three of you weaved through a crowd of partygoers—every single one of whom, without exception, stopped and stared at your husband’s mangled face as he passed—and you started to chew the inside of your cheek. People were gawking, talking amongst themselves as they wondered aloud what the hell could’ve happened to the groom overnight. You felt their stares turn to you in a mixture of pity and reproach, and you wanted to hide.

“Ja-ames!” a sing-song voice trilled across the way.

You, Bucky, and Sam all stopped in your tracks to regard the duo that was making their swift approach over.

Bucky’s mom and dad.

As the older couple drew near, you half-expected to see them take on the same wan, horror-stricken look worn by all those around you, but to your surprise, they didn’t.

In fact, they didn’t bat an eyelid. Seeing their son’s face all gnarled and bloody barely even registered.

“Good, you’re here! The photographers just arrived.” Bucky’s mother swept you into her arms for a brief embrace before shooting her son a frown. Your husband, in turn, offered her an apologetic peck on the cheek.

“Sorry, ma. We got caught up,” he said.

“Sure looks like it.”

That came from the elder Mr. Barnes, who had stopped to give his son a quick once-over. He looked amused.

“Get in a fight with a grizzly last night?” he quipped.

“Three, actually,” Sam answered for Bucky, who was already grinning from ear-to-ear—or as much as his facial lacerations would allow him.

You saw father and son exchange a brief, knowing look, before it was extinguished just as fast as it had come. Clearly, some sort of understanding had passed between them, and the old patriarch seemed pleased. Proud, even. You couldn’t begin to imagine why.

“The bruising shouldn’t be too hard to edit out of the wedding pictures,” Bucky’s mother turned to you as she started to lead the group away, speaking in a matter-of-fact tone, “It’s those damn lesions on his face that always give us trouble.”

She spoke so coolly about the trauma done to her son it damn near chilled you to the bone. You never thought the wife of a mobster would be oblivious to all the violence, but to talk as though this were just another day in the life as far as brutal beatings went was a little unnerving.

You strolled along and silently wondered what the fuck was wrong with this family. Then you realized, slowly, that this was your family now. Your stomach twisted.

When you got to the garden where the photographers were stationed, you saw your parents waiting, enrapt.

And, in a matter of seconds, you watched their expressions morph from exuberance to confusion to outright trepidation. Your father was quick to look away, but your mother clearly couldn’t be bothered to stop ogling Bucky’s gruesome appearance. She forced a tight-lipped smile at the very last second and stretched her arms out to you as the five of you approached.

“You’re glowing, my dear.”

She hugged you and, over your shoulder, tried to mask a discomfited look.

Your mother and father exchanged pleasantries with the rest of the group but seemed loath to linger on Bucky for more than a minute. Like they couldn’t quite tell whether the honeymoon beatdown was fair game for discussion.

“Places, people!”

The photographers were lined up like a flock of paparazzi. Each standing, crouching, squatting with their cameras in their hands, trying to get just the right angle.

The person in charge quickly busied herself with directing and adjusting every one of your positions before the pictures were taken. Telling Bucky’s father to straighten his tie, your mother to brighten her smile, the bride to tilt her shoulders just a little bit more, and Bucky, would you please stop groping your wife?

That last command had come from his mother, actually. Bucky had been palming your ass above your dress, and his mom couldn’t stand the thought of one camera capturing such crude behavior.

“My hand slipped,” Bucky retorted, much to the amusement of a few photographers.

You and his mother gave him identical admonitory looks, but it was you who was close enough to say something.

Just when you opened your mouth to speak, though, an odd sense stopped you on a dime.

There was a warmth. In your panties. Then a slow and silent oozing sensation. You squeezed your thighs tight together and, instinctively, lowered your hand to your stomach, as if that would have any chance of stopping it.

A smirk tugged at Bucky’s lips just as the lead photographer told you all to smile and hold it.

“My cum dripping out already?” he whispered, low as he’d ever spoken but still too loud for you to bear. His parents were literally standing right there.

“Shut. Up.” You replied through gritted, smiling teeth.

“Chin to me, Mrs. Barnes,” the lady in charge called out.

You did as you were told, and Bucky’s hand on your side pressed the flesh ever so slightly.

A series of shuttering sounds, then another directive.

“Think it’ll stay in your panties?” Bucky managed delicately under his breath.

You didn’t respond. At length, his seed was seeping out of your underwear. You bared an even brighter smile for the cameras and tried not to flinch when he squeezed you again.

“Feel it sliding down your thighs?”

“Eyes forward, Mr. Barnes. Head up, and—here, please.”

The man could barely peel his gaze, much less his hands, from your body. He stroked your hip with his thumb. Then, without warning, that same hand slid down to your rear and pushed into the fabric. You sucked in a breath.

“Bucky.”

“What?”

“Behave,” you hissed, and from the corner of your eye you could’ve sworn you saw your mother turn her head.

Unfortunately for you, your husband would do no such thing. He just moved his hand even lower down your back and brushed the space around that spot with the tips of his fingers. You felt a shiver pass over you, along with a whole legion of goosebumps spreading fast across the skin.

If you weren’t on camera and surrounded by family, you probably would’ve liked to smack him upside the head.

As the cameras continued to fire away, Bucky’s touch trailed down to the outline of your panties through your dress and started rubbing small circles over the area.

“Now just the bride and groom!”

The rest of your family members stepped to the side, and it was only you and Bucky before the cameras now. Still smiling like bright, shiny dolls and communicating like ventriloquists, your lips barely moved as you spoke.

“How ‘bout I push it back in?”

“Barnes, I will kill you.”

“Now kiss!”

At the direction of the lead photographer, you kissed your husband and felt a mixture of lust, hate, and love swell up inside of you. When you pulled apart, it was the latter of these three that was searing hot in your veins.

“I love you,” Bucky murmured with a grin.

“I love you, too.”

The rest of the morning passed away in much the same fashion—being pulled from place to place, person to person, while your filthy-minded husband kept whispering in your ear all the depraved things he was planning to do to you once he got you alone. It was romantic, in a way; just terrible for your poor panties.

You reluctantly mingled and laughed with some of the most boring people you thought you’d ever met in your life—though perhaps you were a touch too horny to make a fair appraisal—and gradually, family and friends pulled you and Bucky further and further apart until you were just being carted around like show dogs and forced to hold the same conversation over and over again.

“You look stunning.”

“Buck’s a lucky guy, I’ll tell you that.”

“Are you planning on having kids any time soon?”

You just smiled, nodded, and didn’t have the guts to tell them that Bucky’s baby batter was baking inside you right now. That would’ve been a fun one to watch the reactions from your uptight, intrusive relatives, though.

And speaking of Bucky, where the fuck had he gone?

Just twenty minutes ago he’d sworn he would have you bent over one of the hotel balconies overlooking the Aegean Sea, and now he was nowhere to be found.

Your parents were currently preoccupied with their second helpings of spanakopita, your in-laws draining mojitos like water, and Sam, like Bucky, completely MIA. No one else had seen hide nor hair of your husband in a little while, and frankly, your legs were growing tired of looking.

You let out a small sigh of relief when you saw Bucky sitting a ways away on the terrace with Sam and Steve huddled on either side of him. They looked to be deep in discussion.

Steve, Stevie, Rogers, or, simply, your husband’s second in command, seemed strangely out of sorts as he clenched a fist and said something close to Bucky’s face.

You decided to let the three of them hash it out and to take a rain check on that balcony rendezvous for now.

At any rate, a pack of Pall Malls was calling your name.

You would fully concede this was a filthy habit you never should have started—like most fun things in life—but the reprieve of a nicotine buzz was too tempting to refuse. You grabbed your clutch and took off toward the far end of the lawn, set for a small alcove apart from the party.

You slipped the lighter and cigarettes from your bag as you walked. The scent of pure salt and sea foam greeted your senses as soon as you drew close to the spot—less than a stone’s throw away from the ocean.

Your hands had jammed the cancer stick in your mouth before your mind could make a single word of protest. You brought the lighter to life in your right palm and raised the flame to your cigarette until the end was lit.

Then you inhaled. Exhaled. Hoped no one would see you. You fanned the smoke from your face every so often.

You’d taken up residence on a bench just shy of the beach, and finally, you could stretch your legs and rest.

Maybe indulge in some disgusting thoughts about your husband while you were at it.

