#Methods to Quit Smoking

[nanoclean]

Whether you're just starting to consider quitting smoking or you're two months into your smoke-free journey, this guide is your roadmap to success. Explore various methods to quit smoking, from nicotine replacement therapies to mindfulness techniques. Discover effective quit smoking products and learn how to navigate challenges like cigarette smoke filters. With expert advice and real-life experiences, this guide empowers you to overcome cravings, stay motivated, and embrace a healthier, smoke-free lifestyle.

[3416]

no matter how hard i try, i cannot understand vape culture and the way young people have gotten sucked into the vices of their elders...... it's the same damn things their parents and their parents parents have in a different form. like that's insane to me.

[thatsneakymedic]

From HERE

He zips up his bag where the cigarette pack is hidden, now a bit embarrassed that she now knows of his secret habit that he indulges during his most stressed out moments. Very often, he tries his hardest to never show that anything that happens to him or in the base gets to him, so for her to ask him what was wrong. 

“You don’t need to worry, Lady Orochi. I just needed a break from the claustrophobic walls of the place. Besides, I think you have more better things to do than to check up on me.”   He continued while taking a step away from her, not that she has offended him. But its more like trying to keep some distance from her. 

[smokelesseyes]

Had an in-person conference on Monday for all the APCs at my jooooooob (yes I have a legitimate job I don't know how we got here but we DID.

Actually I do it was a lot of schooling and anxiety thateasily shaved 5 years off my life YuY

But ANYWAYS did some CMEs in person which was good and one of them was on SPMI (Severe Persistent Mental Illness) and going through that criteria I think Jayce could fit into that box with his PTSD from the hole™

That's all I wanted to say. Everything in my life currently connects back to Arcane/Jayvik. It's the OCD and most likely autism in me :' )

[confines]

my vape addict cousin pissed me off so bad the other day bc she swore up and down she was too stressed out to try the nicotine patch right now and i pointed out that nic addicts always say that and it's bc the nic is making you anxious af, the patch will immediately ease that stress and weaning down will cure it in the longterm. and she said no i mean it i really am stressed you have no idea what i'm going through and i pointed out that i quit smoking 10 months after my mom died, with debilitating daily panic attacks and 300 burdens weighing heavily upon me. and she said you just don't understand what i'm trying to say and then explained again that she's just too stressed. and that right there is why she's never going to quit. 🤷

[coolblackmetal666]

I honestly feel too good. It's bad for my art.

I don't necessarily think you need to suffer for your art to be good, it's just that my process involves channeling my pain into my creative work, and it honestly feels a lot harder to completely restructure my way of working than to just torture myself in order to get desired results.

Anyways, I'll think I'm going to intentionally trigger my ptsd tomorrow. Wish me luck!

[screampied]

plz write a domestic toji fic

៹ content tags. ៹ fem! reader, pure fluff, house husband toji, reader is pregnant, toji attempting to cook, petnames.

wc. 1.8k

toji quirks an arched brow in frustration. with a concise glance at his broken watch you bought him for his thirtieth birthday, it reads three am. sighing, the back of his wrist smears a sheet of sweat off his forehead as he gets a good sniff of the cuisine. like always, he stayed up all night, watching those random cooking mom videos on youtube. trying so hard to mimic their recipes and methods but failing anyway. “tch. fuckin’ shit,” he grumbles under his breath, covered in nothing but flour. the sizzling of the pan was quite loud. the smoke detector went off at least four times. he was wearing another thing you bought him. an apron that had the words of ‘kiss the cook’ imprinted near the front in bedazzled little sparkles. “why does it keep stickin’ to the pan.”

as his annoyance grows, he hears familiar little footsteps approach the linoleum kitchen floor. it’s you, his shoulders lower and his mood softens at the sight of you in comfy silk pajamas and a grouchy expression. “toji? ‘s like three in the morning,” and as you take a whiff of the air, you furrow your own two brows. “are you . . cooking?”

“yeah yeah,” he gruffly grouses, going back to whisking the flour. “go back ‘ta bed, baby. almost done. ‘m jus’ practicing.”

“at three am,” you deadpan, a hand rubbing against your plump growing tummy.

so cute, you were a few weeks pregnant yet everything was moving at such an rapid speed. with the way your body was changing so quick, he could barely keep up. toji hears the sass in your tone as you speak and he knows good and well he should be back in bed with you. you wondered why the left side of the mattress felt empty. you waddle over beside him, hugging him from behind. his bulging muscles rub against you and you let off a playful little whine. “tooooji, you need sleep. come back to bed.”

“princessss,” he plays along with a fake pout, his entire hands covered with piles and piles of doughy flour mix. “but ‘m makin’ breakfast for us two,” and with a brief notion of turning the fire down a bit, he utters last minute. “er— three.” and you smile at him not forgetting to include your unborn child.

toji never cooks, it’s always been just you.

it’s not like he was incapable or anything. he’s always found a liking to watching you cook though.

you always prepared him the best of meals, so good that it had his mouth watering, licking the tips of his tongue in sweet sweet relish.

right before you’d got pregnant, you’d pack him the most divine lunches for work, always with such loving care. you’d never forget to leave him a little adoring note or two, wishing him the best of shifts. so the moment you ended up getting knocked up, he wanted to try.

try to do better,

for you.

sacrificing his sleep wasn’t really an issue—he didn’t mind if it wasn’t for you and his unborn baby. and if toji had to learn how to cook simple meals, he’d do that.. despite the struggle it was.

giggling, you stretch your arms over his torso.

“toji . . making pancakes is easy,” you hum, and his muscles relaxes from your gentle touch.

he’s missed you dearly, even though he was only out of bed for at least a good hour now. hearing him swear vulgar curses underneath his breath at messing up the instructions was quite near adorable. peering at the mess in front of you, you take the cerulean blue mixing bowl from him. “you could’ve woke me up if you needed help, you know.”

“i know,” he grumbles, his voice softening a bit.

you pause—toji’s body language seems a bit different. it shifts. he looks a bit ashamed.

once toji turns off the stove, he deeply sighs. “i just wanted ‘ta learn how to cook for us— you know, like as a family. so when the baby’s here, i’ll uh- be prepared. don’t want ya to be doin’ everything, darlin’. y’er gonna be limited to do lots of stuff soon ‘n i jus’ wanna help out a bit more.”

with a smile, you stroke a thumb against your husband’s chin, right near his little scar. “awww,” and there’s an immediate embarrassed scowl stretching against his thin lips.

toji wanting to try more for you made your heart swarm up with a variety schools of butterflies. it flutters and flaps as he spoke. speaking in a soft tone, a thumb swipes a few remnants of flour near the crevices of his lip. “you’re sweet, toji. but i don’t want you stressing out over cooking. ‘s okay, besidessss we can always do it together.”

“eh,” his eye twitches at your smug growing grin. “that’s… not what i meant, mama.”

“don’t eh me. yeah it is, you want me to teach you how to cook like me,” you simper, planting a kiss against the back of his arm. “you wanna learn how to be a househusband?”

toji groans, turning to face you. verdant eyes leer at you for a long time—but he could never stay too vexed at you, you were so adorable, especially whenever you were this enthusiastic.

“that’s not the term i’d use for myself, but i guess,” and he wipes a few pounds of flour off his apron. “don’t worry ‘bout the mess. i’ll clean that up too.”

“i like this new toji.” you tease, leaning up close to press a wet kiss against his temple.

toji buries his hands in his pockets, staring off to the side and trying to ignore the incoming flush setting against his skin.

oh, you had him weak,

weak everywhere—weak in the knees.

he was feeling himself getting soft as the seconds pass. toji couldn’t lie, he was starting to like this new side of his too. he’d never in a million years admit it though. “baby please,” he grunts, switching the sink on to wash his hands. as the water screams out of the faucet, he lathers everywhere with soap before grumbling. “been watchin’ so many of those damn mom vlogs of cooking. was so annoying, wanted to pull my hair out.”

“you could have just asked me for help, silly,” and your arms securely wrap around his beefy body once more. toji’s frame was a lot more broad and built compared to you. he sucks his teeth, leaning into your touch before staring at the kitchen counter. “okay, good. you have all the ingredients . . eggs, flour, milk, umm sugar..”

and as your words continue and you observe his unkempt handiwork, toji clears his throat. “i gave up once the things kept stickin’ to the skillet.”

you let off a pretty laugh that makes his ears twitch. “welllll that’s probably because you didn’t add enough oil or butter to the pan,” and he watches as you grab a nearby stick of butter. you cut near the end part it with a butter knife before spreading it on the middle of the pan.

toji cutely stays quiet, staring intently and taking in everything you’re doing. he’s attentive, he doesn’t wanna miss anything because he’d soon be doing this for you and his soon-to-be baby.

after a few long seconds, you turn on the stove and it starts to sizzle again. “okay, so you mixed the batter, that’s good. now all you have to do is just pour a good amount into the pan and flip it once it’s a brownish color.”

“ehhhh.”

“toji, you wanted to cook so you’re gonna cook.”

“yes ma’am.” he sighs, his tone playful.

some minutes pass before you both finally finish making a fresh, scrumptious batch of pancakes. with your arms wrapped around him, you showed him all the steps slowly. you were patient with toji, helping him pour the batter and mix it. every time he messes up, you’d kiss the edge of his arm, reminding him that he can just try again. he calms down after a while, and you step away to watch him make a pancake of his own. he flips it over, and he has a sly grin—glancing back toward you, hoping you caught that. you did, giving him an encouraging smile before showering him with praise.

it was almost four am and toji was desperately trying to stay awake—you could tell he was struggling to keep his eyes open with how he’s swaying a bit. turning off the stove for the nth time, you set the steaming hot spatula aside before looking in toji’s direction. “we can always eat them when we wake up.”

“we?” he grumbles, combing a hand through his messy strands, giving it a solid scratch.

“yes, we,” and you wrap the heated pancakes with plastic wrap, tucking the undersides of the plate with the material before putting it in the microwave to preserve heat. you then grab onto toji’s hand. “we’re going back to bed.”

with a sigh, he knew he wasn’t gonna win this little spat. toji squeezes your hand back, yet before the two of you could go back into bed, he bends down.

raising your brow, toji gets on his knees before bringing a chaste kiss toward your tummy. “hey little one,” he whispers, rubbing a palm gingerly against the front of your stomach. dark, tired eyes meet yours and he bedaubs a thumb near your the print of your navel poking through your his oversized t-shirt. the cold, frigid texture of toji’s fingertips almost tickles. as he softly runs a finger down the center of your growing belly bump, a bit of flour gets against your clothes. “how are my girls? any cramps or pain i should know about?

girls,

the gender was still too early to determine but toji always pondered about how it might be a girl.

“n- no,” you breathe, moving a few raven strands of hair out of his face. everything felt different, it was as if you were walking with volumes of water stored within you. toji’s always been supportive during your pregnancy, he was trying. he stands up again before kissing the crown of your head. “you still think ‘s a girl?”

“kinda, yeah,” he utters, and a strong arm slings around your shoulders.

toji guides you to bed, not minding your cute slow waddle of a walk. “up we go, c’mon,” and he helps you up the steps, lowly chuckling into your neck at your adorable state. toji was always patient, the moment you finally reach the bed, he pulls down the fat cover so you could climb in. “…. thank you baby.”

“for what?” you slump against the cushioned sheets, slipping off your baby blue socks. toji crawls in beside you, leaning in to switch off the lamp. he still had a bit of flour on his face—and he spots you swiping some of it off with your thumb.

toji groans, acting as if the next incoming sentence was gonna kill him.

“for . . teachin’ me how ‘ta be a good househusband,” he pouts, giving you a quick kiss on the lips. “i love you.”

“i love you too toji.”

“i love ya more,” and he lowers his neck to kiss the middle of your stomach. “oh, ‘n papa loves you also, little one. love my girls so much.”

[sailoryuns]

LUST ─── JJH

genre. jaehyun x f!reader | strangers to ??? (wtv they got going on in this dynamic)

warnings. kinda angsty, some fluff i suppose, smut, mentions of alcohol & smoking (cigs), dom!jaehyun & sub!reader, hookup culture, slight corruption?, reader cries a lot, spanking, choking, oral (m. rec), fingering, unprotected s*x (don’t be stupid pls), reader gets fucked against a window, jaehyun is a little mean in this oops wc -> 3.2k

now playing 🎧 — wus good / curious by partynextdoor

it happened two years ago, yet the memories of that fateful day still carry on with you as if it were yesterday. vibrant recollections of those slender, jewelled hands clasped around your neck as you cry out for him, body subconsciously submitting to all of him— breaking every barrier you’ve built up within. of all your years of existence, that night was the only time you’ve felt truly alive, shedding every ounce of innocence away in one night for a man whose name you didn’t even know.

do you regret losing your virginity to someone who only saw you as a temporary plaything? partly yes and partly no. you were conflicted on the fact you never exchanged info after he left but other than that, nothing regrettable came out of it. the only issue per se was that he’s set your standards far into oblivion, you’ve yet to find a lay as memorable as he was.

it’s not as though you haven’t tried getting over it in the past— you’ve been desperately wishing to forget. suppressing your inner desires with all kinds of self pleasure methods; even going so far as to banging other hot strangers you meet from the bars/club—but even then, you couldn’t replicate how you felt with him and you still couldn’t reach your climax without thinking of your first time.

you’d catch yourself daydreaming of him daily. the raspy tone of his voice, the intoxicating aroma of expensive cologne, his chiseled facial features, and sublime sense of style. everything you could’ve ever wanted, slipped away from your grasp forever. that was, until you were met face to face with him again— a total of 738 days later (yes you did the math).

you went bar hopping downtown with all your girl friends, looking for an eventful weekend. little did you know you’d be running into him again, the nameless man that gave you a night to remember. you were definitely the first to notice him, it felt quite peculiar but as soon as you walked in you got struck with a weird deja vu moment. it all felt so familiar to you, even down to the symphonic melodies of jazz music playing in the distance, everything brought you back to that gloomy autumn night.

you’d try your dearest not to stare but your mind was not complying with any rationality, one look at his broad physique and it was endgame for all your sanity. it didn’t help that your body went inert, lost in a trance of him indefinitely, wanting nothing more than to worship him and give in to his every need. you reminisce about him telling you how much of a good girl you were for taking all of it, sucking on his fingers as you completely come undone underneath him. he left you begging for more that night, crying and pleading for at least a goodbye kiss— which you never got the pleasure of getting.

“i told you this was a one time thing only.. besides, i’m leaving the city tomorrow for good so you’ll probably never see me again. it’s for the best anyway.”

his cold last words left more than a lasting impression on you. it sent you into an endless spiral of overthinking, analyzing any and everything you could’ve done wrong. did that night really mean absolutely nothing to him at all? all the countless times you’d touch yourself to vivid recounts of his face pressed into your thigh, plastering wet kisses all over them and sucking on your bruised skin.

he’d spank each thigh one by one as a punishment, proudly smirking at the way you’d wince out in pain mixed with so much pleasure. he thrived off the idea that he was the first to corrupt you like this, a girl he hasn’t even known for a span of 24 hours willing to give up just about anything she had to offer. had you utterly wrapped around his finger like a brainless puppet.

you still don’t understand how someone can look so divine, even when doing nothing but just standing. you watch as he sips viognier out of an oversized wine glass, gazing at the crowd, ruffling his fingers through his hair from time to time. then it became unreal when you locked eyes with him, catching him stealing a glance when he realizes who you were.

you look almost exactly the same as you did a few years ago, the only part that’s different about you now is the recent butterfly tattoo you got on your lower back. that’ll be a pleasant surprise for him to find out. his eyes never drifted once they landed on you, he was in just as much shock as you were— maybe more. he’d made an internal promise to himself to keep you as a forever one time fling—nothing more just that, but if fate wasn’t real then why would the universe send you back into each other’s lives?

no, not a romantic kind of fate. the fate you get when someone you’ve mindlessly lusted over for ages has finally found its way to you again. a fate that doesn’t occur by chance, or coincidence, it was pure destiny awaiting to happen.

“wow, you haven’t changed at all have you?” he says nonchalantly, acting as if you were an old friend he was catching up with.

you weren’t sure how to respond, the surrealism of the moment brought you everywhere but reality. all you really could do was blink, fluttering your lashes at his towering figure over you. though there was a sea of people in this packed, lively bar, it felt like only you two existed in this confined space. he tried striking up the usual basic conversation with the typical: how’re your studies going? work’s been treating you well? anything exciting happen in your life recently? you gave as much of a vague answer as you could, barely putting any thought or effort, you were only giving him the same treatment that he gave back then. he would often come off as bored or condescending at times, it felt good to take back just the little bit of power you upheld.

you quietly observe as he orders another drink, two actually, not even bothering to ask what you wanted. he hands you a glass with a salted rim, the clear liquid made you believe it was either vodka or tequila, either way you gulped it down in no time and squeeze the lime on the side as chaser. you didn’t have much to drink but his presence alone was already enough to make you feel tipsy.

“i thought you said you were never coming back to the city?” you blurt out, instantly scolding yourself for bringing up the past this quickly. it was just the undying curiosity of wanting to know the inner depths of him, not the stonewall of a persona he portrays to be.

“i don’t know, guess i just felt like visiting. also had some unfinished business to attend to.”

there he goes again with those subtle answers, toying with you so easily. his responses have always annoyed you to a certain extent but this feels even more strange for some reason. what’s the “unfinished business” he’s referring to?

“so” he pauses, never actually finishing his thought.

“so..” you awkwardly mimic, hoping he’ll spit out whatever the hell he has to say.

it took some time before he clears his throat and takes a sip of what seemed like his fiftieth drink of the night. “soo, do you…maybe wanna get out of here?” you’re not sure what’s with the shy act suddenly, he wasn’t this timid when you first met him. it’s like you’re meeting a whole new person.

“uhm, sure i guess” you spoke hesitantly, taking his hand as he reaches out for yours. bumping into loads of drunk people while he weaved you through the crowd, it felt like multiple eternities before you’ve found the exit. he lights a cigarette before heading down the vintage spiral staircase, still hand in hand with you.

“goddamn… look at your fine ass. still just as sexy as i remember you last time.” he gracefully compliments, walking slightly behind in attempts of getting better sight at the back view of the form fitting dress you wore. his hand left yours in favor of wrapping around your waist.

“thanks..” you reply sheepishly, hoping that he doesn’t notice how flushed your cheeks are. before getting in his car, there was one more thing you needed closure with, the one thing that constantly kept you up at night.

“i don’t mean to be this straightforward but, i want to know your name. i know this probably sounds really lame and pathetic but it’s been eating me up inside since the day we met and… i just- i think i deserve the right to know is all.” you wanted to scream at your poor delivery, sounding nowhere near as confident as you did in your head. the cigarette was still tucked between his lips, taking another long drag before answering you.

“damn, even after all this time i still occupy your mind sweetheart? that’s cute,” he teases, reveling in on your confession. “but i suppose i can agree with you since i did keep you guessing for so long. it’s only fair you should know, right?” that sly little smirk never left his face, he knows exactly how to mess with you. “it’s jaehyun. and you are?” ah, so he really does have a name.

“y/n.” you mutter, looking down at the pavement.

“that’s pretty, i like it. suits you well.” his hand raises yours to his lips, kissing it gently, “nice to formally meet you, y/n.”

your eyes dart at him reluctantly, hoping your palms weren’t too clammy. “you too, jaehyun.”

none of this still felt real to you, you wanted to pinch yourself and wake up immediately.

“it’s kinda hot the way you say my name.” he casually admits, the grin on his face deepens, “but that won’t be the only thing you’ll be screaming at the top of your lungs tonight.”

this certainly wasn’t the first (or last) time you found yourself like this. getting severe brush burn from the carpet by being obediently on your knees, swiftly bobbing your head as tears stream down your face, ruining your precious mascara. the only audible sounds were his groans echoing in the room of this giant suite at the four seasons. it gave a sense of familiarity, and oddly enough you found comfort in being in such a compromised situation. especially with him again.

“fuck, you’re so pretty,” he grunts, grabbing a fistful of hair, never taking his eyes off you. “look even prettier with my cock stuffed deep in your mouth.” his words sent chills, all you wanted to do was keep pleasing him.

your mind goes hazy from the end of his shaft hitting the back of your throat, other than the tears, you showed no outright emotion—you had to endure this, you’ve been praying for this moment since your first ever encounter. big doe-like eyes look up at him innocently as you suck the soul out of him, all the shiny gloss you wore on your lips now completely transferred onto him, in this perspective, you were utterly perfect.

“shit- forgot how good you were at this..” he hisses, watching as you kneel beneath him, saliva glistening on your chin as you gag all over his thick cock.

you do the best you can to fit all of him, you did learn from the best after all. you hum against him in response, feeling his cock twitch from the sudden vibrations. if you keep going like this he’s bound to cum for sure, but he doesn’t want to give you that satisfaction— he wants to have all the power and control.

“get up.” he spat harshly, if you swirl your tongue around him like that one more time he feels as though he’s about to combust. the choice of only taking him further in made him even angrier.

