#THE QUIET KNOWING AND UNDERSTANDING PASSING BETWEEN THEM

[fangdokja]

The cage he’s built for you is so beautiful, you almost forget it’s there.

❤︎ Synopsis. In a love that teeters between devotion and obsession, escape is futile—his jealousy isn’t just possessive, it’s a consuming force that leaves no room for freedom. With each calculated act, he dismantles your world, ensuring you’ll always belong to him, body and soul.

♡ Book. Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Alhaitham x Reader, Yandere! Diluc x Reader, Yandere! Zhongli x Reader, Yandere! Dainsleif x Reader

♡ Headcanons. Heart's Chains - Part 1

♡ Word Count. 2,801

♡ Alhaitham – The Scholar’s Cage.

“Your freedom is the illusion I designed for you. Do you see it now?”

Alhaitham’s jealousy is a quiet, suffocating force, crafted with precision and intellect. It doesn’t roar or rage, nor does it seek to overpower with brute strength. Instead, it threads through the very seams of your life, a methodical and unrelenting presence that tightens its grip with every passing day. His love is not chaotic—it is controlled, sharpened into something surgical, leaving no room for resistance.

You don’t notice it at first, the way he dismantles your autonomy. It begins with simple suggestions, his calm voice dripping with reason. “Why waste time with them? They don’t understand you.” A polite dismissal of your acquaintances, a small reorganization of your daily routine—all done under the guise of care, of making your life more efficient. Slowly, the world outside his orbit fades into obscurity, replaced by the inescapable reality of him.

Each step is calculated, deliberate, like the turning of pages in his meticulously annotated tomes. Alhaitham doesn’t need to raise his voice or resort to crude displays of anger. His jealousy operates in silken whispers, in arguments so flawlessly logical that to disagree with him feels like an admission of ignorance.

“You waste your time on frivolities,” he states, his tone flat but unyielding. His eyes pierce through you, sharp and unreadable. “Do you truly believe anyone else sees you for who you are? I’ve devoted myself to understanding you, shaping a life where your brilliance can thrive. What have they done?”

And when someone dares to overstep, lingering too long in your presence or speaking to you in tones he deems too familiar, Alhaitham does not act impulsively. No, his retaliation is an art form. The offending individual doesn’t disappear suddenly—that would be too crude, too obvious. Instead, they find their world unraveling.

A missed promotion, an inexplicable reassignment to a far-off land, their life tangled in bureaucratic webs they can’t escape. By the time they realize the Scholar’s hand in their downfall, it’s already too late. You notice their absence, perhaps even question it, but Alhaitham’s explanation is maddeningly irrefutable.

“They were a distraction,” he says simply, his voice devoid of emotion. “You don’t need people like that cluttering your life. Trust me, it’s better this way.”

He’s maddeningly composed, his jealousy cold and unyielding, a stone wall against which your protests shatter like glass. And yet, beneath his calm exterior lies a hunger so all-consuming it feels like an abyss, ready to swallow you whole.

In intimacy, that hunger reveals itself in the way his hands move over you—not hurried, but deliberate, like he’s studying you, mapping every inch of your body with the same precision he applies to his research. His touch is a paradox, both clinical and possessive, as if he’s documenting every reaction, every tremor, every gasp, to remind you that no one else could ever know you this intimately.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. His voice is steady, each word a carefully crafted statement of fact. “Not just your body, but your mind, your soul. Every thought you have—I’ve already claimed it.”

There’s no room for resistance in his embrace. When he takes you, it’s a symphony of control, every movement deliberate, every whisper a reminder of how deeply he owns you. He doesn’t seek to hurt; pain is a crude tool, unworthy of his intellect. Instead, his love is an overwhelming force, designed to erode your defenses until you can no longer imagine a world without him.

And when he looks at you, there’s something terrifying in his gaze—a blend of devotion and dominance that leaves you breathless. You see yourself reflected in his eyes, not as a partner, but as something precious, something he’s spent his life perfecting. And as much as you might wish to escape, a part of you knows the truth.

“You’ll thank me one day,” he says, his voice as steady as ever. “When you finally understand that no one else will ever love you like I do. Your freedom, your independence—they were illusions, distractions. I am your reality now. Do you see it?”

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♡ Diluc – Ember’s Obsession.

“There’s a certain poetry in the way flesh burns. Shall I show you what it means to belong to me?”