If you’d told yourself just twenty-four hours ago that your mind and body would be on the fritz craving Bucky’s touch, you wouldn’t have believed it. If someone had said sex, and cumming around someone you loved, was a worthwhile experience, you probably would’ve told them they were full of shit. But here you were, splayed out on a bench by the shoreline thinking of nothing but the way your husband’s cock felt inside you. Feeling his seed dried on your thigh and aching for a fourth helping.

You felt pathetic. Maybe you were.

In any case, you didn’t really care.

You brought the near-spent cigarette up to your lips for the last couple puffs. When you’d plucked it back out, you heard someone clear their throat behind you.

Bucky! Your lust-addled brain all but squealed.

You turned much quicker than you meant and nearly jumped in your skin to see who was standing there.

A grinning, bright-eyed blond.

In a panic, you flicked your cigarette over your shoulder and forced a smile.

“Hi.”

“Howdy.”

Okay, John Wayne, what the fuck? The man sounded, and looked, like something straight out of a western film.

“No need to stop on my account,” he tipped his chin toward the cigarette on the ground, “I won’t snitch.”

His smile took on a shade of condescension, but the face seemed friendly enough. Then, to your surprise, he reached into his back pocket and retrieved something small and silver from it. He held it out to you.

“Courtesy of your husband,” he said.

You frowned. A flask?

“It’s not even noon,” you answered.

“Bucky wanted me to relay the message that your mom invited a boatload more folks, and it don’t seem they’re fixin’ to leave anytime soon. Said you might need this.”

Gingerly, you accepted the gift and unscrewed the cap. You almost gagged when you got a whiff of pure vodka.

“Fuckin’ A,” you coughed, “What’s this, nail polish remover?”

“Stolichnaya. Can’t talk shit until you’ve tried it.”

Your eyes were still watering from the pungent stench of 80 proof spirits when you saw the man’s outstretched arm again—this time, to shake your hand.

“Joey, by the way.”

You shook his hand and introduced yourself as well, blinking back a few tears.

“You’re a friend of my husband’s?” you asked.

“From the service, yeah. We go way back.”

You couldn’t help but raise both brows in question.

“The service,” you repeated.

“Russian Armed Forces,” Joey smiled.

And when the hell did Bucky plan on telling you he was a former foreign operative? You stared at the man before you in a medley of confusion and disbelief. Surely the thick Southern drawl had to mean he was joking.

“Sorry—I thought you knew,” he said sheepishly.

Your husband’s old comrade seemed genuinely contrite, blushing a shade of pink as he turned his gaze from you. You quickly regained your composure and flashed him a smile, insisting it was fine, just surprising to you is all.

“Perks of arranged marriage,” you said, “We’re wed for life and I don’t even know the guy’s job title.”

That earned a laugh from the tall, gaunt figure in front of you. His features visibly relaxed, and he wasn’t smiling so smugly anymore. He motioned toward the bench.

“You mind?”

“Not at all.”

You fished for a cigarette as Joey sat down beside you. When he’d taken a seat, you offered it to him, and he politely accepted.

With time, the two of you got to smoking and joking around with a little more ease. You didn’t normally get to see that happen—rarely seizing the opportunity to make friends of near-strangers—but this weekend had already presented a bevy of firsts. What harm could a quick smoke break with Bucky’s old friend possibly do?

You found the man to be quick-witted and charming, if not marred by the slightest stain of conceit under the surface. He was objectively handsome: all cool, clean features with an unblemished demeanor and a set of brown eyes so light they almost appeared the color of honey in the sun. The only imperfection to be detected was a skewed, razor-thin scar on his chin. You weren’t ashamed to admit he might’ve been your type maybe four or five years, and several degrees of naïveté, earlier. But you had Bucky now; not even the most sublime, finely-chiseled Adonis could set your sights off of him.

You continued to smoke and shoot the shit.

“So you’re a Puritan, then?” Joey said at length.

“Huh?” You leaned back to stretch.

“You haven’t touched that flask.”

You glanced down at the silver canteen between you. You picked it up.

“Haven’t been into straight liquor since college,” you shrugged.

“But it’s your wedding weekend,” Joey smirked, “Think it says somewhere in the rule book you’ve gotta be hammered the whole time.”

“Does it? I must’ve missed that one,” you hummed.

Rather than answer you verbally, Bucky’s old friend opted to snag the flask from your fingers and unscrew the top himself. Made an unusually bold move and took your chin in his other hand.

“Open.”

“No!”

You bared a tight smile to be polite, but inside, you were more than a little put off by his behavior. Maybe this was some stupid rite of passage into their ‘brotherhood.’ You had to assume he was just being friendly.

“C’mon. Quit bitchin’ and open up,” he chuckled, pinching your face even tighter.

That left an even more sour taste in your mouth. You jerked your head to the left and were just about to inform the man it’d cost him nothing to fuck off and stay off, when a voice broke out through the foliage behind you.

“Honey? Hon, you there?”

Immediate relief at hearing your husband’s voice.

You craned your neck to look around.

“I’m here, Bucky!” You waved an arm to try and get his attention, wherever he was.

It took him a second, but shortly, he appeared on the other side of some trees. He had a stern, if not slightly sallow, look on his face as he made his way over.

You turned back to Joey but found that he’d vanished. Your eyes scanned the beach, the lawn, even the bushes behind you and couldn’t find a trace of him anywhere. All that was left was the flask.

“Bucky, I just—”

“We need to go,” your husband cut in.

His narrowed, steely gaze sent a jolt of apprehension through you.

“Go wh—”

“Now, baby, please. I’ll tell you in the car.”

Your face dropped.

“We’re leaving?”

Shortly, Steve trotted over. Bleak as you’d ever seen him with his hands balled in fists at his sides. And a deep-set scowl.

“Whole fuckin’ swarm of ‘em now,” he pronounced.

Bucky didn’t wait to hear another word. He just grabbed your hand and joined his friend sprinting back up the lawn. You could barely keep apace with their steps and, still clinging to Bucky, almost tripped and stumbled.

“Get the fuck up,” Steve spat.

You tensed. For a second, your feet scarcely moved of their own accord as you trailed behind Bucky and felt a stabbing feeling in your gut. Bucky’s best man had surely been a little rough around the edges before, but never this needlessly cruel. What did you do?

Your husband delivered an uncharacteristically gruff shove to the man’s shoulder and made sure he felt it.

“Don’t you start this shit again,” he said, “Lay off.”

Steve ignored him entirely and took the lead around the hotel’s perimeter. You glanced to the throngs of partygoers still scattered along the veranda and saw similar looks of disquiet and alarm all around.

Just when a dozen different questions of what was going on, where were they taking you, and why the fuck did everyone look so afraid bubbled to the tip of your tongue, a thunderous sound brought you to a standstill.

At the opposite end of the plaza, a cluster of tents, tables, and catering stations all splintered apart in a single, headlong explosion. A bright red column of fire shot up toward the sky, and following its ascent rose a wave of shrill and horrified screams alongside it. A barrage of gunfire rained over the crowd, and before you could even spare a look toward its source, Bucky yanked you flat on the ground. Your hands and knees were shredded across pavement, had less than a second to register the pain, and were shortly made to snake along concrete and glass toward the garden down below.

You crawled, then crouched, then bounded down the lawn following Bucky and Steve like a bat out of hell. Another explosion sounded nearby—this time much closer, sending a shower of flames sailing through the air and all over—and whole droves of people just dropped. Facedown in the grass and covered in glass. Bucky clamped your hand in his own with a force that could’ve snapped it in two, but you didn’t blink. All of your senses were kicked into overdrive and focalized, unflinching, on the sight of more carnage than you could comprehend.

“Here!” Steve called presently.

He caught sight of a jet black sedan at the edge of the lawn and held a hand up to Bucky. A set of keys were promptly pelted into his grasp, and the three of you closed in on the car, quick, without another word.

Bucky tore the back door open and practically flung you inside. He primed himself to climb in right after, when a set of footsteps and a shout held him locked in place.

“Hangar’s clear.”

Sam, by the sound of it.

He jumped in shotgun while Steve seized the wheel. Bucky hadn’t gotten the back door so much as halfway shut before the engine roared to life and the car lurched ahead. Not thinking, you grabbed hold of a seatbelt, but Bucky was quick to pull you in and jerk you down.