“did you not fucking hear me? i said get. the. fuck. up.” he pulls your hair tighter to yank your head back, forcing a semi-loud *pop* with your lips as you detach from his cock, swallowing the string of drool from the corner of your mouth.

silly you for keep going, you should’ve listened the first time. now your forever fantasy of getting to suck him dry and drink his cum has sadly been cut short...

“since you’re so damn greedy for this cock why don’t you go stand up against that window while i fuck you, hm?” your face becomes mortified when you haven’t realized just how big those windows truly were. it took up a quarter of the living room and the curtains were never closed which you also failed to notice. you were at the top floor of this fifty-two story building but still, you were rightfully nervous out of your mind.

the next thing you knew, your body’s pressed up to the cold glass, his big hands caressing both sides of your waist and trailing kisses to the exposed skin on your back. you watch the faint reflection of him toying with the hem of your mini dress, slowly pulling it up then stopping when he gets to a certain point.

“oh.. what’s this here?” he asks, glancing down at your butterfly tattoo, his fingertips lightly grazing over the fresh ink. “guess you aren’t so innocent as i thought you were.”

you shook your head, biting your lip when he gropes your ass, “never was innocent..” you quietly mewl.

“oh yeah?” he breaths warmly against your neck, hiking the dress up further. “then be a good little slut for me and don’t speak unless i tell you to.” the palm of his hand slaps your cheek hard enough to leave a visible print, pushing you up against the window more.

you were enjoying every single minute of this, you were so elated that you could cry again. you feel his touch down lower, grazing over your folds to feel how wet you are.

“shit, you’re already dripping like this just from sucking me off? always knew you were such a filthy whore.” two fingers slid into your heat with ease, pumping them in and out.

“nngh,” you moan lowly, “shh, quiet for me doll. wait ‘til i fill you with my cock then you can scream all you want.” when he pulls them out his chest collides with your back, rubbing himself between your folds and bringing his drenched fingers up to your mouth. of course, you open eagerly to suck on his sleek digits, you remember doing this exact thing last time.

history truly does repeat itself.

once he fully settles in, the clench of you around him makes his brain all fuzzy, you feel so warm and inviting, could stay like this forever.

“fuck..so fucking tight” he husks, firmly gripping at your waist before he begins moving.

first he goes at a normal pace, stuffing you nice and slow with delicate kisses to your shoulders. he soon built up more momentum, sending powerful strides into your soaking cunt as your bodies clash together. you arch your back more as he his cock hits your walls deeper, mumbling a bunch of gibberish whilst he fucks you completely dumb.

“what’s that doll? can’t hear you, speak the fuck up.” he orders sternly, producing another harsh, loud slap to your ass— never letting up on his stamina.

“mmh, fuck. you’re so big, feels so good..” you whine, feeling nothing but cockdumb at this point.

“yeah? you like the way i stretch this pussy out? gonna cream all over my cock just like you did for me last time baby?” his strokes get rougher with each question.

“yes…yes.. oh fuck- jaehyun!” you chant his name over and over like you’re casting a spell, the ring of his name slips on your tongue smoother than the pungent liquor you drank earlier.

“only i can fuck you as good as this right? have you acting this obedient and submissive? bet you were manifesting this shit all along, just can’t enough of my cock can you?” the questions just won’t stop, and the waterworks soon start up again, you’re not sure how much more you can endure.

“don’t even fucking answer, i already know anyway.” his cockiness really pissed you off but at least he had the evidence to back his arrogance up.

his pace grew relentless as he watches himself disappear in you, still gawking over the pretty design of the butterfly. you felt so close— that same knot tied in your stomach like you felt before; you haven’t had this feeling since the very first time, as if only jaehyun was the one to unlock this level of passion out of you.

“g-gonna cum soon..” you alert him, tasting the faint bitter saltiness from your tears pooling down. a pair of strong hands connect around your neck, wrapping tightly as he rams in harder, making every bone in your body tremble and shake.

“go ahead, do it.” jaehyun encourages supportively, “cum with me dollface.”

those words were all you needed to hear to let go, screaming out his name and a slew of more curses. you feel your release drip down your leg, mind completely blank from the buzz taking over you. he quickly pulls out, spilling his white seed onto your back as you whine from being empty again. you could honestly go for another round if he asked you to right now. it was fun while it lasted though, looking over at the skyline view as you’re getting your back blown out— seemed like a literal dream come true.

the aftermath was quiet, you didn’t say much and neither did he, you reverted right back to your shy demeanor. after you’ve finished cleaning up yourself in the bathroom you grabbed your purse to rummage for your house keys but he stops you mid action.

“where’re you going?” that only confuses you more, where else would you be going?

“uh, home?” you meekly respond, unsure of his real intentions.

“don’t be like that, you can stay the night here.” he suggests, “my flight leaves in the morning though but you can sleep here for as long as you’d like, i’ll book this room for an extra day.”

it was sweet of him to do that for you, it was the least he could do to mellow your sorrows. you were hoping to be with him for a bit longer but what were you expecting really? he’s just someone who comes and goes, taking everything you had to give, just to leave you high and dry all over again.

“come here.” jaehyun directs assertively, patting his thigh for you to sit on his lap, you waste no time in propping yourself onto him. “don’t be sad doll, cheer up. we’ll meet again sometime, yeah?”

you nod, feeling so hopeless and broken inside, he’s only saying this because he probably just wants to fuck again. that’s all you are to him, a fucktoy and nothing more. even though he sees you in that light, it still makes you feel validated in some twisted kind of way. at least right now you have all of his attention, it may just be momentarily but it felt so good. one thing was definitely made clear by him though— he was deeply, undeniably, in pure lust with you.

- 完 ♡︎

[nanoclean]

Explore effective methods and products to quit smoking. From traditional approaches to innovative solutions, find the inspiration you need to kick the habit and embrace a healthier lifestyle.

[himasgod]

Hi hi, i saw that requests are open so can i ask for Diasomnia reacting to reader being a dragon rider like the Targaryens please? Reader’s dragon is also super aggressive to anyone that isn’t her rider.

DIASOMNIA X READER

Where you are a dragon rider

Malleus literally blinks twice when he sees you flying in on a dragon just as big or even bigger than him.

I mean… how come he wasn't warned there was another powerful dragon in the region?!

He stands there, arms crossed, watching you land, your cape flapping and the dragon breathing fire as a warning.

"Interesting creature…"

…and you can't tell if he means you or the dragon.

He tries. He really does. He approaches you with all his fae princely elegance, but the dragon immediately blows smoke out of its nostrils.

"Don't worry. I'm used to being feared… though they don't usually bare their fangs so quickly."

A little offended, but even more intrigued

He's fascinated that you can control such a temperamental creature. He looks at you with respect and mild infatuation.

"Could it be that you can control this dragon too…?" he says, pointing at himself with a smile 💀💀

He's amused when the dragon roars at him if he tries to get too close to you.

"Are you that jealous, old friend? Can't you see I just want to talk to your rider?"

The best part is when you stroke his arm, easing the tension, and Malleus gives the dragon a triumphant look as if to say, "She's touching me, and you can't help it."

He's not bothered that the dragon doesn't want him around. In fact, he takes it as a romantic challenge.

"In time, he'll accept it… just as I've accepted that my heart burns when I see you."

10/10 rizzler Malleus.

Sebek watches you descend from the sky with that imperial air, wrapped in fire, ash, and the wind blowing… and the first thing he thinks is:

“A WARRIOR WORTHY OF SERVING MY LORD MALLEUS!”

Seriously he's so impressed he's speechless for a few seconds.

Which, considering it's Sebek, is quite a feat.

The way you control that enormous beast with a single command, the way the dragon turns its head to follow your every step… it's terrifying, majestic, and wonderful for his sense of honor and discipline.

A flash of flame two feet away from him. Your dragon barks a warning that leaves him paralyzed, his hair standing on end and his pride trembling.

BUT… then he tries to get closer. Like a good bodyguard knight, he wants to make sure you're not a threat to Mal. He takes one step. Another. And then…

“U-UNACCEPTABLE!! HOW DARE THIS CREATURE THREATEN A FAITHFUL SERVANT OF MALLEUS-SAMA!?”

It takes him weeks to stop yelling at the dragon.

But he keeps trying. With his chest puffed out, he tries every diplomatic method he knows to get close without getting charred.

He speaks to it as if it were a troop:

“Listen to me, scaly creature! I seek no harm to your rider! I am here to protect her in the name of honor!”

He fails. Mostly.

The dragon hates him, especially because he screams so much and has such intense energy.

Still, Sebek respects you greatly. He says only someone with an unbreakable will and a soul forged in fire could tame such a beast. He even starts training harder to “be worthy of a dragon rider.”

Sometimes he gets jealous of the dragon tho.

“Why can that creature always be by her side and I can't?! It's not fair, damn it, it can't even speak like a decent knight!”

Over time, Sebek begins to see the dragon not just as an obstacle, but as a symbol of your power. And while he'll never bow his head to the creature, he will accept that it's part of your honor, your life, and your heart.

Silver sees you fly for the first time when he wakes up to the sound of wings. He looks up, half asleep… and gasps.

It's like seeing a dream. A colossal creature soaring through the sky with fire behind it, and you riding it like a goddess of war.

When you land and walk with that serene air, while your dragon protects your back like a jealous guardian, Silver feels something inside him…

as if he's recognized your soul before. As if he's already dreamed of you.

"You're like the legends my father told me when I was a child…"

He tries to get closer. With calm steps, without raising his voice, with soft eyes.

But your dragon doesn't allow it. He steps between you two, growls… and immediately throws a flame at the ground a few steps from Silver.

The funny thing is that Silver doesn't get angry. He just bows his head and apologizes, respectfully.

"I understand… you're looking out for her. And that's okay."

Of course, every time he sees you, your dragon watches him as if evaluating him. Silver stays still, let it smell him, doesn't defend himself. He's willing to slowly earn your trust.

In fact, there's a precious moment when Silver accidentally falls asleep near you, and your dragon… doesn't attack him.

He lets him be. He watches him, even shades him with one of his wings.

When you wake up and see that, you realize your dragon has silently accepted it.

If there's ever a battle, Silver is ready to fight by your side. He won't ride your dragon, because he respects the sacred bond you have, but he will walk in your shadow, sword in hand, confident that you and your creature are the closest he's ever come to the fantasy he dreamed of as a child.

Lilia sees the dragon snarling, breathing fire into the air, and you sitting on its back as if you were on your throne. And his first reaction is,

"How cute! Look at those sharp little teeth! And that temper! I love it! He does look like Malleus when he was still in his shell, baby boy~"

The dragon blows a flame at him, and Lilia… laughs.

“Ohhh, you sure know how to give a warm welcome! You're so polite!”

Unlike the others, he doesn't get offended or frustrated. he treats it like a game.

Sometimes he even brings the dragon fresh meat as an offering, though she only drops it from a safe distance.

“Now, now, don't be so cold. I promise I won't eat your rider… unless she wants it.”

Please tell me I didn't just write that.

But seriously, deep down, Lilia admires you greatly. Your bravery, your connection with a wild creature, your strength and grace… he finds it all fascinating. And yes, sometimes he casts flirtatious glances at you from afar while your dragon jealously watches

"Do I also have to win over your guardian to win you over, my dear?"

[hy6erion]

𝐄𝐮𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐚 - 𝐕𝐢𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

✰⍣..𝐡𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐥𝐲, 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐲- 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟

⇢ 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭, 𝐦𝐝𝐧𝐢, 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐭 𝐯𝐢𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐟𝐞𝐦! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐦/𝐬𝐮𝐛 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬, 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬, 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐳𝐚𝐮𝐧

𝐯𝐢𝐤 𝐟𝐨𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐮 𝐚 𝐛𝐢𝐭 o( ❛��❛ )o

Zaun never sleeps.

Somewhere in the distance, metal scrapes against metal, a high-pitched whine of machinery grinding through the underground streets. The scent of smoke lingers, thick and acrid, seeping into clothes, into skin, into everything that makes this place what it is.

But in here, in Viktor's small, cluttered room-where the air is thick with oil and old books, with sweat and something sharper, something charged-there is only him.

And you.

You never done this before. Not with him. Not with anyone.

He knows. Of course, he knows. He notices everything. The slight tremor in your fingers when you touch him, the way your breath catches before you even realizes it, the way you keeps shifting, as though your own skin doesn't quite fit right.

Viktor watches you like you’re something to be studied, analyzed.

Not in a cruel way-he isn't unfeeling—but in that slow, careful way he approaches everything, taking his time, committing every reaction to memory.

You swallow hard, nails scraping lightly over his shoulders. "You're staring."

His lips twitch. Not quite a smirk, but something close. "Am I?"

You huff, shifting slightly beneath him, and the movement draws a slow inhale from his parted lips. He's warm—warmer than you expected. His body, lean and sharp as it is, presses down against you, keeping you pinned.

Not that you mind.

"I'm nervous," you admit, almost reluctant, eyes flicking away for a moment before dragging back to his.

"Aren't you?"

Viktor hums, tilting his head slightly.

"No." His fingers trace the line of your ribs, slow, deliberate. "Should I be?"

You frowns. „I don't know. Maybe."

He chuckles softly, pressing his lips just beneath your jaw, his breath fanning warm against your skin. "I have waited long enough for this." His voice dips lower, something dark curling around the words. "I will not let nerves ruin it."

Your stomach tightens.

He knows what he's doing. You’d wondered if he would. He isn't like the men who linger in the dark alleys of Zaun, greedy and impatient. No, Viktor is methodical, deliberate in everything he does.

And right now-right now, he is unraveling you piece by piece, taking his time, savoring every flicker of hesitation, every shaky exhale.

His fingers slip lower, dragging over the sensitive skin of your hip. "You want this?"

You nod.

Viktor's grip tightens suddenly, fingers pressing firm into your skin.

"Use your words, love."

The sharp authority in his tone sends heat curling through you.

"I do," you breathe.

His lips brush against your ear. "Good girl."

Your whole body reacts to the praise, something embarrassing and hot twisting in your stomach. Viktor notices-of course he does. His mouth curves against her skin, amused, satisfied.

"You like that," he murmurs. Not a question. A fact.

You don’t answer.

He laughs softly, his breath warm as he drags his lips down your throat. "Ah, you are shy now?" His fingers tease at the edge of your clothes, pushing fabric aside like he's peeling away layers, stripping you down to something vulnerable, something fragile.

It should be uncomfortable.

It isn't.

"Stop thinking so much," he murmurs, shifting against you, pressing you deeper into the mattress. "You do not need to be so tense."

You huff a short laugh, hands gripping his arms. "Easy for you to say."

His teeth scrape lightly against your pulse. "I could make it easy for you," he muses, voice dipping lower. His hands slide up, pulling your thighs apart with slow, deliberate pressure.

"Or-" He breathes in, exhales slow. "I could make it harder."

You exhales sharply, your head tipping back against the pillow.

Viktor's tongue flicks out, tracing a slow line along your throat. "Which do you prefer?"

You don’t know.

He hums, dragging his fingers up the inside of your thigh, spreading you open. "No answer?" His voice is soft, teasing. "Hm. I think I know already."

You swallows. „Viktor-"

He presses a single finger inside you.

Your whole body tenses.

It's too much and not enough at the same time, the stretch of it unexpected. You exhale shakily, fingers gripping his wrist before you even realise what you’re doing.

Viktor stills. He doesn't pull away. He waits, patient as ever, watching you closely.

"You are alright?"

You nod, trying to breathe through it, but he catches your wrist and stills you.

"I did not ask for that." His fingers flex slightly. "Say it."

You exhale slowly. "I'm okay."

His expression doesn't change, but something in his gaze softens, just barely. He leans down, pressing a slow kiss to your temple.

"Tell me if it is too much," he murmurs against your skin. "I will be careful!"

You believe him.

When he moves again, it's slower, more patient, his fingers working you open, his breath warm against your cheek. You feel stretched, unpracticed, but there's something about the way he watches you, the way his mouth parts slightly when you react just right—

You grip his shoulders, head tipping back, and he smiles.

"There you are." His voice is pleased, teasing. "It is not so bad, hm?"

You exhale sharply. "Shut up."

His laugh is quiet, low.

He doesn't shut up.

But when he finally pushes into you—

You forgot how to speak, anyway.

[aspenmissing]

If I may request... something something about reader who really likes Silco's nose? I find it really pretty... and fascinating... (I'm really open to other characters too haaaaa thank you thank you 🫶🏻💕)

ᴏʙꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴꜱ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ��ɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴍᴇʟ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 5818 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ɴᴏɴᴇ

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ! ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴀꜱ Qᴜɪᴛᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀꜱᴛᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴀꜱᴄɪɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ! ʜɪꜱ ɴᴏꜱᴇ ɪꜱ Qᴜɪᴛᴇ ᴅɪꜱᴛɪɴɢᴜɪꜱʜᴇᴅ <3. ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏʙꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ! (ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴏɴᴇꜱ ᴍᴀʏ ᴏʀ ᴍᴀʏ ɴᴏᴛ ʙᴇ ʙᴀꜱᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ᴍʏ ᴏᴡɴ ᴏʙꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴꜱ)

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ᴍᴇʟ

SILCO

There was something about Silco’s nose that you adored—obsessed over, really. Maybe it was the sharp slope of it, the way it framed his gaunt yet commanding face. Or perhaps it was how it wrinkled in distaste when someone displeased him, how it crinkled ever so slightly when he smirked at his own dark wit.

You couldn’t help yourself. Every time he was near, your fingers itched to touch it, to trace the elegant ridge down to his lips.

You weren’t quite sure when your obsession had begun, but you did remember the first time you gave in to the temptation to touch it.

=

It had been late. The kind of late where the world outside was quiet, even the usual hum of the Lanes reduced to nothing more than the occasional distant murmur.

Silco’s office was dimly lit, a handful of candles flickering atop his desk, their wax pooling and dripping slowly down their bases. The air was thick with the scent of ink, aged parchment, and the distinct bite of pipe smoke curling lazily from the half-burned tobacco resting in the nearby ashtray. It was a rare moment of stillness—one you had grown to cherish.

He sat behind his desk, utterly absorbed in his work. His mismatched eyes flicked back and forth across the pages in front of him, the furrow in his brow deepening as he read. His gloved fingers moved with precision, flipping through the documents in a slow, methodical manner, only pausing to tap against his chin in thought.

You were lounging on the worn leather couch across the room, a book open in your lap, though you had long since stopped reading.

Your attention had drifted—to him.

To the elegant cut of his profile, the sharp lines of his face cast in shadow. To the way his lips pursed slightly in thought, the low hum in his throat as he considered whatever ruthless schemes were currently filling his mind. But mostly, to his nose.

You had always admired it—obsessed over it, really. The proud slope of it, the way it framed the rest of his features so perfectly. Sometimes, when he was displeased, it wrinkled ever so slightly, or when he was amused, the slightest crinkle would appear near the bridge. It was a part of him you found endlessly fascinating, and for reasons you couldn’t quite explain, you wanted to touch it.

No, scratch that—you needed to. You hadn’t even thought about it. Not really. You just… reached out.

Soft, hesitant fingers brushed over the bridge of his nose, tracing the elegant line as if committing it to memory.

The moment you made contact, Silco froze.

His breath caught mid-inhale, and for a single, excruciating second, he didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t speak.

Oh. Oh no.

Your stomach flipped violently. Why did I do that?

Panic shot through your veins as you quickly withdrew your hand, fingers twitching uselessly in your lap. You hadn’t exactly thought this through, had you? It had been impulse. A deeply ingrained fascination that had, for the first time, crossed over into action.

Silco exhaled—slowly. Deliberately. Then, with the same methodical precision he handled everything in life with, he lowered the page he had been reading.

And stared at you.

Not his usual lazy, half-lidded stare. No. This was something else. His sharp gaze pinned you in place like a dagger through silk, mismatched eyes unreadable.

“Did you just…” His voice was quiet, dangerously even. “Touch my nose?”

Your throat went dry. “I… might have.”

His expression didn’t change, but his gaze flicked between your face and your guilty hands, still clenched tightly in your lap. His silence stretched unbearably long, his stare unrelenting.

You swallowed.

Oh God, I broke him.

“… It was an accident,” you blurted. A slow blink.

“Oh?” His tone was mild, but you didn’t miss the razor-thin amusement beneath it. “Your hand… accidentally found its way onto my face?”

“… Yes?”

Silco’s lips parted just slightly, his tongue running over his teeth as he considered you with quiet, almost clinical scrutiny. His brow twitched, not quite in annoyance but in that signature Silco-exasperation that you were all too familiar with.

Your body tensed, waiting for some kind of punishment—some remark that would undoubtedly put you back in your place.

But instead, he let out a long, suffering sigh.

Then—he shook his head.

“You’re lucky,” he muttered, voice laced with dry amusement, “that I’m too tired to deal with your nonsense.”

And just like that, he went back to his work.

You sat there, completely still, your pulse hammering in your ears. You had touched his nose. You had touched his nose, and he let you live.

Your lips twitched as you finally exhaled. He had gone back to reading, yes—but you saw it. That tiny, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth. You had caught him off guard. And deep down, he was amused. It was the first time you touched his nose.

But it would not be the last.