Jealousy in Diluc is not a sudden blaze—it’s a simmering ember buried deep within his chest, smoldering until provoked. And when that ember finally ignites, it consumes everything in its path. His rage is a tempest of fire, and his vengeance is exacting, merciless, yet meticulously controlled. To call it passion would be a mistake; this is something darker, primal, and utterly destructive.

The tranquility of the winery is the first thing to vanish when his jealousy peaks. The birds no longer sing, the soft rustling of leaves becomes an oppressive silence, and the air carries the faint, acrid tang of smoke. The vineyards, once a symbol of beauty and life, become the stage for his wrath. The trespasser who dared covet what was his is gone before you even realize it, their existence wiped away as if they never belonged to the world.

When you ask, his eyes burn with an intensity that freezes you in place. There’s no need to raise his voice—his silence is deafening, his actions more eloquent than words. The blood on his gloves isn’t cleaned, the charred remains of their belongings left just close enough for you to see. He wants you to understand the cost of disobedience, of entertaining the thought of anyone but him.

“Why are you trembling?” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, like embers crackling in a dying fire. He steps closer, his gloved hand brushing your cheek, a tender gesture at odds with the ferocity in his gaze. “Surely, you knew how this would end. They weren’t blind. They saw you. And I don’t forgive those who covet what’s mine.”

When Diluc kisses you, it’s bruising, his lips pressing against yours with a feral desperation. His hands are hot against your skin, leaving an almost burning sensation in their wake, a reminder of the fire he wields and how easily it could destroy you. He holds you tightly, his grip a cage, as if you might vanish if he let go.

The manor becomes your prison, the towering walls that once promised safety now looming like an inescapable fortress. He replaces the staff with people who would die before they crossed him, their loyalty bought or burned into submission. Your freedom dwindles day by day—no visitors, no letters, no life beyond the world he’s carved for you.

Even in his tenderness, there’s a darkness that pervades. When he pulls you into his arms at night, the weight of his obsession is suffocating. His fingers trace the curve of your throat, his touch almost reverent. His words, however, betray his madness. “If you ever think of running, don’t. Fire purifies everything, even memories. You won’t last without me. And I won’t let you.”

He doesn’t need chains to bind you; his fire does that for him. You feel the heat of his wrath even in his absence, a smothering presence that lingers in every room. The scent of charred wood clings to your senses, a constant reminder of what lies in wait should you ever defy him.

Yet, in the darkness of his obsession, there’s a twisted beauty—a fervent devotion so consuming it becomes poetic in its destruction. Diluc’s love burns, and like moth to flame, you can’t help but stay, even as it threatens to destroy you.

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♡ Zhongli – The Stone Emperor’s Dominion.

“Erosion affects everything… but my love for you will endure until the last star in the cosmos burns out. Whether you want it or not.”

Zhongli’s jealousy is an ancient, unyielding force, as patient and inevitable as the shifting of tectonic plates. It doesn’t erupt like fire or howl like the wind—it seeps into every crevice of your life, an invisible weight that crushes resistance beneath its relentless pressure. His love is not the passionate frenzy of youth but the solemn, eternal claim of an Archon who has witnessed millennia. To him, you are no mere mortal; you are an artifact of immeasurable value, something to be preserved and guarded with the ferocity of a dragon.

The world he creates for you is gilded, opulent, and suffocating. The room he keeps you in is not a prison at first glance—it’s a sanctuary, filled with treasures and comforts that most could only dream of. The air carries the faint scent of incense, rich and intoxicating, lulling you into a false sense of security. But the longer you stay, the more you notice the details: the impenetrable walls, the locks on the doors that click softly but firmly behind you, the way every window seems to frame the same unchanging landscape.

The jewelry he adorns you with is exquisite, every piece a masterpiece of craftsmanship. Gold cuffs around your wrists, delicate yet unyielding; a collar around your neck, encrusted with amber that seems to glow in the light. He drapes you in finery not to celebrate your beauty, but to mark you as his possession. Each piece is a reminder that you belong to him, that his touch lingers on your very skin.

“You are a treasure beyond mortal comprehension,” he murmurs, his voice a rich baritone that reverberates in your chest. His golden eyes, warm and commanding, hold an intensity that sends shivers down your spine. “And treasures must be protected. The world would destroy you with its greed. Only I can preserve your perfection.”