You weren’t sure what you’d been expecting then, but it certainly wasn’t your husband’s weight crushing you from above as he pinned you to the floor of the car.

This wasn’t the seamless, smart exit that the heroes of the action-packed stories always had. Bucky didn’t hold you tight in his arms or cradle your head to his chest. He just draped the weight of his whole body over yours and begged you strenuously not to move or make a sound. By the looks of it, too, the car was tearing up the turf of the lawn and anything else that happened to cross its path; there was no rhyme or reason to Steve’s driving, it seemed, just frantic desperation and a will not to die.

Minutes, seconds, sights, and sounds—or what little of the world you could grasp from your cowered position—all bled together in a haze. Your pulse leapt and throbbed between your ears, and little more could be heard above that sound apart from the thrum of Bucky’s own heart, the thunder of gunfire, and the wail of sirens, coming low and faint and far too late to make much difference now.

You pressed your nose to the floor and got a dizzying whiff of nylon and bleach. Would’ve like to retch but gritted your teeth instead, lying in silence and wondering without humor if the splinters, the soot, or the blood would be hardest to wash out of your white satin dress.

The price of admission to board Bucky’s Boeing 787 came surprisingly cheap: just sit back and be ‘pregnant.’

You’d been flanked by medics as soon as you arrived at the hangar—a place tucked away just a few short miles from the hotel, where Bucky kept his aircraft for speedy escapes, apparently—and had been carried onto a jet. You didn’t squirm or protest, just hung limply in their arms and let them tend to you however they needed.

After all, you looked like fucking Carrie White on prom night: coated in blood and stiff as a board. Sitting with a thousand-yard stare and a frozen, muted expression as you tried, and failed, to process what had just happened.

You watched Bucky kneel down in front of you and hardly saw him at all. You sensed him stroke your hair but felt it from a place somewhere far outside your body. Bizarre was an understatement. All you could do was blink.

“It’s not— not her blood, is it?” your husband stammered, gesturing toward your dress.

“Some of it,” one nurse answered quietly.

Aw, hell. Bucky squatted on the floor and slotted himself between your knees, trying to get as close as possible so he could make you say something, even just see him. One of the attendants raised a warning look and placed a hand on his shoulder, which he shrugged off in a second.

“She’s not looking at me,” Bucky’s lip visibly trembled as he drew you closer, “Honey, I’m here— I’m right h—”

“She’s in shock.” Another voice came flatly.

Sure, shock works. In truth, your mind was floating somewhere even higher than the 43,000 feet the plane had ascended, and your brain had gone as soft as a clump of cotton candy in the rain. You couldn’t speak, but you could think in bits and pieces. You blinked again.

“She looks like death warmed over.”

Thank you, Steve.

Off to the side in a plush, leather seat of his own, the man nursed a scotch on the rocks and frowned. Bucky didn’t have the strength to throw a punch or a pillow at his head and instead said only to shut the fuck up, man.

Your husband turned to the nurses again.

“She’s pregnant.”

I beg your finest pardon? You blinked a bit harder.

“No, she’s not, Buck,” Sam said from down the aisle.

“Well, she could be,” Bucky chided, “We’ve been going at it like rabbits since the—”

“Fuck’s sake,” Steve slapped a palm over his forehead. If you weren’t currently balls-deep in a state of mental disarray you probably would’ve done the same.

Bucky had made sure to tell all medical personnel aboard the plane that you were—or very well could be—carrying his child, so would you please take all precautionary measures possible? She’s my wife. You suspected if the doctors and nurses weren’t all on Bucky’s payroll they probably would’ve rolled their eyes and reminded him that all you needed were stitches, dressings, and extra fluids. And no, Mr. Barnes, your wife probably isn’t pregnant, even if you think your sperm is ‘built different’ than most.

“She’ll be fine either way,” the medic on your left said, stifling a chuckle. Wondering if the man had ever taken a sex ed class in his years of prudish, private education.

Bucky wasn’t convinced. Against all physicians’ wishes, he climbed up beside you in the seat and pulled you into his lap with both arms wrapped around your waist.

By turns, the world was coming back into focus for you. You met Bucky’s gaze for the first time, and the man looked overjoyed.

“See? See? She’s back.” Bucky squeezed your hip—and immediately released it when you winced.

“Mind the bandages, Mr. Barnes.”

Your caregivers pro tempore shot your husband a couple wry looks as they packed their supplies and started to leave, getting the sense that their boss wasn’t going to stop badgering them, or you, anytime soon. That worked just fine for Bucky, because then he would get to hold you any way that he liked, as long as you’d let him.

Steve, on the other hand, didn’t seem quite as thrilled.

Sam watched the medics’ departure with a wary look.

“She probably needs to rest, Bucky,” the latter said, careful with his words.

Bucky’s eyes never strayed from yours.

“She’s okay, Sam. She’s good.” Perhaps speaking more to himself than anyone else. Steve shifted in his seat.

In your periphery, Mr. Wilson was approaching with a glass in his hand. You turned your head, and Bucky accepted the cup of water for you.

“Feelin’ alright?” Sam asked.

You tried to nod, but your husband was already cradling your head like a baby, urging you to take your first sip.

A spate of water splashed down the front of your dress. You shot Bucky a look as he hastily tried to dry it.

“She’s not a child, Barnes,” Steve muttered.

“Should probably keep that elevated,” Sam cut in, nodding toward your swollen ankle, “We’ll get some ice.”

Sam tilted his head again, this time to motion to Steve. His friend pretended not to see him, and then Bucky was back on his feet, keen as ever,

“I’ll go.”

He kissed the top of your head and assured you he’d be right back. He’d just started off toward the door, when Sam hesitated. He flitted a quick look between you and Steve and looked like he wanted to say something, but Bucky was already ushering him out of the room.

When you turned to Steve, you understood why.

The man had you pinned with a stare that could’ve killed you ten times over, fisting his drink in a white-knuckled grip.

You watched him right back. Tried hard not to blink.

“Something wrong?”

You weren’t sure how you’d even mustered the strength to speak. Steve just brought it out of you, you figured.

“You tell me.” Tone dripping with disdain.

You raked your gaze over the man for a second, finding him dressed head-to-toe in his three piece suit—muddied with blood here and there, but still no worse for wear than you’d seen him an hour or two ago. It was that frown you couldn’t shake.

What had you done to piss him off so much? Shit in his cornflakes? Step on his toe? Had he seen you with Joey and jumped to the worst possible conclusion? You sincerely couldn’t make sense of the man’s indignation, so you wanted to ask him directly; before you could, though, Steve was interjecting, at length,

“We should’ve left you to die with the rest of your family.”

Your jaw slackened a bit.

“What?”

“You, your mother, your two-timing shitstain of a father. Every one of you should’ve stayed there to rot.”

Never mind the fact that he’d just wished you dead to your face—what did he mean about your parents?

“But they’re coming with us. Bucky said,” you managed.

“He did?” Steve grinned humorlessly, “He lied, doll. Your folks are probably bound and gagged at the bottom of the ocean right now.”

That sent the first real wave of fear pulsing through you. You slowly rose to your feet but, feeling yourself restrained by the makeshift IV line stuck in your skin, you stopped. You plucked the needle out of your arm.

“What are you talking about?”

You drew closer to Steve, who only sat back and sipped his scotch with amusement.

“What? That wasn’t part of the plan?” he quirked a brow, “Didn’t think anyone would dare lay a finger on your precious, self-righteous fucking family—”

You hardly even noticed you’d swatted Steve’s drink out of his hand until the glass went shattering on the floor. You blinked and raised a shaky, bruised finger about an inch from his face.

“The fuck did you just say to me?” Your jaw was clenched so tight you had to speak through your teeth.

Steve was beaming.

The door to the room flew open, and Bucky and Sam strolled in with their ice packs and pillows. They stopped when they saw the glass on the floor and your figure looming over Steve.

“You picked a real spitfire, Buck,” the blond called out, his hands raised in surrender as he smiled up at you.

Bucky seemed more surprised that you were able to stand, much less take that menacing stance over his friend, and he quickly tried to guide you back to your seat. You wouldn’t budge.

“What the fuck are you talking about?! Where are my parents?” You tried to shake your husband off as Steve’s grin grew even bigger.

“They’re fine, honey. Sit down, please,” Bucky mumbled.

“No! He said they were dead!” you shot back, eyes never leaving the smug, smirking face that seemed to be enthralled by the spectacle in front of him.