JAYCE

The morning sun streamed through the curtains, casting a golden glow over the sleek marble of Jayce’s penthouse. It painted soft lines across the bed, illuminating the tousled sheets and the faint imprint of last night’s warmth still lingering between them. The air smelled of warm linen, a hint of coffee drifting from the kitchen below, but most intoxicating was the familiar scent of him—rich and woodsy, with faint traces of steel and cologne clinging to his skin.

You stirred under the plush covers, shifting slightly against the warmth wrapped around you. Not just the warmth of the sunlight, but the solid, steady presence beside you.

Jayce.

His arm was lazily draped over your waist, his bare chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of sleep. His face was turned toward you, relaxed, serene, lips slightly parted, framed by that ever-present stubble you adored so much. The golden light kissed the sharp angles of his jaw, highlighting the roughness that made your heart stutter every time you looked at him.

You swore you could stare at him like this forever.

Carefully, you reached out, your fingers tracing lightly along the line of his jaw, feeling the rough texture beneath your fingertips. The sensation sent a small thrill through you. That perfect balance of softness and ruggedness—just enough to tickle your skin when he kissed you, just enough to remind you of him.

A quiet sigh rumbled from his throat, low and content, and a small smile tugged at your lips. You did love this. More than you probably should.

Then, before you could pull away, his lips parted, voice thick with sleep and amusement.

"You really like that, don't you?" Your fingers froze against his jaw, caught red-handed.

Jayce cracked one eye open, brown softened by the morning light, his lips curled into something dangerously close to a smirk.

You huffed, trailing your finger along his chin with feigned nonchalance. "Maybe. Maybe not."

His arm tightened around your waist, his warmth pressing into you as he let out a low chuckle. "Oh, you definitely do." His voice was smug, still heavy with sleep, but there was an affection behind it—a teasing fondness that made your heart stutter.

Before you could protest, he pulled you closer, his stubble brushing against your cheek as he pressed a lazy, half-awake kiss to your temple. The scratch of it sent a tingling warmth through you. Then another kiss, slow and teasing, trailing down your jaw.

"You do this on purpose," you muttered, barely managing to keep your voice even.

Jayce hummed, the sound deep and rich in his chest. "Maybe. Maybe not." He mimicked your words, lips brushing over the shell of your ear, the playful scrape of his stubble sending another delicious shiver through you.

You sighed, fingers curling against his bare shoulder, warmth settling into your bones. "Never shave it off."

Jayce let out a soft laugh, lips ghosting over your skin. "Oh? That much of a fan?"

"You have no idea," you murmured, tilting your head to capture his lips in a kiss—one that started soft, sweet, but quickly deepened into something slower, more indulgent.

His lips molded against yours, warm and inviting, his hand sliding over your back, fingers trailing in lazy circles along your spine. He kissed you like he had all the time in the world, like this moment was something to be savored. And you did—every part of it. The way his stubble grazed against your skin, the heat of him pressed against you, the way he tasted of sleep and something distinctly Jayce.

The kiss stretched between you, languid and unhurried, like the golden morning light spilling across the room. He pulled back just enough to murmur against your lips, voice low, teasing, "So, I guess shaving's off the table, then?"

You grinned, running your fingers along his jaw again. "If you ever shave it, I’m leaving you."

Jayce let out a deep laugh, full and warm, the sound vibrating against your chest. "Noted."

With a lazy smirk, he shifted, flipping the both of you over so you were pinned beneath him, his weight deliciously warm. His arms caged you in, his body pressed against yours as he looked down at you, eyes still sleepy, hair deliciously messy from sleep.

"Alright, so… what do I get in return for keeping the stubble?" he teased, voice still rough with sleep, but undeniably playful.

You scoffed. "The pleasure of keeping me in your bed, obviously."

Jayce chuckled, leaning down to brush his nose against yours. "Mmm, sounds like a fair deal."

His lips found yours again, deeper this time, a slow drag of his mouth against yours, his stubble scraping deliciously along your skin as he kissed you slow and deliberate. His hands roamed lazily, fingertips tracing patterns over your exposed skin, and you sighed against his lips, completely melting into him.

"Jayce," you murmured between kisses, voice barely above a whisper.

"Mm?"

"You know what would make this moment even better?"

He pulled back slightly, raising a brow. "Let me guess—more stubble appreciation?"

You laughed, swatting at his chest before slipping your arms around his neck. "No, you dork. Breakfast."

Jayce groaned, burying his face against your neck in mock defeat. "You really know how to kill a mood."

"You love me anyway."

A hum of agreement vibrated against your skin, followed by a soft, lingering kiss against your collarbone. "Yeah," he murmured, pressing another kiss against your shoulder. "I really do."

Your heart swelled at his words, warmth spreading through your chest.

He finally pulled back with a grin, his fingers brushing over your cheek. "Alright, alright. Breakfast first, then back to bed?"

You smirked. "If you're good."

Jayce huffed out a laugh, shaking his head as he finally rolled off of you, stretching his arms above his head before sitting up. "You are so lucky I love you."

You grinned, reaching up to run your fingers along his jaw one last time, enjoying the familiar scratch of his stubble. "I know."

He shot you a playful look before leaning down for one last lingering kiss. Then, with a dramatic sigh, he finally swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Alright, what are we having?"

You hummed thoughtfully, curling back into the sheets with a smirk. "Well… pancakes sound good. Or maybe waffles."

Jayce stood, stretching, completely unbothered by his state of undress as he padded toward the kitchen. "You just want an excuse to pour syrup all over me, don’t you?"

You gasped, feigning offense. "I would never."

Jayce shot you a knowing look over his shoulder. "Mmhmm. Sure."

You simply smiled, watching him disappear into the kitchen, his voice carrying down the hall. "Just so you know, if you’re eating breakfast in bed, I expect full cuddling rights after."

You grinned, stretching lazily under the covers.

"Deal." Maybe you’d stay in bed a little longer today. Actually, scratch that.

You definitely would.

VIKTOR

The soft glow of Piltover’s evening light streamed through the window of Viktor’s lab, bathing the room in hues of amber and gold. Outside, the city buzzed with distant life—faint voices, the hum of hextech energy, the occasional chime of an airship passing overhead. But inside this room, there was only the quiet symphony of Viktor’s mind at work.

The desk before him was cluttered with blueprints, ink-stained notes, and complex diagrams, all stacked haphazardly as if they had been abandoned mid-thought. A cup of coffee—long cold and untouched—rested precariously near the edge of a thick book on bioengineering. The only thing moving with precision was Viktor himself, his fingers twirling a pen as he murmured calculations under his breath, eyes sharp and lost in deep concentration.

His cane rested beside him, leaned against the desk within easy reach, though he hardly noticed it now. He was too focused, too enraptured by whatever theory or experiment he was trying to perfect.

And you? You were watching him from your usual perch on his desk, legs lazily swinging, your fingers absentmindedly tracing invisible patterns into the wood.

He was beautiful like this.

Not in a grand, obvious way, but in the way of something carefully crafted—sharp angles and delicate lines, warm golden eyes that burned with intellect. He carried his exhaustion in the soft shadows beneath his eyes, his determination in the stubborn furrow of his brow.

But your focus, as always, drifted to the two distinct marks on his face.

The first, a small, dark mole sitting just above the left corner of his lips. The second, resting on his right cheekbone, contrasting against his pale skin like a tiny ink blot on parchment.

You loved them.

Viktor never seemed to think much of them—he was far too occupied with matters of invention and progress to consider something so small, so insignificant. But you disagreed. Those moles were part of him, little marks of uniqueness, and you found yourself drawn to them over and over again.

So, without much thought, your hand lifted, fingers grazing softly over his cheek.

The scratching of his pen halted.

Viktor didn’t flinch—he was used to your touch by now—but his head tilted slightly, a faint flicker of amusement appearing in his eyes as he turned toward you. His lips quirked at the corners, not quite a smile, but something close.

“Something on my face?” he asked, his voice carrying the usual dry humor.

You hummed in thought, tilting your head as if examining him. “Mhm… several things, actually.”

Viktor let out a soft chuckle, setting his pen down with a quiet clatter. “Oh? Do enlighten me.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you leaned in closer, your breath warm against his skin. He didn’t pull away—he never did—but you noticed the way his fingers flexed against the armrest of his chair, as if grounding himself.

Then, ever so softly, you pressed a kiss to the mole on his right cheekbone.

Viktor’s breath hitched, though he remained perfectly still.

“This one,” you murmured against his skin.

Then, your lips trailed lower, your fingers delicately tracing his jawline as you moved to your next target. You took your time, savouring the warmth of him, the way his skin reacted to your touch.

Another kiss—this time just above the left corner of his lips, where the second mole rested.

“And this one,” you whispered.

Viktor let out a breathy chuckle, but there was something unsteady about it, like he was trying not to react too much. His cane shifted slightly as he adjusted his weight, his body tense despite the easy smirk playing on his lips.

“Are you mapping out constellations on my face, milý?” he mused, his voice lower now, quieter. (Dear)

You grinned, pressing another featherlight kiss to his jaw before pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. “Maybe.”

Viktor regarded you carefully, his golden eyes glimmering with something unreadable. His hands, which had remained idle for most of this interaction, finally moved—one rising to gently rest over yours, his fingers curling lightly around them.

“And where do these constellations lead?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You cupped his face fully now, your thumbs stroking the delicate hollows beneath his eyes. He leaned into your touch, the tension in his posture melting, his breathing slower, more measured.

“They lead me to you,” you murmured, pressing your forehead against his. “Always.”

A quiet hum of satisfaction left Viktor’s lips as he closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if committing this sensation to memory. When he opened them again, the warmth in his gaze had melted into something softer, something vulnerable in a way few people ever got to see.

His fingers laced through yours, holding them against his face, as if reluctant to let you pull away. “Then I suppose I am fortunate to be your chosen destination.”

You smiled, brushing your nose against his in the lightest of touches. “You are.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The world outside continued on, Piltover’s hum never ceasing, but in this space—this small, intimate space—you were both still.

Then, to your surprise, Viktor shifted slightly, his grip tightening just enough to keep you close. His lips brushed yours—not quite a kiss, just the promise of one. Testing.

And then, with a deep, quiet sigh, he finally pressed his lips to yours.

It wasn’t hurried or desperate. It wasn’t the kind of kiss that stole breath or demanded more. It was slow, gentle, like the ticking of a clock when time no longer mattered.

When you parted, Viktor exhaled against your lips, his hand still holding yours against his cheek. “You are rather distracting, you know,” he murmured.

You grinned, brushing another kiss to the mole just above his lip. “And you love it.”

Viktor chuckled, shaking his head, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he let his forehead rest against yours once more, the warmth of you anchoring him in a way that no theorem or blueprint ever could.

For once, he allowed himself to stop.

For once, he let himself enjoy the sensation of being loved in every breath, in every touch, in every kiss.

And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

JAYVIK

The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the room, illuminating the intricate details of Viktor’s workshop. Tools, papers, and blueprints were scattered across the desk, but your attention was elsewhere. Specifically, on the two men who had thoroughly stolen your heart.

Jayce was reclined on the couch, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, fingers tapping idly against the fabric. His hands—the hands you adored so much—were strong, calloused from years of labor, and yet impossibly gentle when they traced along your skin. It was those very hands that built the Hextech you now marveled at, the same hands that held yours so protectively when you walked together through the streets of Piltover.

“You’re staring,” Jayce teased, his lips curving into a cocky grin as he flexed his fingers, stretching them before clenching into a fist. “See something you like?”

You felt heat rise to your cheeks, but before you could muster a response, Viktor, who was perched on his stool near the workbench, let out a soft chuckle. He leaned on his cane, tilting his head to the side, amber eyes filled with amusement.

“It is hardly a secret that our dear Y/N has an…appreciation for your hands, Jayce.”

You shot Viktor a playful glare, crossing your arms. “Oh? And what about you, then?”

Jayce, catching on quickly, smirked and turned his gaze toward Viktor. “Yeah, Y/N. What do you like most about Viktor?”

Your gaze softened as you took in the sight of him—the sharp angles of his face, the determined glint in his eyes, the way his lips, perpetually bowed into a natural pout, seemed almost unfairly perfect.

“Your lips,” you confessed, voice tinged with warmth. “They’re beautiful.”

Viktor, for all his wit, faltered for a second, his fingers curling around the handle of his cane as if to ground himself. His mouth parted slightly, and you couldn’t help but admire the way his lips curved in thought. It was entirely unfair how effortlessly captivating he was.

Jayce burst into laughter, his chest rumbling as he clapped a hand against his knee. “See, Vik? You’re not the only one with admirers.”

Viktor huffed, rolling his eyes, though the faintest hint of pink dusted his cheeks. “I never claimed otherwise.”

Feeling bold, you moved closer to Viktor, cupping his face with both hands as you ran your thumb gently over his lower lip. His breath hitched, and for a moment, the world outside the workshop seemed to vanish. Then, just as smoothly, you turned and slid yourself into Jayce’s lap, grabbing one of his hands and threading your fingers through his own.

“Two geniuses, and both of you are completely at my mercy,” you teased, grinning as Jayce hummed in approval and Viktor simply sighed, though his eyes gleamed with affection.

Jayce squeezed your hand, pressing a lingering kiss to your fingers. “Hopelessly so.”

Viktor merely shook his head, the smirk returning to his lips. “Utterly.”

=

As the night stretched on, the three of you remained close, enjoying the warmth of each other’s presence. Viktor eventually stood, cane tapping lightly against the wooden floor as he stretched. “I suppose I should get back to work,” he murmured, though he made no move to leave.

Jayce, still holding your hand, scoffed. “Come on, Vik. You’ve been at it all day. Take a break.” He tugged you both closer, wrapping an arm around your waist to keep you in place. “Y/N and I demand your presence.”

Viktor arched a brow but didn’t resist as you reached for him, coaxing him to sit beside you on the couch. With a soft sigh, he relented, resting his cane against the side before allowing himself to settle into the cushions.

You curled against him, content between the two of them, feeling the warmth of Jayce’s hand against your own and the occasional brush of Viktor’s lips against your temple as he relaxed into the rare moment of peace.

Jayce played idly with your fingers, occasionally tracing patterns into your palm, while Viktor hummed quietly, the vibrations of his voice soothing against your skin. It was rare to have them both like this—completely at ease, caught in a moment of tenderness.

“I could get used to this,” Jayce murmured after a while, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

Viktor chuckled. “Yes, well, do not get too comfortable. The work is still waiting.”

You sighed dramatically. “Can’t we just stay like this forever?”

Viktor gave you a knowing smile, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Perhaps for a little while longer.”

And with that, you melted further into their embrace, knowing this was exactly where you were meant to be.

VANDER

The warm scent of hops and smoke lingered in the Last Drop, wrapping around you like a familiar embrace. But no matter how many times you walked through these doors, there was only one thing in this entire bar that made you feel truly safe—Vander.

And more specifically, his arms.

They were a fortress of strength, rough and calloused from years of fighting and providing, yet they held you as if you were made of the most fragile porcelain. It was intoxicating, the way his presence alone was enough to make you feel secure, but the moment his arms wrapped around you? That was when you truly melted.

“Y’know, you’re like a little shadow sometimes,” Vander chuckled as you pressed against his side, your fingers absentmindedly tracing over the thick muscle of his forearm. His voice was laced with amusement, but the warmth in his tone betrayed how much he enjoyed it.

“Not my fault you’re so comfortable,” you murmured, barely looking up from where you were playing with the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt. The fabric was stretched over his biceps, and you bit your lip, resisting the urge to squeeze just a little harder.

Vander hummed in thought before shifting in his chair. The next thing you knew, he was pulling you onto his lap, his arms effortlessly circling your waist as he leaned back against the worn wooden seat.

“There,” he rumbled, his chin resting against the top of your head. “This better?”

You sighed happily, nuzzling into the crook of his neck as his arms tightened just enough to make you feel utterly caged in by warmth and safety. “Much better.”

The bar continued on around you—clinking mugs, boisterous laughter, the occasional outburst—but in Vander’s arms, none of it mattered. His thumb rubbed lazy circles against your side, and his chest rumbled with contentment.

“You really do like my arms, don’t ya?” he teased, the smirk evident in his voice.

You huffed a laugh, tilting your head up to meet his knowing gaze. “Can you blame me? They’re strong, warm, and they make me feel safe. I think I might be addicted.”

Vander let out a deep laugh, the sound vibrating through his chest. “If that’s the case, guess I better keep ‘em around you at all times, huh?”

Your grin widened as you pulled his arm tighter around you. “Now that,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his jaw, “sounds like the best idea you’ve ever had.”

Vander only chuckled, but the way he held you closer told you everything you needed to know.

You were right where you belonged.

=

As the night wore on, you stayed nestled in his embrace, his arms never loosening their hold. Occasionally, he would brush a kiss against your temple, his beard tickling your skin, sending shivers down your spine. It was little things like that—those small, affectionate gestures—that made you fall for him all over again.

“I swear, you’re worse than the kids,” Vander teased as you traced idle patterns along his forearm, your fingers enjoying the feel of his skin.

You smirked, resting your chin against his chest so you could meet his gaze. “Oh? And here I thought you liked it.”

Vander shook his head with a good-natured chuckle, his hand coming up to cradle your cheek. His thumb brushed softly against your skin, his eyes dark with something deeper—something that made warmth spread through your entire being. “I do. More than you know.”

A blush crept up your neck at the sincerity in his voice. No matter how strong and formidable Vander was to others, with you, he was something softer. Something safer. And you cherished that side of him more than anything.

The bar had started to quiet down, the patrons either leaving or lost in their own conversations, but neither of you moved from your spot. Eventually, Vander sighed, shifting slightly to get comfortable. “C’mon, love. Let’s head upstairs. Can’t have you fallin’ asleep on me.”

You pouted, reluctant to leave the warmth of his embrace, but as he scooped you up effortlessly in his arms, you had no complaints. You curled into his chest, your arms draping over his shoulders as he carried you up the stairs to your shared room above the bar.

Once inside, Vander sat down on the edge of the bed, still holding you close. You buried your face against his neck, inhaling deeply, relishing the way he smelled—earthy, warm, like home.

“You’re never gettin’ tired of this, are ya?” he murmured, amusement dancing in his voice.

You shook your head, tightening your arms around him. “Never.”

Vander sighed, but it was a happy one. “Guess I’ll just have to hold ya forever then.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and as he leaned back against the bed, pulling you down with him, you had no doubt that he meant every word.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Lying there, you listened to the steady beat of his heart, matching your breathing with his. His fingers trailed lazily over your back, tracing small circles, the motion lulling you into an easy state of peace.

“Y’know,” you murmured, half-asleep, “I think you were made to hold me.”

Vander let out a deep chuckle, his grip tightening slightly. “Yeah? That so?”

“Mhm.” You nuzzled against him, sighing in content. “Big arms, strong hands… meant for keeping me safe.”

Vander pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his voice softer now, filled with a quiet kind of love. “Then I guess it’s a good thing I don’t ever plan on letting go.”

His words settled over you like a blanket, and with one last deep breath of his scent, you let sleep take you, safe and sound in the arms you loved most.

MEL

The glow of the Piltover skyline barely held a candle to the warmth in Mel’s eyes. No matter how many golden trinkets adorned her fingers, no matter the lavish silks that draped over her body, nothing compared to the glimmer in those greenish-gold pools that seemed to hold the world itself.

And Y/N could never look away.

Mel had long since noticed. The way Y/N’s gaze lingered when they talked, how their fingers would trace along Mel’s cheek under the guise of pushing back an errant curl—anything to keep her looking back. It was an unspoken devotion, quiet yet persistent, like a secret worship that didn’t need words. Mel would often catch the way Y/N’s breath hitched when she turned to face them fully, the way they seemed utterly captivated, as though the rest of the world faded into irrelevance.

Tonight was no different. They lay together in the golden embrace of candlelight, the flickering light casting long shadows over the plush bedding. The air was warm, filled with the lingering scent of jasmine and the faint traces of Mel’s perfume. She leaned against the headboard, her posture effortlessly elegant despite the intimacy of the moment. One of her hands idly played with Y/N’s fingers, tracing each knuckle, the lines of their palm, as if memorizing them, while her other hand moved lazily across their bare skin, drawing invisible patterns that sent shivers down their spine.

Y/N, however, did nothing but look at her, gaze locked onto those mesmerizing greenish-gold eyes, as if trying to etch every flicker of light and depth into memory. Every time Mel blinked, her long lashes cast the faintest shadow over her high cheekbones, a fleeting moment of mystery before her eyes found Y/N’s again, anchoring them with something that felt both powerful and impossibly gentle all at once.

“You never tire of staring, do you?” Mel’s voice was soft, amused, the faintest trace of fond exasperation lacing her words. There was a knowing lilt to her tone, as if she had asked this question many times before, already expecting the answer.

Y/N hummed, tilting their head as if considering. “No. Never.”

Mel chuckled, shaking her head, the corners of her lips curving in that signature smirk of hers. Her free hand drifted from Y/N’s palm up their arm, barely touching, just enough to leave a trail of warmth in its wake. “And why is that?” she asked, though she already knew.