“Why don’t you tell her, Buck? Girl deserves to know.”

“Shut the fuck up, Rogers,” Sam uttered quietly.

“Tell me what?”

“It’s nothing, your parents are fine,” Bucky seemed pensive now, gaze scanning the ceiling for a second as he tried to collect his thoughts. You shoved his hands off.

“Don’t you fucking lie to me, James,” you said, diverting your attention to glare up at him, “What’s going on?”

“Either she’s a world-class actress or she really doesn’t have the first clue about this. Enlighten her.” Steve seemed a little more serene as he unscrewed a bottle of Talisker and reached for a second glass. You would’ve liked to knock back one or two—or ten—yourself.

You turned on your heels to face Bucky. At the moment, he seemed torn between imparting a death black stare on Steve and a placating, apologetic one to you. The tips of his ears were tinged pink.

“Baby—” He reached for you, but you pulled back.

“No.”

You wouldn’t ask him again. Your husband was wounded by the sight of your recoil—and perhaps by some painful truths he’d be compelled to share as well—and he wrung his hands. Started to chew the inside of his cheek.

Sam snagged the scotch and made a heavy pour.

“Why’d you marry him?” Steve said suddenly.

Bucky’s face dropped; you raised a brow in question. Before your husband could stop you, you answered,

“Because my dad was in debt.”

“For what?”

You paused.

“Real estate. Gambling. Fuck if I know.”

Steve nodded. Ignored Bucky’s sharp, reproachful gaze.

“And how much money did he owe?” he asked.

“Steve,” Sam warned.

“Four, five million—more than he could ever repay.”

This time, it was Steve to raise both brows as he mulled over your response. He almost looked surprised.

“You’re forced to marry a man just to settle a debt and you don’t even know the price that tight little body’s paying?” he scoffed.

His words hadn’t hung in the air for much longer than a second before Bucky decked him, shoving him square in the chest and sending him stumbling back a couple steps. A splash of whiskey was quick to join the bloodstains adorning Steve’s tux, and the pile of broken glass on the floor grew even bigger. The man hardly flinched when Bucky shoved his head to the end table.

“Say it again.” Your husband sounded dispassionate as ever. Like this was something he was used to doing.

“She should’ve known!” Steve snapped anyway.

You shared a brief look with Sam but found his expression inscrutable. He kicked a few shards of glass with the toe of his shoe.

“I wasn’t exactly in a place to negotiate,” you grumbled, “They were going to kill my father if we didn’t settle it, so I wasn’t all that interested in knowing how much money my A1 cunt was gonna cost Bucky. Personally.”

If he could go low, you would go lower. Fuck him.

You saw Steve grin through a freshly busted lip and straighten himself back into a seated position. He wiped the blood with the pad of his thumb while Bucky seemed to contemplate swinging again. The look in your eye cautioned him against it.

“Fair enough,” Steve conceded. He stopped to consider his words—ones that wouldn’t prompt Bucky to punch him directly in the throat—and looked to you, curious,

“Why would the mob kill him over a few million dollars?”

You shrugged.

“He’s a real estate broker. They probably knew he couldn’t fork over that kind of cash.”

Something akin to a stifled chuckle and a cough sounded from Sam, while Steve outright broke out laughing. Even Bucky’s expression softened a little as he rubbed his knuckles and paced closer to you.

“What?” you spat, “Did I say something funny?”

Sam shook his head slowly, starting, “I don’t think—”

“Your daddy’s a fucking gunrunner, sugar,” Steve wheezed, “Head of a multinational arms trafficking syndicate—motherfucker is not selling houses.”

Your insides churned with a mixture of disbelief and revulsion, but you couldn’t let them see that. When Bucky reached for your hand, you yanked it back again.

“And how the fuck would you know?” you said to Steve.

“We work with him. Used to work for him, at one point,” Sam answered.

“And the man is horseshit at business”—Steve paused to see if Bucky had shot him a warning look but found your husband far too concerned with capturing your attention—“He was $90 million in the hole when Bucky came to the rescue.”

“James?” You finally turned to him.

“And your daddy didn’t even owe the money to Bucky, he owed it to HYDRA,” Steve sneered.

“James,” you pressed again.

You couldn’t understand why your husband refused to speak—going as deadpan and radio silent as the night before. He stood there and watched you with a rigid, inflexible gaze.

“HYDRA as in— the Russian mob?” you asked him.

“No, the Girl Scouts,” Steve huffed, “Yes, the mob.”

“Schröder’s boys. Your dad’s been in business with them for years—owed them a lot of money,” Sam added.

“And your dad and Bucky’s dad have been friends even longer. So Bucky figured he’d do yours a favor and pay the debt himself.” Steve seemed eager to tell this story.

All the while, the hue of Bucky’s cheeks grew even deeper—like he didn’t want this coming to light. He sensed you wouldn’t stand down until you’d heard the whole ugly truth, though, so he held your gaze and watched you grow more repulsed by the second.

“Then why’d he need me? Just another bartering chip?” Your tongue felt heavy in your mouth, “A pawn?”

“A peace offering,” Bucky said quietly.

Steve and Sam finally clammed up long enough to let him speak, but your husband seemed taciturn as ever.

“Your father didn’t owe me anything. I would’ve paid his debt and left it at that, but he insisted I— that we marry. He wanted an alliance no subsequent financial incentive could disrupt. He would take the money I gave him, pay HYDRA, and bow out of any future dealings with them. Our marriage was supposed to guarantee that.”

Bucky spoke slow, like every word was a labored breath. Hardly the same could be said for his friends.

“That was until your dipshit weapons dealer daddy decided he’d have his cake and eat it too. Struck an even sweeter deal with HYDRA and played in our faces,” Steve said.

“At the direction of Mr. Schröder, your father tried to intercept a shipment bound for one of Bucky’s warehouses in Brooklyn,” Sam continued, “Only problem is he fucked up the execution and cost Schröder a dozen men and tens of millions of dollars in artillery and blow.”

“So Schröder paid him a visit today,” Bucky muttered.

Without realizing it, you found yourself sinking into the nearest seat and bringing a hand to lay flat on your stomach. You felt sick. More than woozy, truthfully. Your head was spinning and your stomach was twisting something terrible, as if you’d just ingested cyanide.

Fuck, did you need a drink.

You couldn’t look at Bucky or Steve or Sam any longer.

You reached for your clutch and pulled out Joey’s flask.

And, bloodlusting mobsters and outlaws be damned, the Russians knew how to make the hell out of some vodka. A single sniff of the stuff told you this was exactly what you would need to cope with your current situation.

“So you think I had something to do with the new HYDRA deal?” you asked, “You honestly th—FUCK!”

Bucky lunged for the flask in your hand before you could take a single pull. He snatched it away in the blink of an eye and shot you a look.

“Liquor? For our baby?” he barked.

You audibly groaned and were just about to tell him that his understanding of human reproduction was a crock of shit when you stopped. You saw his expression change.

“Where did you get this?” Bucky asked, suddenly pale.

“You, dumbass!”

“Me?”

Bucky was presently passing the flask around to his friends, who were eyeing a spot on the bottom of the container with shared looks of alarm.

“Your friend gave it to me earlier saying that you wanted me to have it,” you said.

All three men looked up at once.

“What friend?” Sam asked.

“Joey,” you answered, “Bucky’s friend from the army.”

If it were possible for your husband to get any paler his skin might’ve turned the color of cottage cheese. His eyes were wide with fear.

Then he was hurrying to your side. Taking your hand.

“What friend from the army? What’d he look like?”

You were still scanning Bucky’s face, trying to make sense of the apprehension etched into his features, when you managed,

“I-I dunno. Blond. Light brown eyes.”

“Tall fella?” Steve asked.

“Very.”

“Have a German accent?” Sam pressed.

“No, a real thick Southern accent,” you shook your head. It didn’t occur to you then that it could’ve been fake.

You were about to turn your attention back to Bucky, brow still knit in confusion, when a vague memory crossed your mind. You looked up at Sam and Steve.

“He had a—” You tapped your chin lightly, “—a little scar right here.”

You would’ve thought you’d just announced you had a bomb strapped to your ass the way the three men reacted. Each wore identical looks of disbelief and muted horror, exchanging looks between themselves as if they’d just discovered the Atlantic Ocean—and found the Loch Ness Monster lurking somewhere underneath.

Bucky looked the worst out of all of them. His face had drained of all expression and color as he stared at you.

“Joey?” he intoned feebly.

“Yes,” you answered—feeling ineffectual, even dense, for not catching on to what the rest of them had discovered.

Fortunately, Sam wouldn’t let you wallow in ignorance.

“Johann Schröder,” he supplied in a second, “The man you were talking to was Mr. Schröder, head of HYDRA.”

Steve held the flask in his grasp for you to see the bottom, where a skull with six tentacles was engraved. Then he tipped the canister into a glass he’d taken in his other hand and watched a frothy pink liquid spill out.

“Looks to be a serum of his,” Steve said, hollow as you’d ever heard him, “Kind of like…roofies.”

“You didn’t drink any of it, did you?” Sam asked.

“Nuh-uh. Bucky showed up right as he was trying to, uh— to pour it in my mouth.”

A beat of silence gripped the room.

Bucky looked like he might burst a blood vessel, or someone’s skull. Or both.

Still, he wouldn’t speak to you.

The inside of your head was throbbing.

You almost preferred the ruthless, irate glint in Steve’s eye when he’d suspected you of being a traitor the first time around; this cloyingly sympathetic gaze he was giving you now had to be the most maddening thing. He and Sam both looked on at you like you were a victim. Like you were something to be pitied, or coddled, or left to the capable hands of your husband—a motherfucker who couldn’t even speak so much as a syllable to you.

You felt a pressure build, then swell, then peak between your temples, and you wanted to wince but couldn’t stand the thought of looking weak in front of them.

Then your nose started to bleed.

That, at least, woke Bucky from his reverie as he fumbled around for a napkin and helped you to your feet. He looped an arm around your waist and led you off to the bathroom, his grip tightening on your frame with every step you took.

In two minutes flat, you were flooded with fifteen feet of toilet paper and tissues. Bucky cupped the back of your head in one of his broad, warm palms and kept it plastered there as he instructed you to hold it, honey, hang on, I can grab a few extra rolls right here and guided you toward a private area at the back of the plane.

You could scarcely see above the bunched up wads of Charmin Ultra Strong pressed close to your nose, but you trusted Bucky wouldn’t lead you astray. You felt the welcome touch of a bed underneath you, and then your husband was helping you settle in amongst the pillows and the blankets and the rose petals that had been scattered around before—not entirely appropriate now, but a nice touch nonetheless—and slipping your shoes off your feet. You felt his hand graze your ankle, and then he was saying he’d be right back with those ice packs.

You reached for his hand before he could leave.

“I don’t want it,” you said, your voice slightly muffled by the tissues, “Want you to talk to me, James.”

Bucky’s brow pinched inward. He kneeled down in front of you, where you were sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I am— I’m talking to you right now, honey, I—”

“You know what I mean.”

Bucky wiped his hand down his face and shook his head. Like he was trying to rid himself of a thought.

“I don’t want to talk about HYDRA. Or your father,” he said simply.

“Why not?”

“You’re not in the right place to hear it.”

You plucked the toilet paper away from your face long enough to give him a stern glare.

“We’re on a plane. Fleeing Greece. After you got curb-stomped in our honeymoon suite, our post-wedding brunch was bombed by the Russian mob, I was almost drugged by their leader, and my parents are probably as good as dead, if not being held for ransom, as we speak. Please tell me a better place to have this conversation.”

Bucky was left stumped for a second. Then he slowly rose back to his feet.

“Okay.”

Infuriating.

“Okay?” you snapped, “We could’ve died five times today and all you can say is okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

Fuck this guy. You wiped your nose and stood up too.

Bucky tried to nudge you back onto the bed, wary of the ever-growing number of bumps, bruises, and nosebleeds afflicting your body. He tensed when you nudged him right back.

“I need to see my family,” You stood firm, “As soon as we land wherever it is we’re going, I’m on the first flight back to New York—or wherever they are.”

You dabbed at your nose once more and looked up at him.

“No, you’re not,” Bucky returned.

“What? You’re gonna stop me?”

“Yes, I will.”

The worst part was he wasn’t even smug about it. Just calm and self-assured. You flung your tissues to the side and threw your hands up in exasperation, feeling the need to step away from him and start pacing the room. The man’s reticence was grating on your nerves.

“Why bother, Buck?” you snorted, “It’s not like I’m even your wife, really. I’m just a peace offering that you get to bend over and fuck every now and then, right?”

You turned to make your first circuit around the foot of the bed but were shortly met with the expanse of Bucky’s chest. You looked up to find him frowning.

“Don’t say that again,” he glowered down at you.

Unlike most times before, you didn’t flinch. When he reached for your wrists, you didn’t let him win.

“I’m not your wife,” you repeated, “We may be playing the most fucked up game of mob charades, but this is not a real marriage.”

You ignored Bucky’s evident desire to grab hold of something of yours and side-stepped easily, expanding the gap between you two as much as you could. It was almost amusing to see him not in control for once, and floundering to recover what semblance of it he could.

“You are my wife,” he insisted, frown growing deeper as you crept along the edge of the room, “Everything I do now is for you—it’s not a goddamn game to me.”

“You used me for some Machiavellian marriage ploy! That is the definition of a game, James!”

“I don’t even know what the fuck that means,” Bucky said, “But I love you.”

“You met me yesterday, motherfucker!”

You could feel another bloody nose rising in your bones. You turned around, swiped your lip with the back of your hand and were surprised to see nothing there. You waited for the bleeding to start back up again. When you turned, Bucky had closed the distance between you and was holding something in his hand.

Before you could protest, he was smoothing the thing over your face—apparently he’d grabbed a washcloth and dampened it—and laced his fingers through the hair at the back of your head. He held you firmly as he blotted the blood.

“Is it so hard to believe that I love you?” he asked quietly.

He was trying hard to placate you, but his actions were having just the opposite effect. You let him wipe the blood from your face but watched him begrudgingly.

“You want someone to control, Bucky,” you said, “Love is not a power play that you get to manipulate at will.”

Bucky blinked, trying to conjure up a response as he daubed the skin with a little more force. You weren’t finished.

“You look at me and see a victim. Someone you need to watch over— who can’t take care of themse—”

“That’s not true.”

“Really? That’s not what a ‘good little wife’ is to you?” you retorted.

At last, Bucky tossed the hand towel to the side and ran a hand through his hair. He stepped toward the dresser, shrugging off his suit jacket.

“That’s a— a bit I do when I’m horny. I don’t actually want you subservient to me,” he muttered as he looked around for a hanger. Finally, he just draped the coat over the back of a chair and sighed.

“So holding me hostage from my family is a bit, too?” you quizzed.

“To keep you safe from the people who tried to kill them. I’m sorry I don’t want to see you butchered because of me,” Bucky returned with just as much biting sarcasm.

“That’s rich coming from you.” You despised the indignation in your tone but couldn’t help it. These thoughts had been brewing inside your skull for hours. You watched Bucky struggle to undo his bow tie—just like the night before—and, again, your brain barely registered the action before you were reaching for the garment and tugging at the fabric to loosen it yourself.

“What are you talking about?” Bucky asked, brow furrowed.

“Last night,” you yanked harder than you meant to. The knot just got tighter, “And today. Tonight. You’re as still as the fucking grave and won’t say a word when something bad is happening. You just let it happen.”

You tried to pry your fingers through the tie but found it stiff as ever. You groaned inwardly.

“No, I don’t,” Bucky objected.

“You’re doing it right now! You wouldn’t tell me about HYDRA, or my father, or the guy who could’ve— hurt me. You didn’t say a word of that to me, and you expect me to believe we’re in this together? That you’re trying to keep me safe? You couldn’t even—” you paused to pull at that stupid tie your husband had tangled about four times over, finally feeling it give way a little—“couldn’t even pretend to give a fuck when those men broke in last night and almost killed us!”

Just as you freed the silk from its knot, Bucky seized your wrist. Shoved your hand off of his collar.

“I had to do that,” he snapped.

He threw his tie to the floor and started to unbutton the cuffs of his sleeves. The sight of his broad, veiny forearms were only visible to you for a second before he headed toward the closet, peeling off bits and pieces of his ensemble as he walked.

“You didn’t do anything, Bucky! You just sat there and got the shit beat out of you for no fucking reason! You didn’t even try to fight back.”