Y/N let their hand cup her cheek, thumb grazing just beneath the lower lash line, drinking in every hue of gold and green that shimmered beneath the dim lighting. “Because your eyes make everything else seem… dull.”

Mel blinked, something shifting in her expression—softer now, contemplative. She had been the subject of admiration before. Compliments, honeyed words, rehearsed flattery—she had heard them all, yet none of them felt quite like this. There was no hidden agenda behind Y/N’s words, no game, no expectation—only a quiet, consuming sincerity that made Mel’s breath catch in her throat. It was rare, this kind of devotion, the kind that expected nothing in return and yet made her want to give everything she had.

She let out a slow exhale, studying Y/N as if they were the one draped in gold, the one adorned in the kind of beauty that made the stars themselves seem dim.

A rare flicker of vulnerability softened Mel’s features as she searched Y/N’s face. “You are insufferable.”

Y/N only smiled, thumb brushing along the curve of her cheek. “But you love me anyway.”

Mel sighed, a small smile curving her lips as she let her forehead rest against Y/N’s. “Yes,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I do.”

Y/N’s heart stuttered, a gentle ache blooming in their chest. Love, when spoken from Mel’s lips, felt like a promise wrapped in velvet—soft but unbreakable, tender but resolute. They could feel her breath against their lips, warm and steady, grounding them in the present, in the quiet intimacy of this moment.

Before they could respond, Mel closed the small space between them, sealing her answer with a kiss. It was slow, unhurried, her lips moving against theirs with a kind of deliberation that made Y/N feel as though time itself had ceased to matter. Her fingers curled into Y/N’s hair, a silent plea to stay close, to never look away.

As their lips parted, Y/N whispered, “Say it again.”

Mel let out a soft hum of amusement, tilting her head. “Say what?”

Y/N ran their fingers gently through Mel’s curls, eyes still locked onto hers. “That you love me.”

Mel traced her fingers along Y/N’s jaw, her voice carrying a warmth that rivalled the candlelight. “I love you,” she murmured, and then again, softer, as if sealing the words into Y/N’s skin. “I love you.”

Y/N let their eyes flutter closed for a brief moment, a contented sigh escaping their lips. “Good,” they murmured. “Because I plan to spend the rest of my life getting lost in your eyes.”

Mel smirked, shaking her head as she brushed her thumb over Y/N’s bottom lip. “You really are hopeless.”

Y/N chuckled, nuzzling closer. “Hopelessly in love with you.”

Mel let out a quiet laugh, pulling them closer, her fingers splaying across their back in a way that was both protective and claiming. “Then don’t ever look away.”

And Y/N, ever mesmerized, kept their eyes open until the last possible second, committing the golden-green warmth to memory once more. Because in Mel’s eyes, they saw more than beauty. They saw home. They saw the quiet vulnerability beneath the grandeur, the depth behind the carefully woven façade. They saw love—not spoken in words alone, but in the way Mel looked at them, in the way she held them close as if they were the only thing that truly mattered.

And Y/N would never, ever look away.

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

anything you want i did see a video where he was saying you hurt my darling to Rockwood and my did things to my heart

By Right of Blood | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

RAHHHH THIS WAS FUN. I LOVE PROTECTIVE SEB. I HOPE YOU ENJOY. I admit, I got carried away and this ended up longer than I anticipated which is why it took me a hot minute to get to this but I hope it was worth it!

Fair warning: this fic is realllllly just a lot of angry, protective seb + fighting/action; very little fluff/romance/etc until the very end

A very special thank you to @newdreamlove95 for reading this over and helping me revise before posting! <3

Words: ~13,000

Tags: Violence, Trauma, Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, No Hogwarts House, Canon Divergence, Post Hogwarts, Auror Seb, Auror MC, Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Drama, Romance, Confessions

The ruin was ancient—far older than the maps suggested.

You exhaled, the sound swallowed by the dense, humid air of the underground chamber. The magic here was thick, pressing against your skin like something alive. It whispered at the edges of your mind, hinting at an enchantment cast long ago.

Your wand's light flickered against the damp stone as you stepped forward, careful, methodical. Runes lined the archways, warnings etched in a dialect you barely recognized. You traced your fingers over them, murmuring a translation under your breath.

Do not enter. Do not disturb what has been sealed.

A warning, not unlike many you had seen before.

You had been breaking curses for years, navigating the remnants of forgotten civilizations, dismantling traps left behind by those who feared their own creations. It was dirty, dangerous work—but it suited you, kept you sharp, fulfilled your unquenchable need for adventure.

This ruin was no different.

The patterns in the stone, the way the air hummed—there was something familiar about it.

Ancient magic.

You stepped toward the center of the chamber, fingers brushing the edges of an inscription half-buried beneath the dust of centuries.

Then, you heard a sound.

Faint, but unmistakable. Not a ghost. Not an animal. Not the whisper of long-dead magic. It was the slow, deliberate scuff of boots against stone.

Someone was here.

You whirled around, wand gripped tightly, heart immediately hammering against your ribs, adrenaline spiking.

"Identify yourself."

The laugh that followed was slow, low at first but rising, curling around you like smoke.

You recognized it immediately. It was a sound that haunted your nightmares, woven into memories you had long tried to bury. The echo of it sent something sharp and cold twisting in your gut.

From the darkness, a figure stepped into the dim glow of your wandlight.

“Hello, love.”

Your grip on your wand tightened.

“I have to say,” the man mused, tilting his head as though appraising you, “I was beginning to think I’d never get the chance to see you again. You’ve been quite the slippery little thing, haven’t you?”

Your blood ran cold, but you kept your stance firm, refusing to let him see the way his presence set every nerve in your body alight with warning.

“You should be dead,” you said evenly.

“Should be,” he echoed, almost lazily. “But I’ve always been a difficult man to kill.”

His eyes flickered over you, and something dark and satisfied curled at the edges of his expression.

“And you—still sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.” His gaze drifted to the ruins around you. “I wonder… is it curiosity that brought you here? Or instinct?”

Your pulse roared in your ears, but you held steady.

“You’re a fool if you think you’ll walk away from this,” you said, voice low, dangerous. “The Ministry has been hunting you for years. You won’t leave these ruins alive.”

Another laugh.

“Oh, I rather think I will,” he replied, tipping his head in amusement. “And you, my dear, will be coming with me, in due time of course.”

The words had barely left his mouth before you moved.

Your wand cut through the air, the incantation forming on your lips—but the curse never left your tongue, because he was faster:

"Crucio."

Pain exploded through you, tremendous and searing. Your knees buckled. Your wand slipped from your fingers, clattering uselessly against the stone as your body hit the ground. Every muscle seized, your spine arching against the agony as if to escape the pain.

The world blurred, your vision tunneling as your screams echoed off the cavern walls.

It felt endless.

Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped.

Your breath came in ragged gasps, your body trembling, nerves raw and burning in the aftermath. The cold stone beneath you did nothing to ground you, nothing to dull the lingering agony that curled through every inch of you like a live wire.

Boots scraped against stone.

Through the haze, you saw a second figure step beside you. You tried to move. To reach for your wand. To fight. But before you could, a boot connected with your face and pain erupted again—sharp and immediate, snapping your head to the side.

A burst of light—too bright, too fast—as your skull cracked against the stone.

The last thing you heard before everything plunged into darkness was a voice, smooth and satisfied.

"Sleep tight, love."

Victor Rookwood was a ghost story.

A name spoken in hushed tones, a shadow that stretched long over the years, fading in and out of whispered rumors like a specter that refused to be laid to rest. He had haunted the edges of Ministry investigations, slipping through the cracks, a vanishing act so seamless that some believed he had died in hiding. Others swore he had fled the country, abandoning his tattered empire to rot. There were even those who claimed he had gone mad—driven into the depths of some forsaken ruin, a king without a throne, wasting away in solitude.

But Sebastian Sallow knew better.

Rookwood was too proud, too vain, too damn angry to let himself rot in obscurity. He had spent a lifetime clawing his way into power—he would not fade quietly into the dark.

Sebastian told you once, in passing, that the Ministry still had a standing order to find him. That somewhere, someone was always searching. But he never told you that he was the one leading the hunt. That it was his team tracking every cold lead, every whispered sighting, every scrap of intelligence that might finally drag the bastard into the light. He never told you that he had spent every fucking year since leaving Hogwarts with a singular purpose: to make sure the ghosts that haunted you never had the chance to crawl out of the dark.

Because no matter how many years passed, no matter how much you tried to leave it behind, there was one person tied to Rookwood’s downfall more than anyone else:

You.

It was why Sebastian had never questioned your decision to become a cursebreaker instead of an Auror, even when others did. Even when they called it a waste of talent. He knew why. Knew what the rebellion had taken from you—what ancient magic had cost you.

And it was why he hadn’t wanted you going alone.

Southern Scotland. Uncharted ruins. A job you couldn’t pass up.

“I don’t like it,” he had told you before you left, arms crossed, jaw tight with unease.

“You don’t like anything that involves me going anywhere alone,” you had pointed out, amused, packing your satchel with methodical efficiency.

Sebastian’s scowl had deepened. “And for good reason.”

He wasn’t wrong. Cursebreaking was dangerous by nature.

And what you didn't know was that to Sebastian, this wasn’t just another expedition. He had waded through enough bodies in his time as an Auror to recognize a pattern when he saw one, and of one thing he was certain: Rookwood’s activities had increased lately.

Small things, at first—whispers in Knockturn Alley, Ministry research going missing. Then the disappearances started. Then the unsolved cases, scattered across the country, all tied together by the same faint, rotten thread. His team of Aurors was finding bodies again, burned and mutilated in ways that were too familiar. The signs were all there—Rookwood was growing bolder, the noose of his ambition tightening.

And now you were gone.

A simple owl was all Sebastian had asked for. A brief message—I’m fine. Don’t worry. Still working. It was the bare minimum, a compromise between his paranoia and your stubborn insistence that you could take care of yourself.

But the hours stretched long, the silence thickening into something unbearable.

No owl. No sign of you. And Sebastian knew. Fuck, he knew.

Victor Rookwood had you.

He'd gone through every logical excuse—maybe you’d finished late, maybe found something interesting in the ruins and got sidetracked. You had taken worse risks before, pushed the limits of your own survival in ways that made him grit his teeth and call you reckless. But you were also experienced. Brilliant. And you knew the weight of promises made to the people who worried about you.

You wouldn’t forget to owl him.

Sebastian shot up from his chair so violently that it scraped across the floor, nearly toppling over. Across the room, a few of his fellow Aurors glanced up from their desks, but no one said anything. They had learned by now that when Sebastian moved with that particular kind of urgency, it was better to stay out of his way.

He stormed through the office, his mind already sharpening, already forming the next steps: he needed resources. He needed names. He needed your fucking location.

Sebastian tore through the corridors of the Ministry, moving fast enough to nearly knock over a passing file clerk. Papers went flying, a startled protest rose behind him, but he barely muttered an apology before pressing forward, his pulse a sharp, insistent drumbeat in his ears.

The Department of Cursebreaking was quieter than his own, filled with scholars and field researchers instead of hardened Aurors. Less war, more history. It had always suited Ominis.

Sebastian stepped into his friend's office without knocking.

Ominis was already standing, his chair pushed back, his posture rigid.

Sebastian exhaled sharply through his nose. “She’s missing.”

“I know. I tried contacting her this morning,” Ominis replied, his voice tight, each syllable measured, controlled. “No response. And there were traces of magical interference, which means whatever happened to her—” He cut himself off, his hands curling into fists at his sides. His breath came a little too sharply through his nose. “It wasn’t an accident.”

Sebastian already knew that.

"Not shit," he snapped, voice raw, hoarse. His hands curled into fists at his sides, shaking with barely restrained fury. "Rookwood has her."

Ominis exhaled sharply through his nose, unreadable behind the usual mask of quiet control—but Sebastian knew him too well. He saw the tension in the way he stood, the way his fingers twitched at his sides, the way his jaw clenched just a fraction tighter. Ominis was worried.

Good. He should be.

Still, when he spoke, his voice was measured, deliberate. "Sebastian—"

"Don’t tell me to calm down," Sebastian cut in, already knowing what was coming. "Don’t—don’t say that I should sit tight and be rational and fucking wait while Rookwood—" His breath hitched, and he turned away sharply, hands raking through his hair. "Fuck."

Ominis’ shoulders stiffened, but his voice remained level. "I'm worried too," he said, quieter this time, as if the weight of the words might reach Sebastian through the haze of his anger. "But we can’t do anything rash. You don’t know what you’re walking into, and—"

"Rookwood has her, Ominis." Sebastian turned back to him, his gaze wild and desperate. "You know what that means."

Ominis did know. Knew it all too well. Knew what Rookwood was capable of. Knew what he had done to people before. Knew what he would do now, given the chance.

And worst of all—knew exactly what you meant to Sebastian.

He had always known.

Had seen it written in every unspoken word, every sharp breath, every stupid reckless thing Sebastian had done for you since they were teenagers. It was in the way he watched you when you weren’t looking, the way he always reached for his wand at the first sign of trouble, the way his whole world seemed to orient around you without him even realizing it.

And now you were gone.

"Sebastian—"

"We don't have time to wait!" Sebastian interrupted, his voice raw, shaking. "We don't even know how long she's been missing. She could’ve been taken yesterday, she could be—" His throat tightened, something painful lodging there. "We don’t know, Ominis. And you’re asking me to fucking wait?!"

Ominis exhaled through his nose, struggling for calm. "Your team is in the field," he pointed out, even, steady. "They need to be here. You need them."

Sebastian shook his head, laughing bitterly. "I need to go. Now. Before it's too late."

"You’re talking about storming into a situation blind. Without backup. Without a plan. Do you hear yourself?" Ominis’ voice sharpened. "Do you even care if you survive this?"

Sebastian stilled.

And that—that—was what made Ominis go still, too.

Because Sebastian didn’t answer. His breathing was too fast, his fists still clenched at his sides, and in his silence, Ominis knew.

Sebastian wasn’t thinking about himself at all.

Sebastian had never been good at restraint, had never known how to stop when it came to the people he loved. He had already proven, again and again, that there was nothing—nothing—he wouldn’t do if someone he loved was in danger. And you—

You were everything.

"Sebastian, please," Ominis tried again, softer this time, stepping closer. "You going in alone is exactly what Rookwood would want."

Sebastian let out a sharp, bitter exhale. "Rookwood wants her, Ominis," he spat, voice hoarse. "And I’ll be damned if I let him have her."

Ominis hesitated. Because the truth was, Sebastian was right. They didn’t have time.

But Ominis also knew, with every shred of certainty in his body, that if Sebastian went now—alone, reckless, half-mad with fury—he might never come back.

But the Auror was already moving.

"Owl my team," he said, reaching for the door and ignoring Ominis's protests. "But I'm not waiting for them."

He stormed into the hallway, his mind a razor-sharp edge of focus. He didn’t know where you were, but he knew where to start.

The ruins. That was where Rookwood had found you. But Sebastian had never seen the ruins himself, had never been there. He couldn't apparate to a place he didn’t know.

Which meant he needed someone who did: your apprentice, Elias Vane.

Sebastian found him in the far corner of the Cursebreaking Department, hunched over a desk littered with notes, open grimoires, and a cup of tea, long forgotten.

Vane was young—barely out of Hogwarts—but sharp. Talented. You had spoken well of him before, praised his instinct, his skill. Reckless, yes, but capable. A good cursebreaker.

And right now, Sebastian needed him.

He didn’t slow as he approached, didn’t stop. His hands slammed against the desk with enough force to rattle the inkpot and send a loose parchment fluttering to the floor.

Vane jolted, eyes snapping up in alarm. “Shit—”

“You’re coming with me,” Sebastian said, voice cold, clipped. His pulse roared in his ears. No time. No patience. “Now.”

Vane blinked, still disoriented. “What—?”

“The ruins,” Sebastian snapped. “The ones she went to. You’ve been there, haven’t you?”

Vane’s expression flickered with confusion, then something like wariness. “Y-yeah, once, during the initial survey, but—”

“Then you’re taking me there.”

Vane frowned, still catching up. “Wait—why? Where’s—”

“She’s missing,” Sebastian cut in, his voice like flint. “No owl. No sign of her.” He straightened, shoving back from the desk. “We need to leave. Now.”

Vane paled. He scrambled to his feet, knocking over the inkpot in the process, but didn’t even glance at it. “She—she’s missing? But—” His voice dropped to something unsure, something unsteady. “She’s good at this, Sallow. If something happened—”

Sebastian’s jaw clenched. His breath came sharp through his nose.

“She didn’t just get lost,” he said, voice dangerously low. “She was taken.”

Vane hesitated, but whatever he saw in Sebastian’s expression had him snapping his mouth shut and nodding. “Alright. But if she’s just holed up in some side chamber taking notes, she’s going to kill us both for interrupting her.”

Sebastian didn’t respond.

He prayed to every god he didn’t believe in that was the case, but the dread clawing at his chest told him otherwise.

He stepped closer, gripping Vane’s arm.

“Hold tight,” Vane murmured before twisting his wand.

The world cracked apart, then Sebastian’s boots hit the stone with a sharp thud.

The ruins loomed before him, vast and desolate, and he felt it. Something was wrong.

Sebastian had been in enough places touched by dark magic to recognize the suffocating stillness that hung in the air. It was the kind of silence that only followed violence. The kind that made the hair on the back of his neck rise.

He turned in a slow circle, scanning the surroundings while Vane exhaled beside him, eyes sweeping over the ruins. “She's supposed to be here,” he murmured. “She would have left something behind. Campfire. Equipment. A bloody note.”

Sebastian was already moving toward the mouth of the cave, his boots crunching over loose gravel as he walked. His pulse pounded, his grip tightening on his wand.

Then he saw it.

Boot prints. Many boot prints.

His stomach twisted as he crouched, fingers brushing over the disturbed earth.

Vane stepped up behind him. “What is it?”

Sebastian didn’t answer. A sick feeling clawed up his throat. The confirmation of what he already knew. You'd been ambushed. The evidence was right in front of him.

Victor Rookwood had been here.

Sebastian turned to Vane, voice tight with barely restrained fury. “Tell me everything she was researching.”

Vane swallowed. “Uh, ancient warding magic. Something about sealed vaults. She was trying to cross-reference Keeper records with—”

Ancient warding magic. The same damn thing Rookwood had been stealing from Ministry archives for months.

“Fuck.” Sebastian dragged a hand through his hair, his pulse roaring.

He knew what Rookwood wanted, and it wasn’t just revenge. It was your magic—the same power you had buried, the same magic Victor had lost in the rebellion. The bastard had played a long game. He had waited, plotted, and then, the moment you had gotten too close—

He had taken you.

Sebastian turned to Vane, who was still pale, eyes darting to the boot prints in the dirt. The young cursebreaker swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably under his unwavering stare.

“You’re going back to the Ministry,” Sebastian ordered.

Vane blinked. “What? No, I—”

“Go back,” Sebastian repeated, stepping closer, his grip tightening around his wand. “Go to Ominis. Tell him everything we saw here. He’ll know what to do.”

“But—”

Sebastian didn’t have time for hesitation. “You’ll just get in my way.”

Vane recoiled slightly, offense flashing across his face, but Sebastian didn’t let up.

"This isn’t some damn expedition," his voice was low, razor-sharp. "Do you honestly believe that when it comes down to it, you can make the call? That you can put someone in the ground before they do the same to you?" He stepped closer, eyes burning with intensity. "Because that’s what this is. It’s not research. It’s war. And I don’t have time to babysit you."

Vane opened his mouth, but no words came out. He swallowed hard, something in his face crumbling as the weight of reality settled in.

Sebastian exhaled sharply, forcing himself to pull back. His voice, when he spoke again, was quieter.

“You want to help? Find Ominis.”

Vane hesitated for only a second longer before nodding, his face grim. “What are you going to do?”

Sebastian barely hesitated. “I’m going after her.”

Vane’s frown deepened. “You can’t just—”

“I can,” Sebastian cut him off, his voice low, lethal. “And I will.”

Something in his expression must have made it clear that there was no point arguing, because Vane exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You’re mad.”

Sebastian didn’t bother denying it. Instead, he turned his back on the younger man and stalked toward the deeper ruins, the weight of his purpose pressing like a blade against his ribs.

Behind him, he heard Vane mutter a curse before taking out his wand. “If you get yourself killed, I’m not explaining it to Gaunt.”

Sebastian didn’t answer.

With a sharp crack, Vane disapparated, leaving Sebastian alone.

The silence pressed in immediately, thick and smothering as he moved deeper. He took a slow breath, centering himself. He had to think. Had to move quickly.

Rookwood had taken you, that much was clear. But where?

His eyes swept over the ruined chamber, cataloging every detail with a hunter’s precision. The boot prints led toward the collapsed corridor ahead, vanishing deeper into the tunnel. There were too many to count—at least half a dozen men. Maybe more.

Sebastian followed them without hesitation, his movements sure.

The ruins stretched ahead, the air thick with humidity and the musty scent of mildew. Ancient carvings lined the stone, half-obscured by moss and time. The dampness clung to his skin, the scent of earth and decay filling his lungs.

Then, as he stepped into a large cavern, he stopped abruptly, his breath catching.

Blood.

It wasn’t a lot—just a smear, a faint streak against the stone floor—but it was enough.

He dropped to a knee. There were boot prints everywhere, some overlapping, some leading deeper into the ruins. And the blood... he ran a finger through the smear. Still tacky. It was fresh. Recent.

Yours?

His gut roared at the thought, a sickening, lurching thing as he forced himself to breathe.

Every instinct screamed at him to run, to tear through these tunnels and hunt them down—but he couldn’t afford recklessness. Not yet, anyway.

Instead, he straightened, rolling his shoulders back, steadying the fire burning in his chest. His wand was firm in his grip, his fingers still slick with the tacky smear of blood. He wiped them against his coat absently, his mind already working through the possibilities.

There were too many boot prints to count, but the path was clear. They hadn’t been subtle—there was no need. No one else was supposed to be here. No one was supposed to find you.

And yet, here he was.

Sebastian followed the trail. The air grew colder the deeper he went, the damp walls pressing inward like silent sentinels. The corridor narrowed, the carved runes along the stone becoming more intricate.

He stiffened at the echo of a sound ahead.

Low voices, faint but distinct. Men speaking in hushed tones as they walked, their words carried along the tunnel by the damp echo of stone.

Sebastian pressed himself against the wall, listening.

“—still unconscious. Probably won’t wake for a while.”

A rush of relief nearly buckled his knees. Unconscious. That meant you were still alive.

Another voice scoffed, rough and unimpressed. “You kicked her too hard. The boss wanted her awake.”

Sebastian’s grip on his wand turned to iron.

They had hit you.

A red haze crawled up the edges of his vision, something sharp and vicious curling in his gut, coiling around his ribs like a beast that had been waiting for the right moment to sink its teeth in.

Sebastian had never been afraid of the dark.

And he had never been afraid to become it.

He inhaled, long and slow, pushing the fire in his chest into something controlled, something sharp, then he moved. Silent. Swift. A shadow among the ruins.

The two men were just ahead, walking side by side, their pace easy, relaxed—unaware. Their figures flickered in the dim torchlight, heavy boots scuffing against the stone floor, their cloaks shifting with the movement.

Sebastian didn’t hesitate.

A flick of his wand, and the first man barely had time to choke before he collapsed, soundlessly paralyzed, his body hitting the ground in a dead weight.

Sebastian was already moving onto the next one.

The second man turned, mouth opening to shout, but Sebastian was faster. His wand slashed through the air.

"Diffindo."

The spell tore through the air. The man barely had time to gasp before a deep, jagged gash split across his chest, blooming red.

Sebastian stepped forward, pressing his boot against the man’s throat as he writhed, choking on his own blood. The dying wizard’s fingers scrabbled weakly against the stone, his panicked eyes meeting Sebastian’s.

Sebastian knelt over him, his wand pressed hard beneath his chin.

“Where is she?”

The man’s mouth opened, but only a wet, gurgling sound escaped.

Sebastian lifted his foot just slightly, allowing the man just enough space to take a breath. “Where. Is. She?” he repeated.

The man clawed weakly at his boot, his breath rattling in his chest.

Sebastian sighed, almost disappointed. He lifted his wand, tilting his head slightly. Then, without a flicker of hesitation—

"Petrificus Totalus."

The man’s body went rigid in an instant, his limbs locking at unnatural angles as the spell took hold. His eyes, wide and frantic, remained the only thing still able to move.

Sebastian watched, impassive, as blood continued to seep from the wound at the man’s side, pooling beneath him, soaking into the cracks of the ancient stone.

Helpless. Still.

The man would bleed out, unable to move, unable to take any action to save himself. And Sebastian didn’t care.

He moved deeper into the cave, following the footsteps. All the while, his sense of dread only grew, thrumming in the walls, in the air, in his bones, suffocating, unnatural, and reeking of something vile.

Then Sebastian heard it.

Laughter.

Low, amused voices, men speaking in tones that dripped with cruel delight. The sound sent ice through Sebastian’s veins. He pressed forward, inching closer to the chamber ahead. The tunnel widened into an open space, wandlight flickering against damp stone.

He counted five—no, six men, their postures relaxed, cocky. Unbothered.

Then he saw you.

Chained to a crumbling stone pillar, arms bound above your head, wrists rubbed raw and bloody against thick iron cuffs. Your head hung forward, temple bleeding, dark streaks cutting across the bruised, pallid skin of your face. Your breathing was slow, shallow. Unconscious.

Sebastian clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached.

One of the men—tall, broad-shouldered, his cloak hanging open over grimy leathers—stepped closer to where you hung limp against the pillar, head tilted at a sickeningly casual angle. His wand was holstered, his hands free, because why would he need his wand for this?

His fingers found your jaw, tilting your head up so he could get a better look.

"Such a pretty little thing, eh?"

For a moment, Sebastian couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.

His entire body was coiled so tightly with rage that he thought he might shatter from it, might detonate with the sheer force of it.

Another man scoffed, rolling his shoulders. “Wouldn’t give the likes of us a second look, though,” he muttered. “Fucking arrogant bitch."

The first man’s fingers drifted lower, tracing the delicate curve of your throat, brushing past your collarbone, slow and deliberate.

"Doesn’t matter, does it?" Another man chuckled. "She ain't gonna fight back. And the boss ain’t ready for her yet."

A smirk.

"So, boys—who wants a turn first?"

Sebastian moved.

No thought. No hesitation. Only rage.

The first man—the one touching you—never stood a chance.

A bolt of magic ripped through his chest, so fast, so brutal, that he didn’t even have time to scream. The impact shattered his ribs, the sickening crunch of bone echoing through the chamber as his body crumpled, folding in on itself before it hit the ground.

The second man turned, his mouth opening in shock, powerless as Sebastian twisted his wand and sent a curse flying.

It struck the man mid-turn, his body arching backward, spine bending at a grotesque, impossible angle. He let out a choked, gurgling wheeze before collapsing in a twitching, broken heap.

Then the chamber erupted.

Shouts. The sharp scrape of boots against stone. Panicked movement.

Sebastian was still moving, weaving between them like death incarnate.

A man raised his wand, but Sebastian didn’t let him speak.

"Confringo."

A scream tore through the cavern, raw and agonized as fire consumed him. He collapsed against the stone, his fingers clawing at his skin like he could rip the pain out of himself.

Sebastian turned, already raising his wand for the next.

Another man lunged, his own wand slashing through the air, but Sebastian deflected him effortlessly, stepping into his guard before driving his knee hard into his gut. The man doubled over with a strangled grunt, but Sebastian wasn’t done—he slammed the hilt of his wand against the side of his skull, sending him sprawling.

A sharp movement to his left—

Sebastian pivoted, casting Expulso with enough force to send the next man flying into the cavern wall.

The impact was sickening. A wet, meaty sound, bones crunching on impact. Blood smeared against the stone as the man slumped, unmoving.

The chamber fell into silence.

Heavy. Dripping.

Sebastian was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling in sharp, furious bursts. His wand was still raised, fingers tight around the handle. The taste of iron burned at the back of his throat, the air thick with the stench of sweat and blood and fire.

And yet it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

His gaze snapped to the last man, who was trembling now, wand unsteady in his grip, eyes darting toward the exit, toward the ruins of his comrades, and then to Sebastian.

Sebastian took a slow, measured step forward.

The man sucked in a breath, his grip tightening on his wand, and then he moved.

Not toward Sebastian. Not to fight.

To you.

Sebastian’s blood ran cold. He saw it—the way the man lunged, wand flicking upward at just the right angle—

Apparition.

Sebastian didn’t think. He lunged, too.

His fingers snatched at the bastard’s cloak, curling tight in the fabric just as the magic took hold.

The world twisted. Everything spun, a brutal, suffocating force yanking him forward, ripping him from solid ground and into the crushing void of nonexistence.

Then, as suddenly as it started, the world righted itself.

Sebastian’s boots slammed onto solid ground. Cold air hit his face. The scent of damp earth, of moss and rain, filled his lungs.

They were outside.

Deep in the woods, far from the ruins. The sky overhead was dark, moonlight barely slipping through the heavy canopy of trees.

The man who had taken you staggered forward, thrown off balance by the rough landing. Sebastian wasted no time. His wand was already raised, his fury razor-sharp.

"Bombarda!"

The spell struck the man mid-turn, ripping him off his feet and sending him crashing into the nearest tree. His body crumpled to the ground, unmoving.

Then silence.

Sebastian stood in the stillness, his breath coming in sharp, ragged pulls, his wand still raised, his fingers locked in a death grip around the handle. His heart was a drumbeat in his ears, fast and erratic, each pulse laced with fury, with need.

The bastard was dead. Good.

He turned.

His stomach plummeted.

You were in a heap on the ground, crumpled atop a bed of damp, decaying leaves. Your body was limp, your arms still bound, your deathly skin pale beneath the bruises and blood smeared across your face. The rise and fall of your chest was slow—too slow.

Sebastian’s fury shattered, replaced instantly by fear.

“Fuck, no, no, no—”

He dropped to his knees beside you.

“Come on, love,” he muttered, his voice shaking despite himself. “You’re alright. You have to be alright.”

He swore, frustration thick in his throat, turning his attention to the shackles. He had to get these off you.

His wand cut through the air again—Finite Incantatem. No reaction. Alohomora. Not even a flicker.

Sebastian’s jaw locked. Fuck magic, then.

He tossed his wand aside and lunged for the shackles, fingers digging into the rusted iron, trying to pry them off with brute strength alone.

The moment his skin touched the metal, a biting cold leached into him, unnatural and parasitic.

Sebastian gasped, his muscles seizing, his breath hitching as a sickly, creeping energy seeped into his fingertips, curling through his veins like poison. It crawled up his arms, pulling, draining—a deep, gnawing hunger that seemed to suck the very life from his bones.

Cursed. It was cursed.

Sebastian ripped his hands away, staggering backward, his breath coming too fast, too shallow. His fingers tingled where they had touched the shackles, as if something had tried to stay inside him, tried to take root.

“Fuck,” he swore again, running a trembling hand through his hair, trying to clear the dizzy haze the metal had left behind.

Then—

A twig snapped.

Sebastian froze.

“Well, well,” a voice drawled. “Isn’t this touching?”

Sebastian turned slowly, wand raised, heart pounding in his chest like war drums.

Victor Rookwood stood at the edge of the clearing, half-shrouded in shadow, his coat hanging open over the fine but worn layers beneath.

“You certainly do make things interesting, Mr. Sallow.” His tone was almost amused, but his eyes burned with something colder. “I do wonder, though—was it bravery or foolishness that brought you here? Love certainly makes people do strange things.”

Sebastian didn’t answer.

He stood, wand still raised. His heart was a hammer in his chest, the weight of it crushing against his ribs, but his grip remained steady, his fingers curled tight around his wand.

Rookwood was watching him like a cat might watch a cornered mouse. His posture was relaxed, his stance loose, his wand held low like it was barely worth lifting. A show of control. A show of patience.

Sebastian had seen men like him before.

Men who spoke in honeyed words while they bled people dry. Men who lied with a smile, who thrived on games, on power, on knowing they were one step ahead.

Sebastian exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing himself to think.

He hasn’t killed her. That was the first fact that mattered. If Rookwood wanted you dead, you would already be gone. Instead, you were here, bound and unconscious, but alive.

Which meant Rookwood needed you. And if he needed you—then he wasn’t as in control as he wanted Sebastian to think.

Rookwood’s smirk deepened, as if he could see the thoughts forming in real-time. “Not even a word?” He tsked softly, shaking his head. “I must say, Sallow, I expected more given your reputation."

Sebastian didn't falter. “Let her go.”

Rookwood let out a quiet, breathy chuckle. “Ah. Straight to business.” His gaze flicked toward you, still slumped in the dirt, before returning to Sebastian. “I’m afraid that’s not going to happen.”

Sebastian’s grip on his wand tightened. “Then I'll kill you where you stand.”

Rookwood actually laughed at that. A slow, smug sound, low and indulgent. “Oh, you could.” He gestured vaguely, as if the idea was nothing more than a passing thought. “But let’s be realistic, shall we? You and I both know it’s not that simple. The curse on those shackles won’t lift without me.”

Sebastian stiffened. Shit.

"So tell me, Sallow," Rookwood’s voice was unhurried, easy, as if they were discussing the weather over tea. "What’s the play here?”

Sebastian didn’t answer. Didn’t shift. Didn’t so much as breathe the wrong way.

It was obvious now.

This wasn’t just a fight. This was a game. A dangerous, calculated game, and if Sebastian wanted to win, if he wanted to get you out of here alive, then he had to play it right.

Rookwood watched him, eyes gleaming in the moonlight. “Do you even know what those shackles are doing to her?” His tone was conversational. “I imagine you’ve already felt it yourself. That creeping little rot in your bones.” He tsked, shaking his head. “Must be excruciating, hm?”

Sebastian barely stopped himself from looking at you. Because that was what Rookwood wanted, wasn’t it? To make him look. To make him see how helpless you were, to force him to feel that panic tighten around his throat like a noose.

But the problem was Rookwood wasn’t lying. You were dying. Slowly, yes, but it was happening. So what the fuck was the right move here?

Every instinct in Sebastian's body screamed to attack, to kill him where he stood, but if the curse needed to be lifted manually, then Sebastian might as well carve your fucking tombstone himself.

His fingers twitched. He forced himself to breathe.

“Fine,” he bit out. “What do you want?”

Rookwood’s smirk deepened, his eyes glittering with amusement. “Now you’re speaking my language.” He took a slow step forward, watching Sebastian like a cat toying with a mouse. “It’s simple, really. You’ve been such a thorn in my side. Constantly investigating me, tracking me down, sending your little Auror friends after me." His expression darkened, the amusement fading into something more calculating. "So, here’s my offer: you leave. You walk away. You stop chasing me, stop meddling in my affairs, and, most importantly—” His gaze flicked toward you, still slumped and dying in the dirt. “—you forget you ever saw me. And when I'm finished with her, you'll get her back alive."

The words slithered through the cold night air, wrapping around Sebastian like a chokehold. His stomach twisted, nausea curling tight beneath his ribs, but his face remained unreadable.

“I think,” Sebastian said slowly, voice even, steady, “that you have me confused with someone who bargains.”

Rookwood’s smirk didn’t falter, but there was something else beneath it now. A flicker of something colder.

“Oh?” he mused, tilting his head, as if truly considering. “Then I suppose I'll just need to persuade you."

A curse slammed into Sebastian’s chest before he could react.

Pain exploded through his ribs, knocking the breath from his lungs in a sharp, violent burst. The force of the spell sent him flying, his body crashing against the damp earth, his wand slipping from his grip and skidding across the forest floor.

For a moment, his vision swam—dark spots blooming at the edges, the world tilting on its axis. Cold night air bit at his skin, but his chest burned, ribs screaming with each ragged inhale.

Rookwood was on him in an instant.

A boot slammed down against Sebastian’s wrist, grinding it into the dirt, keeping him pinned, helpless, his wand just out of reach.

“I should’ve known better than to waste time talking,” Rookwood muttered, his voice low, almost disappointed. "Men like you—"

Sebastian moved. Fast.

Before Rookwood could finish his sentence, Sebastian wrenched his body to the side, twisting hard despite the searing pain in his ribs. He gritted his teeth, ignored the screaming protest of his muscles, and lunged—

His hand snatched at Rookwood’s ankle, yanking with every ounce of strength he had. The older man staggered, his balance thrown, his weight shifting just enough—

Sebastian ripped himself free, shoving himself up from the ground in a single fluid motion. His shoulder slammed into Rookwood’s torso, driving him backward, but the older man recovered fast.

Rookwood’s wand snapped up. Sebastian ducked. A jet of red light seared past his ear, narrowly missing him, splintering the bark of a nearby tree.

Sebastian didn’t let him cast again.

He surged forward, slamming into him, sending them both sprawling into the dirt in a brutal scramble.

A sharp crack echoed through the clearing as Sebastian's his fist connected with Rookwood’s face. Blood smeared across his knuckles, and Sebastian pressed forward, his other hand grappling for Victor’s wand, fingers brushing against the handle.

Then pain erupted through his side.

Sebastian gasped, his body jerking as something hot and burning sliced through his ribs.

Rookwood had a knife. A dirty, wicked-looking thing that he'd hidden beneath his coat.

Sebastian’s chest rose and fell in sharp, heaving breaths, his ribs screaming, his side burning where the knife had carved through him. His wand was still somewhere in the dirt, just out of reach. He shoved Rookwood back and forced himself upright, muscles trembling from the effort.

Rookwood now stood a few feet away, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

And he was grinning.

“That’s quite the right hook you’ve got there,” he mused, flexing his jaw. “And here I was beginning to think the Ministry had gone soft.”

Sebastian said nothing. His breath came slow and deliberate, fingers twitching for his wand—

Rookwood smirked.

“Eight years,” he mused, pacing leisurely in front of him. "It took you eight years to finally come face to face with me. Your entire career’s work—tracking me, investigating me, sending your little Auror friends after me.” He sighed, shaking his head. “And yet, despite all that effort, here we are. And I must say—” He tutted, tilting his head. “It’s a bit of a shame, isn’t it? That you're just so bloody weak."

Sebastian clenched his jaw so tight it ached.

Rookwood continued, his voice smooth, almost pitying. “The Ministry is so slow, isn’t it? Always a step behind. Always cleaning up messes instead of preventing them.” His smile widened. “It took you eight years to catch up to me. And now you’re here. Wandless. Bleeding. Powerless.”

Sebastian’s fingers curled into fists.

“You talk too much,” he rasped, his voice raw.

Rookwood chuckled. "Personally, I think I'm being quite charitable, Sebastian. Your life is about to end, surely you want to know what it is I've been working towards all this time, hm?"

Sebastian swallowed against the sharp taste of blood at the back of his throat.

“Ancient magic is such a fascinating thing, don’t you think?” Rookwood mused. "Older than the Ministry. Older than the Hogwarts founders. Power that predates our understanding of what magic even is.”

Sebastian didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He was listening. Because that was the thing about men like Rookwood, they always wanted an audience, and right now, every second he spent talking was another second Sebastian had to think.

Rookwood exhaled, long and thoughtful, tilting his head. “You know, the real shame of it is that she never even stopped to consider what that power could do if properly harnessed." His gaze flicked toward you, still unmoving in the dirt. “She feels it. Wields it. And yet was still too much of a coward to reach for its full potential."

Sebastian forced himself to breathe, slow and steady. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Rookwood tutted, shaking his head. “Come now, you already know.” He gestured broadly, as if to the very world around them. “The Repository. Sealed. Hidden away. Even though ancient magic is my goddamn birthright.” He clicked his tongue. “The Ministry likes to pretend she warded it off for good. How naive."

Sebastian inconspicuously scanned the forest floor for his wand, finally locating the green and black handle laying a couple meters to his right.

“The problem, of course,” Rookwood went on, “is that the only one who can open it is her."

His gaze flicked toward you again.

“Because she’s special. I imagine you’ve known that for a long time." Rookwood's smirk deepened.

“So what?” Sebastian spat. “You think she’s just going to help you?”

Rookwood chuckled. “Oh, Sebastian.”

Sebastian hated how easily he said his name.

“She doesn’t need to help me," Rookwood continued. "She simply needs to be there.”

A cold dread curled at the base of Sebastian’s spine. “What the fuck are you saying?”

Rookwood hummed. “I’m saying that she is the key. Quite literally. You see, I don’t need her consent. I don’t need her to willingly give me anything." He tilted his head. "I just need her alive long enough to get me in."

Sebastian’s vision went red. His mind screamed for him to move. To lunge. To tear Rookwood apart.

Eight years ago, before Auror training, before he had learned restraint, he would have. He would have thrown himself at Rookwood with all the reckless fury he had in him, would have clawed and ripped and killed him with his bare hands if he had to.

And it would have gotten him killed.

But now—

Now, something cold settled into his chest. Not quieting his rage. Not taming it, but focusing it.

Sebastian couldn’t afford to be reckless, not while he was wandless and bleeding and Rookwood held a winning hand. He just needed to break Rookwood’s composure. Needed to goad him into making a mistake.

Then he’d gut him.

Sebastian exhaled slowly through his nose. His gaze flicked toward his wand, half-buried in damp earth.

"Must be exhausting," Sebastian said, forcing a breath past the sharp pain in his ribs. "Still clinging to old failures, knowing you were bested by a fifteen-year-old all those years ago."

Rookwood’s jaw tensed. Sebastian smirked.

"You’re desperate," Sebastian continued breathlessly. "That’s why you need her. Ancient magic is beyond you, and you know it. You’re just a desperate, pathetic bastard trying to steal power he doesn’t understand."

That did it.

Rookwood’s eyes darkened with something dangerous.

Sebastian had seconds. Maybe less.

Rookwood lunged, knife in hand—but this time, Sebastian was ready. His heel dug into the dirt, and he dove sideways, landing with a heavy thud.

His fingers wrapped around his wand, and before Rookwood could even think, Sebastian flicked his wand, "Depulso!"