Bucky had just muscled his way out of the confines of his dress shirt, leaving him in a tight, plain white tee. He turned to you with what seemed like the most pointed look of disdain.

“You think I wanted to do that?!” he barked. Suddenly facing you head-on, skin flushed a shade just shy of crimson.

“You were too chickenshit. Didn’t wanna get your hands dirty, so you let Sam do it for you,” you seethed.

Your husband looked as though he wanted to put his fist through a wall and pummel it several times over. Seemed like he did, anyway. In truth, he didn’t move—just watched you with the most cruel, unflinching gaze as he clenched his jaw.

“I’m chickenshit?” he repeated.

“Yeah. Coward,” you spat.

“Too much of a coward to keep you safe?”

“Precisely.”

At long last, you saw Bucky smile. It was the tightest, most humorless grin that had ever crossed his lips, but it was a smile nonetheless. He raised a hand over your head and bracketed his arm against the wall so he was leaning over you. Not meant to intimidate per se, but the sight of that smirk was unnerving, to say the least.

“Did you hear what language they spoke?” he asked, voice unbearably low as he drew his face closer to yours.

“It sounded like—”

“Russian, that’s right,” Bucky cut in, “Do you know what they said to me when they pulled us to the floor?”

You swallowed and said nothing. Bucky’s breaths were fanning hot across your cheeks, sending waves of a strange sensation all throughout your body—you weren’t sure if you were meant to be aroused or scared shitless.

“They told me, ‘If you move, we’ll kill her,’” Bucky deadpanned as he began to trace the wallpaper beside your head with a single, bloodied finger, “‘If you fight, we’ll dismember her and set fire to every piece of her body in front of you.’ Or something to that effect.”

The repetition of their words seared your veins like a legion of flames. You could picture them saying it. Grabbing hold of Bucky’s head by the roots of his hair and beating him over and over and over, threatening your life if he made a single move to stop it.

“Bucky—” you started.

“I know they meant it, too. HYDRA operatives make good on their promises if they really set out to harm someone.”

Your husband’s grin had transformed into something more of a crooked, downcast grimace, just baring his teeth as he tried not to lose his composure. Guilt flooded his face.

“I know I should’ve told you then. And after. I should’ve told you about your father as soon as Steve’s informant told us. I just—” Bucky stopped to swallow; he couldn’t meet your gaze—“I didn’t want that hanging over your head. Not after everything that happened last night.”

It was like a blade had just twisted in your stomach. Your throat ached. You wanted to touch him but were almost too scared to ask. He looked so fragile.

“I am a coward. And controlling. Probably the most chickenshit, overbearing son of a bitch you could’ve been unfortunate enough to marry.” For a moment, Bucky’s gaze flickered to yours, and you saw a blooming red hue around the blues of his irises, “But that’s not how I’m supposed to love you—or going to love you.”

You weren’t sure how to reply; you tried raising a hand to his cheek, just to touch the skin, but decided against it.

“I’ve been a shit husband, fake or not. I’m sorry.”

Fake husband maybe, but the look on his face was intractably authentic. Palpable. He blinked as though trying to clear the warm and heady feelings from his expression—suddenly not wanting you to see the shades of his emotions painted there—and focused instead on a few stray strands of hair that had blown over your face. He got very invested in those, all of a sudden.

While your husband stroked the corners of your face and fixed his gaze away from yours, you felt the smallest prick of warmth spark within you. Bucky looked soft and serene and sincere in his apology, defenseless now as he grazed his knuckles over your cheek and said it again,

“I’m sorry, honey. I’m so sorry.”

He paired his apology with a rapid succession of little kisses pressed to your forehead, moving his hand to the nape of your neck to pull you closer to him.

You wanted to touch him, too. You almost felt as though you didn’t know how.

So you stood there and accepted his affections and tried to nod your head when he asked if you were alright, were you hurting any, baby? You leaned into the gentle pressure of his fingertips taking stock of every cut and bruise you’d sustained over the course of that day, watched Bucky’s brow furrow with each new discovery, and tried not to let his touch stray far down your body.

You wanted to be the one with your hands on him—now more than ever.

When Bucky’s hand trailed over your chin, you tilted your head just slightly to kiss it. Your husband didn’t think much of it, just smiling down as tender as he always did, when your lips really grazed over the skin. You pressed a kiss to his finger and wordlessly urged him to move it further. Now it was Bucky’s turn to be at a loss for what to do as you took the tip of his thumb between your lips and suckled it, gently.

“Honey,” he let out a sigh, half-encouragement and half-warning—what were you trying to do?

You glided your mouth down his finger so half of his thumb was enveloped inside. You sucked it again.

“You can’t…” Bucky maintained feebly, eyes briefly scouring all the cuts and bruises across your skin. He didn’t want to see you strain yourself any further.

But whatever pain this might cause was ancillary to you; you curled your tongue around the digit and moaned lightly.

The taste of one finger alone was enough to send you into a frenzy. That and the fact that he had been so open and honest and attentive to your needs made every bone in your body want to jump his. Something about a man taking accountability for his actions and communicating them in a way that didn’t intimidate or belittle you was refreshing. Sexy, almost. Admittedly, the bar for mob boss husbands was hovering somewhere deep in hell, but you admired Bucky’s efforts all the same.

You popped his thumb out of your mouth and smiled.

“You worry too much, Mr. Barnes.”

The echo of his words from earlier—the ones he’d said as he was railing you against a mirror—made Bucky’s cock twitch. His gaze trailed down to the sheen of saliva on your lip, and he almost folded on the spot. He swallowed.

“Don’t wanna hurt you, bunny,” he murmured as you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth and peered up at him.

“Hurt me how?”

You really hadn’t meant to sound like such a tease when you’d said it, but it was hard not to come across that way when you were watching him like that.

And sinking to your knees, with your eyes glued on his.

Bucky sucked in a breath as you kneeled between his feet and nudged the seam of his pants with your nose. He felt so big against your face, you almost couldn’t fathom how he’d fit inside of you the night before. You were amazed how quickly he’d gotten hard—as if the two of you weren’t just having a heart-to-heart a second ago—and you felt your own arousal pool in your panties.

“You know I don’t mind if it hurts. Love the way you stretch me out anyhow,” you continued, and tried not to smirk as you imagined a dozen filthy images from last night flash before Bucky’s mind.

You heard him stifle a groan when you ghosted your lips over the bulge in his pants and felt him swell even more. Your mouth watered at the sound, the sensation, the raw anticipation of what was to come and knowing that you got to dictate what happened. You undid the button and the zip of his pants and damn near drooled at the sight.

Even confined to his boxers, Bucky looked fucking huge.

Suddenly, you began to understand how needy he had been the night before when he’d first wedged his face between your legs and gotten a taste of you. You hadn’t so much as sampled an inch of his cock, and you were already aching to swallow him whole.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” Bucky grunted as he planted a hand on the wall in front of him. You kissed the outline of his clothed erection and earned a full-throated groan.

Well, that makes two of us, you wanted to say but were too busy palming him through his boxers to utter a word. Soaking in the sight of him with every sweet, soft groan he made and wanting to be the reason for even more.

“Can I take you in my mouth, daddy?” you asked softly.

Bucky flattened his palm against the wall and nodded. Beyond words as you worked him out of his boxers.

For one, fleeting moment, you almost wanted to walk back your big talk when his cock sprung out of the fabric. You really hadn’t seen his length at all last night—too busy having it stuffed inside your cunt to get a good look—but holy shit was it an intimidating sight. You weren’t sure if it was just the nerves of this being your first time giving head or if Bucky truly was that massive, but you felt your courage start to crumble before your eyes.

My husband is hung like a fucking horse and I’ve never fit anything bigger than a couple fingers in my mouth. This should go well.

Bucky was evidently so turned on that he didn’t notice the apprehension in your expression. After all, you were moving your lips down his cock and seizing the base of him with what looked like excitement.

Should I…lick it first?

It seemed you would have to learn all of this on the job. You stuck your tongue out and ran it up the length of his shaft.

When Bucky groaned in response, you sensed that that was okay. You pressed a few kisses on the underside of his member and scrambled to think of what else to do.

“Fuck, baby,” your husband let out the most guttural sound as you squeezed his length in your hand. Then, to your surprise, he seized a fistful of your hair between his fingers and rutted his hips, pushing the head of himself against your lips, “Take me in your mouth.”

You heard the Kill Bill sirens blare between your ears but said nothing. You could do this—you’d be fine.

Your lips wrapped around the head of his cock, and Bucky gripped your hair even tighter. Let out a deep, satisfied moan like this was exactly what he needed. You liked that noise and wanted to take him even further.

What you didn’t expect was four more inches shoved inside your mouth before you could stop to take a breath.

The whole girth of his cock made a sharp intrusion, causing your cheeks to stretch and hollow out around him. The head of his member barely grazed the back of your throat, and still, you gagged. And not only gagged but choked, as though someone had just tried to scrub your tonsils with a fine-bristle toothbrush. Unfortunately for you, Bucky’s dick did not taste like spearmint.

He pulled his cock out as quickly as he’d pushed it in.

“Sorry. Shit, sorry.” Bucky blinked twice to get out of that blissed-out headspace and shot you a sheepish look.

The man had rarely been obliged to slow down or take five when his old, ever-changing flavors of the night sucked him off before—most blew him without trouble. But you, kneeling there batting your lashes through a few more tears than expected, seemed uncertain. Even half of his shaft made for a tight fit in your mouth, Bucky thought with some guilty feelings of arousal. He watched you wipe your chin with the back of your hand and frown.

“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, baby,” Bucky said, stroking the top of your head.

Suddenly, the frown was turned in his direction.

You raised a brow.

“Why? That all you got, Barnes?”

Bucky couldn’t help but chuckle—and grunt, a little—when you grabbed the base of his cock and brought it down to your swollen pout. His hand instinctively moved back to the wall.

“Honey, are you s—”

He stopped the second you rubbed him up and down and pressed a kiss on the most sensitive skin.

“My mouth isn’t made of paper mâché. You can fuck it a little harder than that,” you said, running your touch down his length while holding his gaze. You looked eager.

Before Bucky could respond, you took the tip of his cock between your lips. Flattened your tongue and glided your mouth down as far as it could go before your cheeks started to hurt—then bobbed your head even further. One of your husband’s hands made a fist in your hair while the other scraped the wall, and you could tell it was taking some serious effort not to rut his hips out of habit.

Be gentle, be gentle, your dick barely fits in her mouth—

“—fucking hell you feel good,” he groaned.

Bucky took one look and could have cum on the spot.

It was one thing to feel you licking and sucking and stretching to accommodate his length, and another thing entirely to see you knelt in front of him with the world’s sweetest gaze, mouth stuffed full of his cock and eyes all but rolling back at the overwhelming sensation. You’d nearly made it all the way to the short tufts of hair on his lower abdomen—and looked so pretty doing it.

Bucky fucking loved it. And you. And fucking you, your face, any place he could fit himself, quite frankly. He stared down at you struggling to take his cock and felt a strange new wave of desire pulsing through his body.

“You like that, doll? Like when daddy fucks that slutty little mouth of yours?”

“Barely fits but you take it so well, bunny.”

“My good little wife and her pretty fucking mouth—likes sucking daddy’s cock however deep he needs it, huh?”

You liked it more than the air in your lungs, to be honest. Only problem was you couldn’t quite speak your mind with your mouth full of Bucky, so you had only to nod. Your husband groaned when you hummed along his length and bobbed your head to answer ‘yes.’ He saw you try not to gag and decided to thrust a little deeper.

He watched his cock drag back and forth along your tongue and took hold of your hair like a vice, fucking your face until your chin and cheeks were drenched with spit. Every now and then he’d pull his cock out just long enough to ask how bad you wanted him in your mouth, how desperate you were to taste him again, and every time you’d answer a little more sweetly and incoherently than before, eyes glazed with desire and mouth open for more.

You were amazed you’d lasted as long as you had—how quickly you’d devolved into this pliable, doe-eyed cocksleeve for Bucky and how keenly you desired to please him even more. It felt pornographic and lewd and somehow still loving as he plowed in and out of your mouth and sang your praises like no man had before.

Above you, Bucky was aching for release but adamant that he wouldn’t cum down your throat—not yet, at least.

His mind was alight with those pesky, primal thoughts again, and every time he watched you swallow him whole, he just wanted to fuck his cum someplace else.

Bucky wasn’t sure if he was smitten or simply dominated by carnal desire; all he knew was that he wanted to give you his babies.

Lots and lots of babies.

A hundred or more, if he had it his way.

Again, you barely had a chance to take a fresh breath before Bucky threw you onto the bed. You’d just tried to steady yourself in a semi-seated position when the man shoved you back in the pillows and slotted himself between your legs, pupils blown wide with hunger.

In a blink, you were flipped onto your stomach with your ass yanked high in the air. Back made to arch, toes about to curl, you closed your eyes and sank your teeth into the sheets, moments away from begging your husband to fuck you right then and there, but Bucky had other plans. He seized the hair at the crown of your head and jerked your head to face forward.

The first thing to greet you was your own reflection—in a floor-to-ceiling mirror at the foot of the bed—followed by Bucky’s broad form steadying behind you. You watched him wet his lips, furrow his brow, and use one careful hand to guide the head of his cock to your entrance. Completely piqued with arousal as you were, weeping beads of desire from that place between your legs, you almost wanted to buck your hips and fuck him yourself.

You refrained.

Bucky pressed the tip of himself to your clit and met your gaze in the mirror when you let out a whimper.

“You didn’t mean it, did you?” he asked, tone suddenly dropped to that of a stoic.

“Mean what?”

It took an unbelievable amount of willpower to fight the moan in your throat when Bucky dragged his cock down the seam of your cunt and rubbed every hot, throbbing inch of himself in the slickness between your folds. You were quick to take the sheets in your hands and squeeze as tight as you could—you wouldn’t let him win that easy.

“When you said you weren’t my wife. Did you mean it?” Bucky was coating himself now, rolling his hips back and forth while you seized the white linens for dear life.

“No. I didn’t,” you said through your teeth. Your eyelids fluttered with the feel of him circling your sensitive hole.

“Do you want to be my wife?” Bucky had to have known it was an asinine question, but he asked it all the same.

“Yes.”

“You do?”

“I do. I do. Now will you just fuck me already?”

In response, and as if to make a mockery of your request, Bucky just pressed the head of his cock inside you and watched you close in the mirror—daring your hips to move back another inch.

“What else do you want to be, doll?”

To say your mind was an empty slate bare of anything but the desire to be fucked was an understatement. You fumbled to find words.

“Your wife, your girl— that’s it, Bucky.”

Your husband nudged his cock a little deeper.

“A good girl?” he hummed.

“Yes, daddy,” you cried and clenched around him.

Bucky stayed where he was and stretched your wet, aching hole with just his tip, making the world’s most shallow thrusts as he flattened his hand on your back and made sure it stayed arched while he teased you.

At this point, you didn’t care what the man saw or heard. You fought with your hips and whined into the sheets.

“Bucky!”

“Wanna be my obedient little cockslut?” he asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“My bunny?”

“Yes, James.” Your cheeks were enflamed, almost hot to the touch.

Bucky suddenly drove himself inside you all the way to the hilt. He squeezed your hip in one hand and with the other slipped a finger between your folds to rub vicious, tight circles against your clit as you bucked and moaned beneath his touch.

“How about a momma?” he pressed, almost too low to be heard, “Wanna be that, too?”

His hips fell into a quick and easy rhythm against your ass, stretching you wide and filling you up almost seamlessly. Your mind was too consumed with pleasure and him to think much else, but barely, you managed,

“W-what?”

Bucky delivered a thrust that knocked the breath from your chest, leaning down to rub your clit even harder.

“Do you want to be a mommy? Have me fill you up and put my baby inside you?”

Oh, fuck. Fucking—what the fuck? Your toes curled as a new jolt of pleasure shot through you, and your gaze locked with Bucky’s in the mirror. He knew exactly what he was doing.

“No— James, we’re not, shit—” you stopped to take a breath as he fucked you rough from behind, smirking the whole time, “We’re not ready for that.”

“Look pretty…ready to me,” Bucky stifled a groan when you squeezed around him and made obscene little noises sliding up and down his cock. He watched the way your pretty, wet pussy stretched and swallowed him down to the base and imagined it dripping with his cum. He snapped his hips against your ass even faster.

It wasn’t clear just who was more overcome with desire—both of you blissed out and fuckdrunk as you’d ever been—and then Bucky flipped you onto your back.