The force of the spell slammed into Rookwood’s chest, sending him staggering back. He barely had time to recover before Sebastian staggered to his feet.

"Expelliarmus!"

Rookwood’s blade flew from his grasp, falling to the ground, and for the first time, Rookwood looked genuinely surprised.

But Sebastian wasn’t finished.

"Bombarda!"

The force of the blast sent Rookwood hurtling backward, his body slamming into a tree. Leaves floated down around him, and he collapsed to the ground, coughing violently.

Sebastian stalked toward him, wand steady, fury burning white-hot through his veins.

"Like I said, you talk too much," he growled.

Rookwood lifted his head, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, his smirk weak but still present. "And you… are entirely too predictable."

Before Sebastian could react, Rookwood’s fingers barely twitched with wandless magic—and you flew across the clearing. The air whooshed past, and in an instant, you were wrenched from where you lay and pulled into Rookwood’s grasp like a ragdoll.

No.

No, no, no.

Sebastian's fingers flexed around his wand, and the rest of him—his body, his mind, his fury—all locked into place, caged by the sight of you limp in Rookwood’s arms, unconscious, barely breathing.

Rookwood smirked, his hand curling around your throat—not tightly, not choking, but firm enough to send a clear message.

Sebastian's mind raced, working through every possible scenario, every hex, every fucking spell that could fix this—

But there was nothing. Not while Rookwood held you like a human fucking shield.

Sebastian’s grip on his wand tightened. "You're going to let her go."

Rookwood smirked, tilting his head. "And what, pray tell, will you do if I don’t?"

Sebastian gritted his teeth. He forced himself to breathe, to keep his expression blank, to push back the fear clawing at his throat. He couldn’t show weakness. Couldn’t give Rookwood anything.

"I'll kill you with my bare hands."

Rookwood laughed a full-bodied laugh, low and indulgent, like this was entertainment to him.

“You are delightful,” he mused. "Truly."

Sebastian’s pulse was a steady, furious drumbeat in his ears. He needed a plan. Needed to separate you from him.

Rookwood adjusted his grip on you, keeping you firmly between himself and Sebastian. "Tell me—are you willing to gamble with her life?" He hummed, considering. “Because I will snap her neck if you make a single wrong move."

Sebastian felt sick. His muscles were coiled tight, his every instinct screaming to act, to fight, to rip Rookwood apart piece by piece—

He forced himself to exhale slowly through his nose. He's bluffing.

"You won't do it," he said, voice low, razor-sharp.

Rookwood lifted a brow. "And what makes you so sure of that?"

"Because you need her alive. You said it yourself."

Rookwood hummed, tilting his head as if considering. "That’s true. I do need her."

Sebastian could feel the shift, the subtle tug-of-war, the way Rookwood was toying with him.

"But you—" he tightened his grip around throat. "—you need her more."

Sebastian’s wand was steady, unwavering, but inside—inside, something cracked.

The bastard would kill you.

Because the game had changed.

This was no longer about Rookwood getting you to the Repository.

No.

This was about Rookwood staying alive.

Sebastian hadn’t realized it at first, hadn’t put the pieces together because of the rage clouding his vision. But now, with Rookwood wandless, his weapon gone, his body pressed against the bark of a tree with you limp in his grasp—

Now, Sebastian saw it.

Rookwood wasn’t in control anymore. He was stalling. Because of course he was. He was self-important, arrogant, an entitled little bastard who thought the world owed him its power. Your death would be an inconvenience to him, yes—a massive fucking setback to his ambitions—but between your death and his?

There was no question which life he valued more.

Sebastian swallowed against the raw fury pressing against his throat.

“You’re scared,” he said.

Rookwood’s smirk twitched, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Sebastian took a slow step forward.

“You should be.”

Rookwood adjusted his grip on you slightly, shifting his stance. “Bold of you to say, given the circumstances.”

Sebastian tilted his head just slightly, eyes locked onto his. “Is it?”

Rookwood’s fingers flexed against your throat, as if he thought the subtle pressure might rattle Sebastian. Might make him desperate.

But Sebastian didn’t react. Didn’t move. Didn’t so much as flinch. Instead, he let his gaze flick—just for a second—toward Rookwood’s empty hands. Just a cornered rat, grasping for anything to keep himself from getting eaten alive.

“Do you know what I think, Rookwood?”

The bastard said nothing. Sebastian smiled. Just a little. Just enough to make it mocking.

“I think you know you’re already dead.”

He could see the moment Rookwood understood. The moment his arrogance cracked, the moment he finally saw the board for what it was, and realized he was out of moves.

Sebastian lunged forward, his hands fisting into the fabric of Rookwoods coat in a white-knuckled grip as he dragged him forward and apparated.

The world lurched.

Magic pulled tight around Sebastian’s ribs, wrapping around him like a vice as the weight of Apparition crashed over them both. He pulled Rookwood with him, his grip unbreakable. 

And then they landed. 

The world snapped back into focus. The bright light, the desks, the walls lined with maps and case files. The scent of ink, parchment, and freshly brewed tea clashed violently with the blood and dirt smeared across his skin.

The Auror Department had been buzzing before—anxious, tense conversation rippling through the air as Sebastian’s team and Ominis scrambled to form a plan to go after him.

But now? The second they appeared—Sebastian, you, and Rookwood—

Silence.

Total. Utter. Fucking. Silence.

And then—

Chaos. Pandemonium.

A crash of chairs and desks as Aurors surged forward, wands raised.

"GET HIM RESTRAINED!"

"WHAT THE FUCK—"

"IS THAT—? THAT'S ROOKWOOD!"

Sebastian staggered, his grip ripping away from Rookwood as Aurors descended on the bastard like a pack of wolves, yanking his arms behind his back, forcing him to his knees as enchanted restraints snapped tight around his wrists.

Sebastian's breath was ragged, his chest rising and falling in sharp, furious bursts, his fingers shaking from the adrenaline still thrumming through his veins.

Then Rookwood laughed. A slow, breathy chuckle, low and condescending, even now, even fucking now, after everything.

Sebastian's wand clattered to the ground as his rage overcame him, his fist connecting with Rookwood’s face before anyone could react.

The impact was brutal. A sickening crack as knuckles met bone, as Rookwood’s head snapped to the side. Blood splattered against the Auror Department’s pristine floors.

Another hit. Another.

Sebastian didn’t stop. Didn’t think. Just swung.

Again.

And again.

And again.

"You filthy fucking bastard!" Sebastian roared. His voice was hoarse, frantic, furious. His hands ached, knuckles split and raw from the force of his own rage.

Rookwood spat blood, still grinning, his lips split, his nose crooked from the sheer force of Sebastian’s attack.

"Struck a nerve, did I?" he rasped, voice wheezing from the damage.

A snarl ripped from Sebastian’s throat as he drove his fists into Rookwood’s face, over and over. Blood splattered across his knuckles, staining his skin, but it wasn’t enough. The world had narrowed into a singular, blistering point of rage—a fire that burned so hot it consumed everything else.

Because Rookwood took you. He hurt you. He was going to kill you.

And Sebastian couldn’t fucking stand it.

The room around him was filled with shouts and barked orders and hands gripping at his coat, but none of it registered.

All he could see was Rookwood. Bloodied. Laughing.

Even as multiple sets of hands dragged him backward, it didn’t matter. Sebastian fought against them with everything he had, his body twisting, muscles coiled tight with rage, his knuckles dripping with blood—his own, Rookwood’s, he didn’t fucking care.

"Get off me!" he snarled, wrenching free for just a second—just enough to grab the bastard by the collar and slam his head back against the floor, hard enough to hear the crack of impact.

Rookwood let out a wet, choking sound, blood bubbling between his teeth, but that smirk—that fucking smirk was still there.

“Sebastian, enough!” Ominis yelled—but even he didn’t sound convinced it would work.

Sebastian twisted, his hand snapping toward his wand on the floor, fingers closing around the handle, the weight of it grounding him, feeding into the burning need.

"Crucio."

Rookwood screamed.

A raw, inhuman sound, his back arching violently, his limbs spasming against the enchanted restraints, his body writhing in agony as the curse took hold.

Sebastian watched. Breathing heavy. Eyes dark. Hands steady. And fuck, it was satisfying.

No one moved. No one dared move.

Aurors, seasoned war-hardened witches and wizards, stood still, stunned into silence, their wands raised but motionless.

Ominis—Ominis—was silent.

Sebastian didn’t care. Didn’t feel a damn thing beyond the pure, burning relief of watching Rookwood suffer. Of watching him break. Of making sure the last thing this filthy fucking bastard felt before he died was pain.

When he finally dropped the curse, the silence was suffocating.

The only sound left was Rookwood’s ragged, shaking breath, the way his body twitched, the way he tried and failed to push himself upright.

Sebastian crouched low, gripping Rookwood’s collar in his fists, jerking him just slightly forward—enough to make sure he was listening.

And then, voice low, voice calm, voice filled with everything he meant—

"You were dead the second you laid a fucking finger on her."

Rookwood’s eyes barely flickered. His mouth opened, but whatever smug retort had been forming died the second he saw the way Sebastian lifted his wand.

A breath. A heartbeat. Then—

"Avada Kedavra."

A flash of green light.

Rookwood’s body jerked and then stilled. Lifeless. Dead.

The room remained silent. No one moved. No one spoke.

Sebastian didn’t feel an ounce of fucking regret.

And then—

"Sebastian."

Ominis’ voice cut through the silence like a blade.

Sebastian turned, slow, sluggish, like his body hadn’t quite caught up to the sheer finality of what had just happened.

His gaze landed on you.

Still on the floor. Still unconscious. Still dying.

"Fuck—" He dropped to his knees beside you so fast the impact jarred through his bones, but he didn’t care, couldn’t care—his hands were already reaching, shaking, desperate as they curled around your wrists, your shoulders, cupping your face, tilting your head back slightly, searching for any sign—anything—that you were still with him.

"Come on, love," he muttered, barely aware of his own voice, the way it cracked, the way his breath came too fast, too sharp. His thumb brushed against your cheek, tracing the bruises, the cold sweat on your skin. "You’re alright. You’re gonna be alright."

No reaction. His heart slammed against his ribs.

"Ominis—" his voice cracked, breath hitching, and then he was looking up, wild-eyed, desperate. "Ominis."

Ominis was still standing in place, his wand gripped tight in his hands, the only sign that he was even processing what had just happened.

Sebastian didn’t have time for that.

"The shackles," he rushed, words tumbling out too fast, too frantic. "They’re cursed. They’re killing her—I tried to take them off, and I—" He swallowed, shaking his head. "Do something!"

Ominis hesitated.

Sebastian saw it. Saw the way his lips parted, saw the way his fingers twitched, the uncertainty bleeding into his normally measured expression.

Sebastian lost it.

"You’re a fucking Cursebreaker, Ominis!" he roared, his voice cracking with something raw and ragged. "So do something!"

Ominis' mouth pressed into a thin line, his expression grim, but finally—finally—he moved.

He dropped beside Sebastian, already drawing his wand, already tracing over the metal shackles with precise, practiced movements. His lips moved in near-silent incantations, magic thrumming low and steady through the air, golden light weaving intricate, delicate patterns against the iron.

Meanwhile, Sebastian snapped his head up, wild, furious, helpless.

"Someone get the fucking Healers!" he barked, his voice a whip crack in the stunned silence. "NOW!"

Aurors scrambled. People rushed, bodies moving too slow, too fucking slow, and Sebastian turned back to you, his fingers ghosting over your cheek, your jaw, pleading.

"Come on, love," he whispered, his hands shaking as they hovered over your body. "Come back to me."

Ominis was still working, his wand tracing over the metal in sharp, methodical movements, his brows furrowed in deep concentration.

"I need time," Ominis muttered, his voice tight. "It’s layered magic—whoever did this knew what they were doing."

"We don’t have time!" Sebastian snapped. "She doesn’t have time!"

And he didn’t mean to—he didn’t mean to lash out at Ominis, but fuck, he was drowning in this, the weight of everything crushing him, suffocating him. Because he had been here before. Kneeling over someone he loved, begging the universe to give him one more chance.

Anne, after she was cursed—her body wracked with pain, her screams tearing through his skull, his useless hands gripping hers as she trembled beneath his touch.

His parents—dead before he even got to try to save them.

And now you.

The realization hit him, slamming into his ribs like a blade—sharp, vicious, undeniable.

You were everything. Had always been everything.

Ten years.

Ten fucking years of standing beside you, watching you grow into the force you were now. Ten years of chasing the same battles, fighting the same wars, of laughing together, bleeding together, of existing in a world where, no matter what happened, no matter who came after you, he had always been there. You had always been there.

And not once—not once—had he ever fucking said it. Not once had he looked at you and admitted what had been rotting inside of him since the day he met you.

That he loved you. Had always loved you.

And now, when you were slipping away from him—when your body was cold beneath his hands, when your lips were parted but there was no sound, no whisper of recognition, no sign that you even knew he was there—

Sebastian realized he might never get the fucking chance.

His jaw locked. His breath hitched.

"Ominis," he said again, voice raw, pleading, his entire body vibrating with the weight of everything he never said. "Please—"

"I'm working as fast as I can," Ominis snapped, but even he sounded frayed at the edges, his voice tighter than usual, his magic straining against the curse.

Sebastian gritted his teeth, fingers clenching around your wrist, grounding himself in the weak, faint pulse beneath your skin.

Still there. Still beating.

But for how long?

"She's dying," Sebastian whispered, more to himself than anyone else. "She’s dying, and I can’t—I can’t fucking—" His voice broke, sharp and raw, and fuck—he wasn’t even sure if he was breathing anymore.

Ominis’ jaw tightened, his wand moving faster, the golden light flaring brighter against the rusted iron of the shackles.

Sebastian’s stomach twisted.

Because Ominis could feel it too.

The same dread. The same fear.

Sebastian swallowed, his throat aching, his lungs burning with every sharp inhale. He wanted to scream. Wanted to fight something, wanted to rip the world apart until it gave you back to him.

But he couldn’t.

All he could do was sit there, gripping your hand too tight, his fingers threading through yours as if holding you hard enough would tether you here, force you to stay.

"Please," he murmured, barely a whisper, forehead pressed against your temple, pleading into your skin. "I need you."

More than he had ever needed anything.

Ominis swore under his breath, shifting as the shackles clicked, magic flaring violently before it shattered, sending a wave of heat pulsing outward, knocking dust from the ceiling.

The spell broke.

Sebastian jerked forward, pulling you into him as life snapped back into your body. Your limbs twitched. Your breath hitched. Your pulse jumped beneath his fingertips.

"Thank fuck—" Sebastian’s grip tightened, his body curling around you, anchoring you against him like he could force your soul to stay inside your fucking body.

"Sebastian," Ominis muttered, voice thick, tired. "She still needs—"

Finally, the Healers rushed in.

Sebastian barely registered them. His arms were still locked around you, his body curled over yours, keeping you anchored against him like some desperate, helpless thing.

"Sir," a sharp voice cut through the air, firm but cautious. "We need to assess her condition."

Sebastian didn’t move. Didn’t even acknowledge them. One of the Healers reached for his shoulder, intending to physically pry him off—

"Don’t bother." Ominis's voice was sharp. A clear warning.

The Healers hesitated.

"He’s not going to let go," Ominis said, voice resigned. "So don’t waste time arguing. Just work around him."

Sebastian heard that. Felt it. But his grip didn’t loosen. Not even as hands moved over your body, casting diagnostic spells, pressing against your ribs, checking for internal damage. Not even as a warm glow filled the air, as magic hummed through you, as one of the Healers sighed in relief and muttered something about stabilization.

Another set of hands pressed against him this time—his ribs, his chest, fuck—he barely managed to bite back a hiss when something sharp burned at his side.

Right. He’d been stabbed.

Healers were already diagnosing him, murmuring between themselves, muttering about blood loss and fractured ribs.

Sebastian barely processed it. His eyes were on you. Only on you. The rise and fall of your chest.

"You’re gonna be fine," he whispered against your temple, barely audible, his voice still raw, still thick with something unbearable. "You’re okay."

The Healers worked. The Aurors still lingered. The world around him was moving, spinning, shifting—

"Sebastian."

Sebastian finally looked up.

Ominis was standing now, his wand gripped in one hand, his face carved from stone, but Sebastian knew him too well.

There was tension there. A weight behind his expression that was dangerous.

"I’m going to fix this," Ominis said simply.

Sebastian frowned, his mind still sluggish, too caught up in you, in keeping you here, to fully process what he meant.

Then it hit him.

Crucio.Avada Kedavra.

Sebastian had cast two Unforgivables in the middle of the fucking Auror Department.

Ominis sighed, running a hand down his face before muttering, "Merlin, you make my life impossible."

Sebastian managed a short, breathless laugh.

"Don’t move," Ominis said. "Stay with her."

Sebastian didn’t plan on going anywhere.

Ominis exhaled through his nose, turning on his heel, and then he was gone, already making his way across the room, already stepping into whatever bureaucratic fucking mess Sebastian had left behind, already handling it.

One of the Healers, still somewhat exasperated by the fact that Sebastian refused to let go of you, sighed. "Sir, can you stand?"

Sebastian barely glanced up. His fingers were still curled around yours, tightly, like if he so much as loosened his grip, you’d disappear.

"Yes."

The Healers exchanged looks, clearly unconvinced. One of them muttered something under her breath, but aloud, she only said:

"Then follow us. She’s stable, but both of you need to be under observation. And we’ll need to speak with her when she wakes."

Sebastian forced himself to his feet, his body screaming in protest, his ribs aching, his knuckles raw, his vision swimming for just a second before he locked his knees and shoved through the pain so he could carry you down the hall.

He hardly remembered the walk to the Hospital Wing.

All he knew was that the moment you were in a bed, he was there. Hovering. Watching. And when they tried leading him to another bed across the room, he tugged his own bed directly next to yours.

The Healers sighed. One pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering, "For the love of Merlin—"

But they let him.

They moved around him, murmuring amongst themselves as they worked—closing the gash along his ribs with precise, practiced wand movements, mending the bruised muscle beneath his skin, forcing him to drink something vile that numbed the throbbing pain in his knuckles. Someone cast a spell to soothe the soreness weighing down his body. Someone else checked his vitals.

It all blurred together.

Finally, after what felt like hours, the room settled into silence.

The Healers left.

The heavy weight of magic in the air dissipated, leaving behind only the dim glow of the lanterns and the quiet hum of distant voices from the hall.

Sebastian lay still. Exhausted. Sore.

His body felt like it had been dragged through hell. Every inch of him ached, the phantom pain of adrenaline still lingering in his bones, his knuckles still raw despite the Healers' best efforts. But his mind—

His mind wouldn’t stop.

He stared at the ceiling, watching the patterns in the stone swirl and shift under the flickering light, but all he could see was you.

The moment he realized you were gone. The blood smeared across the ruins. The way your body looked lifeless under the weight of those cursed shackles. The fucking fear. How close he had come to losing you.

Sebastian’s fingers curled into the sheets, his nails digging into the fabric as his chest tightened with something raw, something suffocating.

He was never going to let this happen again. Never. He would never go another day without telling you the truth: that he loved you. That he had always loved you. That you were the only thing in this godforsaken world that mattered.

His head turned, gaze drifting to you. Still asleep. Still too pale.

But alive.

The breath that left his lungs was shaky, uneven. A ghost of a thing. Then—

A movement. A stir.

Sebastian’s eyes snapped to your hand, watching as your fingers twitched against the blankets.

He shot up immediately, the sudden movement making his ribs scream in protest, but he ignored it, pushing himself onto his elbows, heart slamming against his ribs as he watched you.

Your eyelashes fluttered. Your head shifted slightly against the pillow. And then your eyes opened.

Sebastian froze.

For a moment, his brain refused to process what was happening. He had spent the last eternity—hours but what felt like years—trapped in a suffocating haze of fear, pain, and fury. But then your eyes opened.

His chest caved in.

"Fuck—" The word barely left his lips, broken and shaky, a raw, wrecked thing. He hadn’t even realized he was gripping the sheets, white-knuckled, his entire body locked so tightly with tension that now—now that you were looking at him, alive, breathing—he thought he might actually fall apart.

He swallowed hard, forcing down the lump clawing up his throat. He had to keep his voice steady. He had to.

"Hey, sweetheart," he rasped, and fuck—he wasn’t doing a good job of it, wasn’t doing a good job of anything, because his breath shook the second the words left him, and suddenly it was taking every bit of strength in his body to keep himself together.

Your brow furrowed, your eyes dazed, unfocused, barely tracking his face as you blinked sluggishly.

"Sebastian?" Your voice was hoarse, raw from disuse, but it was you. It was your voice, alive, and he nearly lost himself right then and there.

"Yeah, love," he breathed, nodding quickly, reaching for your hand as if trying to ground himself, as if trying to make sure you stayed here, tethered, with him. "I’m here."

You exhaled a slow, uneven breath, eyes darting around the unfamiliar room, blinking as you tried to place yourself. "Where—" A pause. A slow inhale. "What happened?"

Sebastian opened his mouth, then shut it, his throat tightening.

Where the fuck did he start? How did he say it? That you had been taken, that you had been chained up and cursed and dying in his arms, that he had nearly lost you—

That he had murdered a man because of it.

"You—" His voice cracked. He sucked in a sharp breath, exhaling through his nose, forcing himself to steady. "You scared the shit out of me, that’s what happened."

Your brow furrowed again, still groggy, still trying to process. Then, after a long pause, you sighed, your voice scratchy.

"You look like shit."

A wet, breathless laugh punched out of him before he could stop it, something caught between relief and absolute fucking devastation.

Before he even realized what he was doing, Sebastian moved, shifting onto his knees, ignoring the way his ribs screamed in protest, the way his body ached from the fight, from the blood loss, from every single fucking injury he had ignored.

It didn’t matter. Nothing fucking mattered except you.

Sebastian climbed over the narrow gap between the beds and into yours.

"Seb—"

You barely had time to react before he was pulling you into him, wrapping his arms around you, pressing himself against you.

His body curled over yours, his fingers clutching too tight, his face burying into the crook of your neck.

"You scared me," he whispered against your skin, voice wrecked, trembling. "You scared me so fucking bad."

You shifted slightly beside him, your body still sluggish, still weak from everything, but your hand moved, sliding up to rest against the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair, your touch so fucking gentle it made his chest ache.

"I’m here, Sebastian," you murmured.

His breath hitched. Then he broke.

A sharp, ragged inhale. A violent, shuddering exhale. His fingers fisted into your clothes, gripping so tightly it felt like he was holding on for dear life.

And then the first tear slipped free.

It hit the bare skin of your shoulder, vanishing into the fabric of your hospital gown, but another followed. And another. His face twisted, his breath coming uneven, shaky—his entire body trembling with the force of what he had been holding back for hours.

His chest ached, physically ached, with the sheer weight of it all. With the terror. With the helplessness. With the image of you—chained, barely breathing, slipping away from him—burned into the back of his skull like a nightmare that would never fade.

A choked, wrecked sound clawed its way up his throat, something between a sob and a breathless gasp, and fuck—he couldn’t stop it.

His shoulders shook as more tears spilled over, hot and unchecked, his face pressing into the crook of your neck as he cried.

He hadn’t cried in years.

Not when he had stood over Solomon’s lifeless body. Not when he had nearly lost himself to grief, to rage, to everything wrong inside him. But this—

His breath stuttered again, a broken, gasping thing, his tears falling freely now, soaking into your skin as he held you so tightly it should have hurt, but you didn’t pull away.

You didn’t tell him to stop. You just let him.

"I love you," he whispered, voice cracked, wrecked, barely more than a breath against your shoulder. "I love you so fucking much. I’m sorry I never said it sooner."

His entire body shuddered with the weight of it. With the relief. With the fear. With the unbearable, suffocating truth of how close he had come to never being able to say it at all.

He felt your fingers twitch against his back, hesitant but there, like you weren’t sure what to do with him like this—because this was something no one had ever seen.

Sebastian breaking. Sebastian weeping. Sebastian, who had spent years hiding behind sharp grins and reckless bravado, now unraveling, falling apart in your arms.

And he didn’t care, because fuck hiding. You had almost died, and he had almost never gotten the chance to tell you.

So he did. Again.

"I love you."

He had never meant anything more in his entire fucking life.

Sebastian felt your fingers tighten against his back, your grip weak but still there, still trying. It was barely anything, just the faintest pressure against his spine, but it sent something wrecked and aching curling through his chest, something raw and unbearable.

You were holding him.

And after a beat, after a long, quiet moment, you pulled back ever so slightly, just enough to meet his gaze.

There were tears in your eyes. Not from pain, not from fear—but something else. Something that made his pulse trip over itself, something raw, something knowing.

Your lips parted, voice hoarse, cracked, still heavy with exhaustion.

"I remember now," you murmured, blinking slowly, your expression distant for a moment as if piecing it together in real-time. "It was Rookwood."

Sebastian exhaled sharply, something tight in his chest releasing at your words—relief, fury, heartbreak, he wasn’t even sure what the fuck it was. He just knew he never wanted to hear that fucking name again.

His hand came up, his fingers ghosting over your cheek, his touch almost desperate in its gentleness,

"He’s dead."

You blinked at him, your breath hitching just slightly as his words settled over you. Then something shifted in your expression. Not relief, not satisfaction, but a quiet, unshaken certainty.

Because of course he was.

Your lips curled—just barely, wobbly and weak and so fucking beautiful it made his chest ache.

"You came after me," you murmured, like it was something you’d just now realized, something that settled over you like a slow-burning warmth.

Sebastian let out a sharp, breathless laugh, shaking his head slightly, his lips pressing together for a moment before he said, "Of course I did." His voice was still hoarse, still raw from everything, but there was something steady beneath it. Something true. "I’d follow you anywhere."

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you just looked at him. Really looked at him.

"I love you too."

Sebastian swore the entire fucking world stopped. His breath caught in his throat, his pulse stuttering violently in his chest, his entire body locking up because—

You loved him too.

His eyes burned, his throat tightened, his fingers shook where they were still clutching onto you.

And then—he was kissing you.

Soft, desperate, aching.

His hands cupped your face like you were something holy, something irreplaceable, his lips pressing against yours like he was trying to carve himself into your very fucking soul.

It was a kiss that held everything—the fear, the relief, the love neither of you had spoken aloud until now. It was unsteady, a little broken, but it was real.

When he finally pulled back, it was only because you both needed air, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath still uneven. His thumb brushed against your cheek, so painfully gentle it made something deep inside you ache.

“You’re still shaking,” you whispered.

Sebastian let out a soft, breathless laugh, one that barely even sounded like him. “Yeah,” he admitted, voice raw. “I think I’m gonna be shaking for a while.”

For a long moment, neither of you said anything. It was just the sound of your breathing, the distant murmur of voices outside the infirmary walls, the rhythmic, steadying beat of your heart against his. The world had been so loud—so chaotic, so terrifying—but here, in this fragile, stolen moment, there was only silence. Only you and him.

Then, softly, you said, “I’m okay.”

Sebastian exhaled sharply, like he wasn’t sure he believed you, like he wasn’t sure he ever would, but his fingers tightened against your back, and after a moment, he just nodded.

“Yeah. But I’m still never letting you out of my sight again.”

A weak laugh tumbled from your lips, breathless and exhausted, but real. “I figured.”

Sebastian huffed, but there was something warm beneath the sound, something a little less raw now, a little less wrecked. He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss against your temple, letting it rest there, like a silent promise.

“You’re stuck with me now,” he muttered against your skin.

Your fingers curled in his shirt again, holding him close, feeling the steady, unshaken certainty in his words.

“Good.”

[otkuhotgirl]

─── 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆

# with vice-admiral smoker.

the point of your lover's weapon has a small piece of sea-prism stone. you, wickedly, happen to find it'd be just as useful on your heels.

⎰ & KINKTOBER, day nine. smut (mdni!) boot worship. tights. teasing. choking. office!sex. afab!reader. no y/n used.

WC: 2k.

the path of a marine officer was complicated; oftentimes disappointing. the naive trust in the justice code had died ages prior, buried underneath piles of bitter dirt, destined to rot alongside the witnessed corruption, lodged within the walls of the organization whose code he once chose to surrender his freedom to follow. smoker grew harsher, more prone to snapping; the character of his career and the never-ending growth in pirate activity all but a fuel. tashigi — meekly — pointed out that perhaps the cause of such annoyance came from a tendency to overwork himself. hina — on her hand, revolted — stated that he needed to get laid.

the latter proved to be correct.

yet, the road that led him to you had done it so in an agonizing pace. as quite a known, high in hierarchy, marine officer, the pursuit of love had to be engulfed in wariness. smoker was one responsible for the capture of an innumerable amount of pirates, most harmless to those with certain skill yet for sure lethal to a common civilian. escapes were more often than not ruled out, but one could never be too sure, meaning that a relationship engaged with an individual unable to fend for themselves was improbable — which left him with either pirates, revolutionaries, or a co-worker. marines, however, either incompetent or insufferable, save for a select group.

smoker had not once envisioned himself in a loving embrace with those of shared values and career, for the thought alone of finding one interesting enough seemed but a wild dream. that was, of course, until he caught a glimpse of you.

rather than losing himself in the reasoning forbidding him from pursuing a long-term partner, smoker had started to weigh the pros and cons of dating a fellow vice-admiral. distance was an obnoxious obstacle, for the pair of you were commanders of marine bases on divergent directions. transponder snail was not quite a viable method of communication either — at least, not when one aimed to share romance-coated sentences — for the call could be wiretapped, and the embarrassing contents of the conversation overheard. and, at last, you were only ever saw in cases of obnoxious, general reunions or unrecommended straying from your patrols.

it happened to be one of the pros — you were far more daring. smoker had no respect for twisted orders, and more often than not decided to act with no regard for the upper heads’ plans whatsoever, yet somehow he had managed to find a partner with a behavior twice as rascal — distance was an obstacle you did not bother to counter. your strength absolved him of worry, for you were far more capable than most. but what had convinced him altogether was the sheer urge to have an ever-current carnal connection with one he nurtured something for — and those tights. he adored tugging at them; vanishing his fingers amidst conjured smoke to tease the bare flesh under the fabric; staining it with the ash of his cigar. smoker had never spared much thought to one’s thighs until he was given the opportunity to leave yours red; figure spasming due to the violent pinch of his large fingers.

he had commanded his subordinates to dock and re-stock, the interval of time required for the log pose to adapt being one above a week. it was but a matter of days until your fleet was seen at shore, having followed the vivre card leading to him. smoker had his legs spread, a sour figure growing restless at your absence, a veil of spiraling nicotine all but staining the walls of his office.

languid, sensual-esque knocking; the echoing of heels against the ground. he opened an eye, failing to contain the pleasure born from your arrival. the marine’s coat hand from your shoulders, usual tights hugging the delicious flesh of your legs as you strutted in his direction, wearing an expression that promised nothing but trouble.

“we have full-on uniforms to use for a reason,” he scolded, though his tone held neither sharpness nor annoyance.

“is that so?” you hummed, sitting on his table, legs crossed. smoker’s hand went to your thigh as though second instinct, gripping it with non-forethought strength. “you first.”

he grinned. whenever the weather warmed up, smoker was one to rest shirtless in his office, and the occasion at hand was far from different. the point of your boot brushed against his bare chest, and he ceased the roaming of his fingers on your ankles upon noticing you have never used that piece — at least, not with him.

“new boots?” smoker inquired, aware that one valued having their partner pointing out appearance shifts — no matter how minor.

your face lit up as though a forest fire, a malicious smile surging on your lips as you leaned forward, playfully kicking his abdomen. “you liked it?”

“it’s black leather,” he stated, not quite able to differentiate it from your previous ones.

“wanna see what it can do?”

the smile offered was mischievous; borderline diabolical. instincts alight due to the unspoken promise of trouble. unpredictable endeavor of sexual character that had his member twitching regardless of the warning goosebumps. smoker retreated from your figure, making use of the comfortable armrests at his sides. aware that he’d regret his decision, smoker spurred you on, nodding his head with a grin.

the sole of your boot applied pressure to his chest, forcing his back to meet the leather surface of his seat. that position was far from distasteful. smoker adored having you on his table, whether splayed or bent, vulnerable to the assault of his cock; perhaps crawling with your ass up, teeth tugging his zipper down. he did not mind the perspective of having you on more comfortable surfaces — a soft mattress, a large couch — yet his office remained his most favored spot. smoker was obsessed with the sight of your juices smearing the wooden table; of pressing you against the wall, shoving himself so deep he had your head hitting the harsh surface. whatever thought you had in mind, so long as it had you in such a position — sitting on his table, biting your lip with hooded eyes —, he was pleased with it.

until he flinched at the touch of your heel. the smoke once conjured had vanished, as though a gust of wind traveled past his power, dismantling the veil that had once covered the lightning of his office. smoker hissed, trapped under your foot; squirming with gritted teeth.

“sea-prism stone heels?” he snarled, gripping the armrest.

“stole the idea from you,” you teased, dragging the heel against his bare chest. “thought we could match.”

smoker’s fingers curled in the hole straps of your tights, tearing through the fabric in an attempt to drag you closer. yet, your grip on the edges of the table was steel-made; unmoving, regardless of his insistence. power and strength were drained without distinction, the man left at your entire mercy with a mind much too hazed to react in equal fervor.

“no spite in storage?” you cooed, tilting his chin up with the point of your boot, aware of that being far from the truth.

smoker was livid. yet not at you; rather at himself. his underwear was but a narrow prison, constricting his aching cock. he trailed his eyes down your bare shoulders, to the enticing inches of flesh of your thighs, wrapped around black, thin straps. when your other foot started to hover above his belt, slim heel threatening to angle itself down on his covered erection, smoker had to convey the urge to moan. it was pathetic; maddening. you were but reducing him to a puddle of meek sensation, condescending tone with lascivious-wrapped orders, and rather than to struggle and regain his dignity, he was willing to fold.

his eyes shone with uncovered rage, and that all but excited you twice as much, the point of your heel moving his chin to the sides, dragging itself far closer to his sealed lips.

“take these heels off me,” he ordered, though the bark lacked its usual fierceness. you dared pretend to ponder it over, a faux expression of concentration; an index tapping on your chin.

“so mean,” you pouted, sighing dramatically. “didn’t you adore it?”

prolonged time spent for the innuendo to be understood; the light drag of your boot on his lower lip. smoker’s expression shifted into one of pure disturbance, yet his treacherous cock twitched under the pressure of your other heel, denying him the right of pretense.

“c’mon,” you edged him, all but threatening to step on his face.

perhaps it had been the numbing effects of the sea-prism stone; perhaps smoker had lost his mind to lust; for his lips met the sole of your boot a second thereafter, pressing a short-lived kiss against it. he shuddered, tongue lolling out as his eyes caught a glimpse of your blown-wide ones, as if you were struggling to believe that he had conceded to your wish. smoker coated the leather of the tip with saliva, roaming his tongue from the covered region of your fingers.

trembling hand settled on your leg, raising and drawing it closer, as a lustful mouth left a trail of wet kisses throughout the entire extension of your boot. he dared use the other one to grip the bare flesh, pinching and squeezing — a promise. you trembled, growing hot with the sight. smoker observed you through his eyelashes, making out with your boot, inching his head forward until his nose brushed against your knee and your heel hovered above his flexed abdomen. you gasped when his teeth nipped at your tights, tearing through the straps; tongue claiming the exposed flesh of your knee. when smoker guided a set of fingers closer to your intimacy — the other ones busying themselves with the grip of your ankle —, and had his thumb pressed against your clothed clit, you trembled. when he closed a fist around the crotch and threatened to rip it, the surprise had your heel pressing itself with regained fervor against his cock.

smoker stiffened, his breath growing labored. his teeth met the leather of your boot, tugging at it as though a wild beast, a muffled grunt of pleasure vibrating through the material. he could sense your own excitement; feel it dampening his hand, for you went to visit him without panties. that made him rut against the heel, yet again trailing desperate kisses through the extension of your boot, licking and witnessing the gradual dripping of saliva.

the prolonged contact with the sea-prism stone had his limbs growing limp, threatening to reach a point of uselessness. the merest act of raising a questioning eyebrow had demanded an insane amount of energy. he felt close to slipping out of consciousness, as though poisoned. your legs trembled — or perhaps, that had been his own hands —, and you parted them as much as your flexibility permitted, the sea-prism stone inching out of touch as a consequence.

without it, the return of his usual strength was but automatic. smoker’s smirk was borderline crooked when he witnessed your anticipating — yet shrinking — behavior; fear and lust overlapping. he tugged down at the material of your shorts, ripping it in two, all but turning it into a minuscule skirt. no longer restricted to the limits of his chair, smoker raised himself to his full height and gripped your neck, pushing your back against the table. you gasped at the sudden lack of air; the strength that would not give.

“lost your big words?” he taunted, spreading your legs further. “you were enjoying yourself then, weren’t you?”

you attempted to nod, eyes rolling due to the pressure. your voice came out rough, strained, even, for you knew that smoker demanded vocal replies. “i– i was.”

his smile was all teeth and malice. “i will be enjoying this.”

smoker grabbed your spit-coated ankle, holding it high above his shoulder, careful not to allow the heel to touch his hand. he kept the other leg spread, forcing his own knee against it while his fingers undid the button of his pants, allowing it to slip off. smoker struggled to grow accustomed to his own strength due to the previous extended restriction, and his underwear, too, fell prey to his vicious grip, the waistband snapping in two alongside the rest of the fabric. the man scoffed before releasing the pressure on your throat for the briefest instance, enough to have you draw-in a desperate breath before he tightened the grip yet again.

withdrawing with his shaft free of its previous cuffs, he positioned at your entrance, grinning at your alarmed reaction. smoker slammed himself inside, not minding the fact that your tights were still on. his tip tore through the straps, the length invading your cunt without further ado. smoker hissed when your walls enveloped him, the wetness added to the material of your tights creating an odd, yet welcoming texture. you clenched around his cock, and would have screamed at the sudden invasion if you happened to have enough air in your lungs.

the first thrust had him deep, balls hitting your ass. he released the pressure on your throat in order to set a ruthless pace, the table underneath cringing at the used strength. for your own pleasure — and for the perspective of witnessing the roll of those teary eyes — smoker licked the sole of your boot yet again, biting down on the tip; scraping his teeth down against the leather. you mewled when he brushed your g-spot — again and again, without mercy —, arching your back and gripping the edges of the table.

“that’s it,” he rasped out, leaving a bite mark on your boot, aiming for his teeth to reach your flesh. “that’s—shit, where you belong.”

the jerk of his hips was coated in brute force, a repeated pattern, base-to-tip; in-and-out. he hammered through your walls without an ounce of mercy, the cacophony of your pleasure the most ethereal music he had ever heard. the regained clenching had him know you were close, and smoker deprived you of air yet again, aware that the choking sensation would lead you to the edge. no warning was ensued on his part, and as soon as your high coated the sensible skin of his cock, smoker shot his load inside, chasing the ends of his orgasm regardless of the shared stimulation, grunting at the sight of your mixed essences dripping out of your cunt.

he was careful not to collapse into you, elbows pressed on the table in order to support his weight. smoker pressed a kiss on your sweat-coated temple, raising himself ever-so-slightly, eyes scanning the room.

“what are you searching for?” you inquired tiredly, your voice rough due to the strength of his grip.

“my weapon,” he replied, grinning down at you. “after all, you wanted us to match.”

[homosexualgirlandbags]

Legit gonna die rn so we're gonna speed run through the military man running in my mind.

Simon, for all his money and savings, refuses to change the same 5 year old pair of sneakers he has. The thing is rotting, deteriorating in front of his eyes, and he still tugs them on everyday and walks out in Britain's dreadful weather. He steps on every single puddle out there, and scuffs it up every damn time. Yet his relationship with the converse might be stronger than his relationship with Johnny. He doesn't even wash them, just... Throws them on the balcony. This leaves Johnny looking horrified at him every single damn time.

Price leaves his cigarette ashes everywhere. And his office fucking reeks of cigar smoke. There was a recruit with asthma who had to report to Price after a mission. His CO changed to Simon afterwards. (Price panicked so hard he fucking sprayed the inhaler on the recruits neck for a solid 5 seconds before finally realising what he did wrong. Their medic never lets him live it down.) Either way, everyone walks out of Price's office smelling like smoke, which at least makes it convenient for him to identify who's been sneaking in his office.

Johnny trains at 3 in the morning if possible. He climbs out of Simon's his bed, and pulls on a tank top and shit. Unfortunately, he plays loud ass classical music and rock punk music during his training, without headphones. (There's no in between his music tastes. Fucking Beethoven to My chemical romance). Either way, the recruit's room is closest to the gym, and they have not slept peacefully in 5 months. (Gaz is lowkey impressed by Johnny's method of torture and deterioration of the recruits. Johnny has no idea this was happening)

Gaz is an interesting case. He seems to never get into any trouble or controversy, and seems to be the first person (beside Laswell) to know whenever the rest of the 141 screws up. Johnny watches him closely for months until he finds out that Gaz bribes a few recruits under the table to find dirt on the rest of them. Gaz punishment does not lighten up when Price finds out about the fact that he's been reducing training for recruits who hide the stupid things he has done under the rug.

Laswell once brought her wife on base, a nice lady. She made a good impression on everyone and all. It took a day of her wife being around the base for her to start flirting with her. It's never subtle either, and Nik could only stare in slight surprise and amazement as he sees Laswell twirls her fucking hair like a schoolgirl. The rest of the 141 almost gets a stroke from seeing Laswell and her wife snuggle up in the blankets. And Price had to climb up a ladder to get a drunk Laswell and her wife off the rooftop. Apparently, normal Kate disappears when in close approximate to her wife, I suppose.