He wanted to see your face as he fucked you slow this time, lips hovering mere inches from your own as he dragged his cock gently in and out of you.

“James,” you breathed, digging your heels in his back with a wordless plea to speed up, baby, please.

In truth, you just knew what would happen if Bucky had the advantage of slow and soft sex with a mouth lowered close to your ear. How he’d shower you with kisses and bring you right to the edge, rolling his hips against your body with strings of sweet praises flowing fast off his tongue.

“Just one, honey,” he mumbled, lips grazing the edge of your jaw, “One baby and I promise we’ll be done.”

Yeah fucking right, you wanted to return with a roll of your eyes but felt your insides churn as he grazed that spot.

“Can you do that for me, doll?” he eased his dick back and forth and snaked a hand between your bodies until his palm was laying flat on your stomach, “Fit my baby in there?”

You couldn’t deny the feelings of pleasure were heightened to no end when he rubbed the heel of his palm into your tummy and continued to rut into you. That feeling of fullness, the delicate nudge against your most sensitive place, paired with the warmth of Bucky’s hand on your lower abdomen, was as close to euphoric as you’d ever felt before orgasm, and it wasn’t hard to tell from the way your body responded. Bucky worked his touch even deeper and watched you writhe beneath him.

“My sweet girl,” he cooed, rubbing that spot, “You’d look so pretty all swole up down here, don’t you think?”

Fucking hell, this guy was good. You squeezed your eyes shut and tried to shake your head.

“Someone…tried to kill us…twice in the last twenty four hours,” you managed between labored breaths. Trying not to whimper when the head of Bucky’s cock kissed your cervix and you felt him bottom out inside you.

Balls deep and enamored with the expression on your face, Bucky laid a kiss on your forehead and smiled.

“I’ll take Schröder’s life with my own two hands if it means keeping you—” he paused to press his palm even firmer on your stomach, “—and our child safe, honey.”

You wanted to believe him. You sincerely hoped your husband could make good on his promise—even if it meant delivering an agonizing, bloody death to a man you barely knew—but you sensed deep down that there were no guarantees in the world Bucky Barnes inhabited. From what little you’d seen in the last day and a half, it had become clear as ever that there were no certainties; no promise of tomorrow, much less a probability that things would pan out exactly as you planned. Add to that a living, breathing child between you two, and the prospects for a safe, secure, and peaceful future were small. Infinitesimally so, in the grand scheme of things.

“No, Bucky,” you finally opened your eyes to find his tender gaze watching over you. Still moving his hips gently, still blanketing your body with his own, “That’s entirely just— just irresponsible. You know it would be.”

“Making a child together?” Bucky seemed wounded saying the words.

And, in spite of the serious turn your conversation had taken, you could see and feel with the growing pace of your breaths that both of you were close. You wanted more than anything to repair that muted, injured look in his eyes, but then Bucky was blinking it away, to the best of his abilities, and lowering his head back down to yours to impart a soft barrage of kisses along your skin. He resumed before you could even think to speak again.

“Okay. No, you’re right. It’s your choice, my love,” he murmured against your cheek, getting back into the more deliberate rhythm of his thrusts before. He stayed there holding his body and his lips as close to yours as possible, and when you felt tempted to say something again, you found the sound drowned by a cresting wave of pleasure.

Your legs tightened around Bucky’s sides, and your head fell back on the bed. You felt Bucky’s drop right beside you, turned just slightly to graze his lips against your ear.

“Gonna cum for me, doll?”

You nodded.

“So close, Bucky,” you breathed, a tremor passing over your thighs as they squeezed him even tighter.

You felt your husband’s hand move from your belly to a place just below it—taking care to bring the pad of his thumb to that wet, aching bundle of nerves—and started drawing circles. Your back arched from the bed, into him, and the coil of pleasure in your lower half swelled.

“Good girl,” Bucky growled, “Good fuckin’ girl, taking me so well.”

The praises and gentle circuits of his thumb continued as he fucked you harder into the bed and panted against your skin. Increasing the speed of his thrusts before catching your mouth in a sloppy kiss, body sinking into yours.

“Gonna make a mess of this cock, huh? Show daddy just how much you love it?”

You whined in response, feeling your muscles start to ache from how hard your legs were wrapped around him. Bucky invaded your mouth with his tongue, kissing and licking and craving your taste as he fucked you stupid—and begged for your release.

“Cum for daddy, honey, I know you got it. Let daddy feel it, baby, please.”

A couple more snaps of his hips and you gave him just that: a hot, cascading ripple of bliss spreading all throughout your body, sending your mind in spirals and every muscle under your command a tense, throbbing mess. You swallowed a scream and took a bite of Bucky’s shoulder instead, causing the man above you to grin and fuck you harder.

“That’s my girl,” he mumbled with an audible hint of pride.

The smile only started to waver when his own release was coming close. Suddenly, his grip was moving to your hip and pinning you down to the bed, brows pinching in and breaths starting to hitch.

“Honey— honey,” he said, voice strained, “Baby, you— you gotta let go of your— ah, fuck.”

Still riding out the highs of your orgasm, you hardly even noticed how tight you were holding him with your legs, and shortly, this raised issues for Bucky, who was trying like hell to heed your wishes and not cum inside you.

“Baby, let go, I gotta—”

He probably could’ve fought to shake you off a little harder, been a bit more adamant about his efforts, but you looked so comfortable and lithe and sweet beneath his frame, so blissed out and happy to be taking his strokes, Bucky almost had to pinch himself to rouse his lust-addled brain to action and remind himself that this was how babies are made, man, get the fuck off of her.

Bucky let out a long, strangled groan as the ropes of cum left his body before he could think, or move, fast enough.

He hastily pushed your legs away and pulled out, but not before painting your walls with a good portion of his load. His hand fell to his cock and started jerking the rest of it out over your stomach, body washing with pleasure.

Vaguely, thoughts of babies and ballgames and neat white picket fences crossed his mind, but those views were fleeting; he remembered what you’d told him and forced himself back to earth, dropping a quick, apologetic kiss to the side of your face.

“I’m sorry. Should’ve pulled out quicker,” Bucky panted against your neck.

You stroked his bicep and shook your head.

“You’re fine. I kinda had you down like a boa constrictor for a second,” you breathed and shared a weary laugh.

Before you knew it, Bucky was sliding off the bed and shuffling toward the bathroom in search of a towel. You prodded the warm, gooey mess on your belly with your finger and raised an eyebrow. Curious, and only slightly worried.

Bucky had been hitting it raw for a day now—surely one more half-load of his wouldn’t get you pregnant, right?

Fortunately, you didn’t have much longer to ponder that thought because a trill of a ringtone sounded from the nightstand.

A phone call? At 45,000 feet?

“Just the intercom,” Bucky called out, “Probably Steve about to start complaining that we fuck too loud.”

Huh. You stared at the trimline-looking telephone on the table and let it ring. Then the sound stopped.

“You think they could hear us?” you asked.

Bucky had just wet a washcloth under the sink and was rifling through the cabinets for something else.

“Hope so,” he said with a shrug, “You know I’d never miss a chance to let ‘em know I took a trip to poundtown—”

“Please never say that again,” you groaned, closing your eyes in sudden fear of what Steve and Sam may or may not have just been made privy to outside of the room.

You were just about to speak up again—perhaps to tell your husband there would be an indefinite travel ban to poundtown if he didn’t hurry the fuck up with that towel—when the intercom’s jarring peal started up once more.

Fuck this. Ignoring the sticky-sweet puddle of love still painted on your stomach, you sat up and crawled over to the phone and ripped it off the hook.

“Barnes residence,” you announced without ceremony. Then, imagining how smug Steve was probably looking on the other end of that line, you decided to be crass and add, “Bucky Barnes is very busy laying pipe on his wife right now, but if you could leave your name and number, he’ll be sure to call you back as soon as possible!”

You heard the caller burst out laughing, and you smiled to yourself. Pleased to have made an otherwise moody and brooding Steve Rogers crack at one of your jokes, you were just about to hang up when the caller cut in.

Bucky was returning with your towel in hand, lips curled in the faintest of smirks at hearing your crude declaration, when he stopped at the foot of the bed.

He saw the smile fall from your face, and his did, too.

From the other end of the line, a soft and familiar Southern drawl crawled out of the phone’s receiver.

“Sure thing, doll. Tell him it’s Joey Schröder calling.”

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