Nik has a fucking sweet tooth. His helicopter? Filled with chocolate and bread and what not. He keeps a candy bar with him everywhere. (Price once had the misfortune of learning how hard it is to remove chocolate smears on white shirts). His cookbook is mostly sweets and recipes he collected from around the world. Sometimes, him and Simon stay in the kitchen after hours, just making some sweets and then mysteriously disappearing later. It's quite sweet, if anything, if only he didn't make the aphrodisiac chocolate and gave it to Price on accident... (Spoiler alert, he intended for it to happen, even checked Price cycles to make sure he was free the whole day)

[yeonjuns-beanie]

As It Was

warnings: 18+, weed usage, smut, unprotected sex, soulmate au(kind of), little hatefuckin before real fucking, reader is a brat, mentions of suicide, oral(f receiving, logan is an EATER), claws come out when he…, little bit of primal play, breeding kink, daddy kink, implied age gap cuz i think it’s hot, im prolly gonna write him like an animal, think that’s it!! LOL

Logan Howlett x female!reader

summary: after saving his world from extinction, wade brings home a wolverine. you feel a tether to him but can't quite figure out what it is, but logan does. as the days go by you slowly chip away at the wall between you two and things slowly return to as it was.

word count: 4.5k

title is inspired by the hozier song of the same name....

It’s been three months now and you still couldn’t figure out the pull you felt toward Logan. The moment Wade brought him through the door, Mary Puppins in hand, you felt a tie to him. Now, it was as if the Red String of Fate was punishing you for not remembering your connection with him. It was haunting, aggravating, and pushing you towards sexual frustration because no matter how much you tried to remember, your thoughts would instantly become clouded with your attraction to him. He was brooding, grumpy, and humorous when he wanted to. The stoic exterior of him was just that, a shell. You just weren’t quite sure how to crack his nut yet.

You were sat in the main room of the apartment grinding up some green to pack a morning bowl. As you were getting ready to fill the glass you heard Wade’s voice echo through the apartment.

“You always grind Aunt Mary so hard. Don’t you think she would like to be loved tenderly, sugarbear?”

“And the last time I gave you the grinder there might as well have been a whole nug in the bowl. You damn near burned half my stash.”

“You’d think living with three addicts would be fun, but it’s more like babysitting toddlers fighting to see who can ruin my day first. Spoiler: it’s everyone.”

You chuckled, slotting the bowl into the joint of the bong, and pointed at Wade with it.

“You wanna hit this or not?”

“‘Course I do. How could I pass up a wake n bake with my girl?”

Wade jogged over to you, plopping dramatically on the seat next to you. Rolling your eyes, you took the first hit letting Wade finish off the remaining smoke in the shaft. Exhaling you spoke while the smoke billowed out of your mouth.

“Wade, baby, I love you, but I’m not your girl. What about Nessa?”

Before he spoke, he had his coughing fit like clockwork. Every time, no matter the method, resulted in a cough so bad he looked like a drooling dog. It was free entertainment but you tried your hardest not to laugh out loud because every time you did, it made it worse.

You couldn’t hold it

It was like watching a court jester and when Wade finally caught his breath he was staring off at a wall in the apartment mindlessly reaching for the glass. When his hand was left fondling the air reaching nothing, you let your laugh echo through the apartment.

“You sure you want another one?”

“Just gimme the weed, gorgeous. And to answer your question. Vanessa and I are on a break of sorts, but I’m wounded that I now have lost you too. It’s cause I brought Peanut here isn’t it?”

Wade was feigning heartbreak, just busting your balls in an effort to see if you’d crack. Your relationship was always like this and that was probably why you two got along so well. Nothing was ever too serious and yet still completely vulnerable. As wild as he was, Wade was a safe space for you and for some reason this morning, you felt like sharing.

“Perhaps.”

His head whipped so fast you thought it’d fly off. Coupled with his dramatic gasp and chest grab you nearly regretted your admission.

“I knew it!”

“Will you keep it down, it’s not that serious.”

“Au contraire. This is probably the most serious thing since Blind Al ran out of Peruvian marching powder.”

Rolling your eyes, you swallowed your pride as you knew Wade wouldn’t let it go until you told him every detail possible. As much as you pretended you hated divulging this information, it was kinda nice to let out to somebody. You’d been wrestling with so many feelings since Wade brought Logan to stay with you guys and the weight of it was becoming painful.

“Well, he’s hot obviously.”

“Tell me something more interesting, we all disrespectfully gawk at the honey badger.” Wade quipped.

“The problem is I feel this weird attachment to him. Like I’ve known him before. Maybe we met before they tried their best to wipe my memory, but I can’t shake this one. I’m drawn to him but he won’t let anyone get close enough to figure that out.”

You had your own run-in with the TVA a few years ago and instead of dumping you into the void, they were nice enough to plop you in Earth-10005. You were grateful considering the stories of this barren garbage heap that Wade and Logan told you about but you couldn’t remember why they sent you here in the first place.

You had no real memory of your life before this or what you did that fucked you up so badly. It always haunted you. Maybe you were a murderer. A merciless killer and that’s why they snagged you. A similar fate to Wade’s but they decided somewhere that you weren’t equipped for the job and the TVA orphaned you to another universe.

You weren’t complaining, you loved the life that you had now you just wanted to remember the rest of you. You were roaming this universe, a husk of your former self and no matter how much you tried to convince yourself that it didn’t bother you, it did. It kept you up at night. Until Logan walked through the apartment door.

Slowly, things started to reveal themselves to you but only in a dream. You were forced to piece together your life with the shattered fragments of what your dreamscape gave you to work with. You’d wake up from the most vivid dreams only to remember one instance where you were walking down a street, the sky pouring rain in a godly attempt to cleanse you. Your hands were always coated in crimson when you looked down.

It’d come in flashes and it’d end just as fast. You were patient with yourself but a lot of times you tried to drown out the feeling with various substances. Weed being your vice of choice as alcohol made you suffer. Making you wish that an attempt of self-mutilation or the bittersweet release of dancing with death while your wrists stained the floor garnet succeeded.

They never did.

So you tried your best to make peace with your life and you were doing alright until Logan showed up. Now the universe was mocking you. Testing to see if you’d slip up and forget everything you learned.

“I think he’d like to figure you out, y/n. Do with that what you will.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Wade shrugged his shoulders handing you the bong back. As he stood up you took one last hit and left the glass piece on the table. As you exhaled, Logan’s voice pierced through the silence.

“Jesus. D’ya have to stink up the apartment with that shit? Can’t go outside?”

“Easy, peanut. The art of the wake n bake is sacred. Plus, talk to the gardener if you have requests to make, not me.”

Wade pointed to you as he wandered off into the kitchen and you reached for the bong motioning it to Logan.

“Wanna hit?”

Logan hit you with a short ‘no’ and it almost hurt your feelings. Your gaze flicked over to Wade who was mouthing to you something you couldn’t quite make out but he was pointing to Logan while doing it. Your brain spazzed for a moment before coming up with a response as you stood.

“You want coffee or something, Lo?”

“Sure, kid.”

You walked into the kitchen with Wade and started whispering to him.

“What the fuck? Of course, he comes out while I’m blowing up the house.”

“I don’t see why you’re worried, he doesn’t seem upset.”

You turned around trying your best not to look suspicious.

“Yes, the fuck he does. I’m gonna fuck this up before I even get the chance to start-”

“-You two morons know I can hear you, right?”

You hung your head in defeat finishing up the two cups before setting one in front of Logan and holding yours while you stood. The air was thick, but not uncomfortable. It just felt like everyone needed to get something off their chest and didn’t know how to start. Before you opened your mouth to speak, Wade’s voice cut you off while he sent a text message.

“Well, I’m gonna leave you lovebirds to it. I’ve got a pegging date.”

Again. Mocking you. The universe seemed to just have it out for you and apparently, today was the day of honesty. You took a seat across from Logan wondering where to direct the conversation.

“You hungry? I can make us something.”

“I’m alright kid, not too keen on stoner food in the morning.”

“Hey, I’m still a good cook when I’m cooked. I just wanted to offer.” You paused.

“Also if you have a problem with it, I’ll find a new spot. I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable.”

“No need. Just giving you guys a hard time. We all have something to cope with our shit.”

You nodded knowing he was referencing his drinking habit, or problem if we were feeling honest. You left your coffee cup on the table and stood up, wanting to Irish goodbye in your own home. But you didn’t want to add any more bricks to this wall even though it felt like the silence was already doing so.

“Well, um. I’m gonna chill out for a bit in my room if you need anything.”

He hummed to let you know he heard you and you walked down the hallway to your bedroom before stopping in your tracks. Something possessed you and you had to get this out. The test was walking away and if you finished that journey into your bedroom and locked the door, nothing would be resolved. Turning on your heel, you walked back into the kitchen and faced Logan.

“Why do you hate me?”

He nearly choked on his coffee, the noise echoing in the cup.

“What?”

You sighed, trying to not feel silly about your admission.

“Why do you hate me? And if you don’t, why do you act like it? It’s so hard to get through to you and it feels like I’m talking to a fucking wall.”

“Kid-”

“And stop ‘kid’ing me! If it’s out of endearment it doesn’t feel like it.”

Your heart rate was rising and you could feel your skin getting hot. The months of pent up emotions were finally boiling over and you couldn’t stop it. You needed to know why.

“What is it then, y/n?”

“Why can’t I get through to you? Every time I try, you shut me down by being curt with me and I’m left with the same feeling as before. I can’t shake this feeling that I know you and I can’t even get close to you without you shoving me away like I have a fatal disease. So why, Logan? All I wanna know is why?”

He sighed knowing there was no easy way to escape this.

“Kid–sorry. It’s complicated. I know that feeling. I feel it too, but I know why it’s there and I don’t want to fuck it up again.”

Again?

“What do you mean again?”

Logan sighed and said nothing. Hanging his head in what you thought was shame but most definitely could be avoidance. It frustrated you even more so because why couldn’t he just talk to you?

“Here we go again, nothing?! Is it so hard to just say what this is?”

“It’s not that simple, bub.”

You scoffed and turned around to walk to your room. You needed to clear your head because it was more than apparent that a solution would not be provided for you. Logan didn’t have the courage to reveal what he knew so a walk away from him would have to suffice.

“Y/n! Where are you going?”

“I need to clear my head since obviously you don’t have the gall to tell me what the fuck is going on.”

Slipping your shoes on, you tried to move past Logan but he was blocking the doorway.

“Move.”

“Y/n. Just-”

“I said move, Logan.”

One wall after another you kept hitting, except this one was physically him. He nearly filled up the doorway and his frame was imposing. You tried to figure out how you’d slip past him but you were so heated that you were about to settle for dramatics before he moved his body just enough for you to slip past. You stared at him, looking for something in his eyes to tell you to stay but it just made you more irritated. You walked down the hallway and almost made it to the door before you felt his hand wrap around your wrist.

“Do you get a kick out of torturing me or something?”

“Sweetheart, if you just—just sit down and let me say what I need to say.”

“Oh, now you wanna fucking talk. Let go of me. I’m not in the mood to talk anymore.”

Logan’s grip on you tightened as you struggled against him and you pushed on his chest trying to get him off of you. He was stunned by your actions and so were you but you couldn’t stop. You kept pushing him away from you until he grabbed your upper arms stabilizing you but you still were pressing your hands against his chest. He was calling your name trying to calm you down but you were too lost in your emotions. You thrashed your head up, trying to plead with him silently to let you go even though you knew that was the last thing you wanted.

When your eyes met his, one of his hands cradled the back of your head and before you could register it, his lips were slotted against yours in a moment of desire and exasperation. Bated breath, fury, and sexual confusion fueled the kiss but you’d be a liar to say you didn’t enjoy this feeling. His body flesh against yours, the heat bouncing between the two of you nearly suffocating and it had only been seconds. Logan had you pressed against the wall his hands roaming the curves of your body and his knee slotted itself in between your thighs, completely caging you against him.

He pushed his knee up into the apex of your thighs applying a delicate pressure to your center. You moaned against him, your body rolling your hips into the feeling. His hands were roaming over your body in a frenzy, like if he didn’t touch you fast enough you’d disappear. Your hands wrapped into his hair, pulling on his sandy brown locks as you tried to stabilize yourself into the feeling.

Logan pulled away from you, a string of spit the only thing left connecting you two until it broke and you felt the cold air vaporize the heat on your swollen lips. You were staring at his features, locked in his gaze hoping that if you didn’t break eye contact he’d stay right here. His gruff voice broke the heady silence.

“Since you wanna be a brat and not talk anymore, I have no choice but to show you how I feel, sugar.”

Logan slid his hands down until they were underneath the swell of your ass and told you to jump. As your legs wrapped around his waist, he walked down the hallway to your room. His senses were incredibly heightened at this moment and when he breached the threshold of your room, he was intoxicated by the smell of you swirling the room.

As he laid you down on your bed, your scent wafted off of the sheets with a gentle breeze and he was soon surrounded by a nest of you and your arousal. He prowled over your body, taking you in and memorizing every inch of you, how you were restless against him, and how your lower half mindlessly moved against him in desperate need of some sort of friction.

He uttered a low growl against you as he snaked up to your neck leaving a string of hot kisses against your skin. The scruff of his beard nearly overstimulated you and had you clawing at his skin, frantic in your efforts, soft moans escaped your lips in wordless need of feeling something more.

“Don’t wanna talk but I got you whimpering for me, huh princess?”

“Lo-”

“Shh, baby. I got you.”

Logan bit your ear, pulling at the skin before he tugged at the bottom of your shirt and you lifted your back just enough so that he could slip it off of you. Your upper body was fully exposed to him as your tits pancaked on your chest. As he lowered his face back down to your body, he trailed down your skin with his nose inhaling every last inch of you. The action was so subdued in comparison to the rest of his demeanor that you got completely lost in the feeling.

As his face met your stomach, the scent of your arousal was incredibly inebriating, deluging his mind with salacity. He traced the waistband of your shorts with his nose, encasing his teeth around the elastic piece of fabric before replacing his mouth with his hands as he languidly pulled them down your legs. Tossing them across the room he looked up at you.

“You want this?”

“Please.” You mewled out.

Logan shoved his nose against your panties inhaling your scent before rubbing your bud through the fabric as he came back up your body to capture your lips in a searing kiss. He pulled your panties from your body, your slick stretching as the fabric left your messy lips. The cool air was welcomed but was soon replaced by the warmth of Logan’s mouth against your petals.

He lapped at you like a dog. A wanton primal need taking over his senses. He wanted to be enveloped in you and you in him. In every timeline, he’d claim you and this one was no different. You tangled your hands in his hair, rolling your pussy into his face as he sloppily ate you out. His hands were wrapped around your hips holding you in place as he greedily drank you in.

You could feel the spit dripping down your folds and forming a cool pool of fervour beneath your skin. Eyes rolling back in ecstasy you could feel your orgasm begin to settle in your lower stomach, heat rippling across your skin. Your moans increased in frequency but became more breathy in nature as you came closer to your high.

Logan’s hand snaked up your curves and his fingers teased your nipples, pulling and pinching at the sensitive skin as he felt your body grow more tense with desire. Dragging his calloused hands down your body one last time, he inserted a finger into your wet, libertine cavern and you sucked him in with need. The stretch of him adding a second finger pushing you right to your edge as he curled them inside of you.

“Lo- I’m gonna-”

“I know, sugar. Let it out. Lemme hear you”

He immediately put his tongue back on your clit, and let you ride out your high against his face. Your moans gained volume completely immersed in the pleasure. When the ripples of euphoria finally dwindled, you looked down at Logan and pulled him up to your face so you could kiss him. The tang of your sex was still present on his lips and it ignited something within you.

“You got too many fuckin clothes on, Daddy.”

You were breathless. Lost in a licentious rhapsody as you had him hovering over your body and when Logan paused his movements to look at you, you thought you ruined the moment. He could smell the change in you and spoke before you had the chance to apologize for nothing.

“Say it again.”

He could feel you heartbeat pounding in your chest, arousal returning to the forefront of your mind.

“Wanna see you. Feel all of you, Daddy.”

Your voice was dripping sex, his personal psychedelic. He freed himself from his beater and you palmed his bulge through his sweats. Slipping your hand past the waistband, you stroked his heavy cock.

“Lemme make you feel good.”

You were getting ready to flip your bodies over, but Logan pinned you to the bed his eyes boring through you. You felt so small underneath him, like he could do whatever he wanted to you and you’d let him. When he spoke he broke you from the trance.

“Another time, sweetheart. This is about showing you how I feel about you since my baby needs me to spell it out for her.”

Slipping out of his sweats his cock was on full display, so heavy that it didn’t have the spring to bounce against his stomach. It hung in front of him, heady and in desperate need to be inside of you. Precum and prurience leaked from his tip. Logan crawled on top of you, the tip of his cock rubbing between your folds, coating your slick across his shaft.

“Tell me what you want. Tell me how you want me to fuck you.”

You squeezed around nothing, the action not going unnoticed by Logan. You mewled against him, just wanting him to ravish you in every way possible. You wanted to be marked, for everyone to see that you belonged to him but you couldn’t find the words to articulate this feeling while this sexual heat was radiating off of your bodies and numbing your mind.

Logan slowly pushed his tip into your rapt cunt before pulling it out and sliding it against your clit. The withdrawal of pleasure bringing you to your senses.

“I want you to make me yours. Wanna belong to you, Lo.”

You were wanton with need. The desire for him became nearly unbearable and it was all soon resolved as he pushed his cock past your pious walls, defiling you of any innocence you had left. You wanted to be claimed, he’d claim you. Animal instinct took over as he rocked his hips into your cunt, your walls fluttering around him in ardor. Low growls left his throat as he nipped at the skin on your neck, alternating between kissing the marks and swiping them with his tongue. He was marking you, making you his own.

It was like he couldn’t get close enough to you as he thrusted into you. His arms wrapped around your body as you fell limp to the pleasure. You felt another orgasm on the horizon and you tried your best to warn Logan by sinking your nails into his back, leaving red trails of morbid desire to mark him as yours. You didn’t realize the amount of pressure you were putting on his skin, but the groans that left him had that concern pushed to the back of your mind. Your orgasm washed over you and your pussy squeezed so tight around him that you nearly pushed him out of you. You were entranced, drunk on him and his cock, still desperate for more.

It was like he could hear your thoughts because as soon as you thought of a second round, Logan was flipping you on your hands and knees and you arched your back as he rubbed his hand along the small of it, accentuating your arch. His cock filled your sugared walls one more time and as he buried himself to the hilt. Wrapping a hand around your neck, he brought your body flesh against his.

“Gonna fuckin breed you. Never gonna forget you who belong to, sweetheart.”

You couldn’t help the preemptive squeezing of his cock at the mention of him breeding you. The thought of him filling you with all of him was grossly erotic and Logan took the chance to taunt you.

“Oh? You like that, huh? Want daddy to breed your pretty little pussy?”

You hummed, your eyes lidded as you tried to see him over your shoulder. Sweat was sticking your bodies together and you only noticed how hot it was between the two of you when he pushed your body forward, cool air hitting your back as he began to mold your cunt to the shape of his cock. His tip was kissing your cervix and repeatedly hit that spot deep inside of you that made you squirm against his body.

His thrusts were becoming sloppy, his breaths ragged and you could feel your third orgasm of the night creeping on you. Low growls complimented the whimpers that were leaving your mouth and being somewhat muffled by the fabric of your sheets. You couldn’t hold his hips against you to ensure that he stayed inside so you just whimpered out a small ‘inside’ as you felt your orgasm begin to wash over your body.

Logan wasn’t far behind, one hand resting on your hips and his other by your head steadying himself above you. Sinking his teeth into your neck, you cried out in avidity and rapture filled his veins before painting his seed across your walls. You heard a faint schwing and as you opened your eyes, you saw that his claws were extended. As you moved your hips back into him to fuck you through the rest of your high, you accidentally nicked yourself on one of his blades. He hissed against you uttering a strained ‘don’t move’ as the luxuria dissipated in his body.

As he calmed down, his claws retracted back into skin and he gently rolled you over to gaze over your features. He moved a few sweat-stricken pieces of hair off of your face and placed a gentle kiss on your lips, which was such a contrast from before. Pulling out of you he pushed himself off the bed.

“Be right back.”

Returning with a warm towel, he cleaned you up and grabbed a shirt from one of your drawers waiting for you to put it in before sliding next to you in the bed. You curled into him, tracing patterns into his chest. Looking up at him, you felt none of the tension from before in the room and you decided that this would be the time.

“So, what did you mean by ‘again’ earlier?”

Logan sighed but not out of exasperation like it was earlier, it was softer this time.

“In my world, we were together. That’s the pull you feel. But in like so many other areas in that timeline, I fucked up and I lost you. I’d rather have kept you at a distance than not have you at all, but I fucked that up too, now.”

He laughed the last bit out, a touch of humor apparent in his delivery. Sighing, you felt like something could work here between the two of you.

“Well, whenever you’re ready to tell me what happened between your timeline’s me and you, I’ll wait patiently for it. But until then, know that you’re not losing me here. I’m yours as long as you want me.”

You didn’t expect a response from him, nor did you feel like you really needed one. You wanted to relish in this moment between the two of you and soon enough sleep overtook both of your forms.

© yeonjuns-beanie '24

~Just as it was, baby Before the otherness came And I knew its name The love, the dark, the light, the flame~