When someone dares to approach you with intent that Zhongli deems improper, the earth itself seems to revolt against them. Their screams echo through the mountains, raw and unrelenting, as the ground splits and swallows them whole. He doesn’t act in haste—his punishments are deliberate, poetic in their cruelty. He encases them in stone, their faces frozen in terror, their bodies turned into monuments to his wrath.

He brings you to see them, not out of malice but necessity. His explanation is calm, almost tender, as he gestures to the stone effigies lining the mountainside. “This is what becomes of those who fail to understand their place. Do not mourn them, my love—they were nothing but dust, unworthy of your light.”

In intimacy, Zhongli is an overwhelming force. His touch is unhurried but suffused with a quiet dominance that leaves you breathless. Every gesture, every kiss, is deliberate, as though he’s carving his presence into your very being. His hands glide over your skin like sculptor's tools, firm yet reverent, shaping you into something only he can claim.

“You are mine,” he whispers against your ear, his breath warm and steady. His voice carries the weight of an oath, a declaration that transcends mortal comprehension. “The stars may fall, the earth may crumble, but you will remain at my side. You will see eternity through my eyes.”

Even his affection feels like a trap, his love as unyielding as stone. There is no escape, no corner of the world where his reach cannot find you. He doesn’t need to shackle you with chains—his power, his presence, is enough to bind you to him. His jealousy is not a fire that burns hot and fast but an eternal petrification, turning you into a piece of his world, preserved forever within his grasp.

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♡ Dainsleif – The Eternal Hunter.

“You think you can hide from me? You forget, little one—I was forged in the abyss. There is no shadow I cannot find you in.”

Dainsleif’s jealousy is a force older than time itself, a chilling void that consumes everything in its path. It is not fiery or chaotic but cold and relentless, like the creeping frost that settles over a dying world. His love is not the kind that comforts or soothes—it isolates, suffocates, and ensnares, binding you to him in a cycle of obsession and despair.

You only begin to understand the depth of his control when it’s far too late. Every path you walk, every whispered conversation, every fleeting thought of freedom—it all leads back to him. The world feels smaller with each passing day, the shadows deeper, and his presence inescapable. He is always there, watching, waiting, a hunter biding his time.

When he appears, it’s always when you least expect, stepping from the darkness as though he is the shadow itself. His eyes glow faintly, a piercing luminescence that chills you to the bone. Tonight, he drags behind him the lifeless body of the one who dared to think you could be theirs. Blood drips steadily onto the floor, pooling like spilled ink, staining the silence of the room.

“You thought I wouldn’t know,” he murmurs, his voice low and resonant, carrying the weight of centuries. His expression is calm, unnervingly so, but his eyes burn with quiet fury. “Did you think they could take you from me? That anyone could?” He steps closer, his shadow engulfing yours, his presence as suffocating as it is magnetic. “Not the gods. Not even death itself. You are mine, little one. And nothing can change that.”

Dainsleif does not rage or scream; his fury is measured, deliberate, and terrifyingly methodical. The evidence of his jealousy is etched into the world around you—a ruined village, a bloodstained battlefield, a silence that feels too heavy. He ensures you see it, ensures you know the lengths he will go to preserve his claim on you.

And when his hands touch you, they are impossibly gentle, the contrast as cruel as it is deliberate. He traces the scars he’s left on your skin—some visible, others invisible, etched into the deepest corners of your soul. Each mark is a story, a vow, a declaration of his ownership. His touch lingers, reverent and obsessive, as though you are a relic of his own design.

“You see these marks?” he whispers, his voice a mixture of awe and menace. His fingertips graze the lines on your skin, the memories of his possessive love. “They tell the story of what you are to me. They are the proof of eternity, of something no one else will ever touch.”

There is a madness in his devotion, one born not of fleeting passion but of centuries of suffering and longing. You are his anchor, the one thing that grounds him in a cursed existence, and he clings to you with the desperation of a drowning man. Yet, his love feels like a weight, an unyielding chain that drags you into the abyss alongside him.

“Do you feel it, little one?” he murmurs, his lips ghosting over your ear as he holds you in an unbreakable embrace. “The weight of eternity? That is my love for you—boundless, inescapable, unending. You cannot run from it, and you cannot escape me. I will follow you through every shadow, every lifetime, until nothing remains but us.”

Even in intimacy, Dainsleif is overwhelming. His touch is both a promise and a warning, every caress laden with a sense of inevitability. He moves with a precision that leaves you trembling, as though every moment is calculated to remind you of his dominance. His kisses are slow but consuming, pulling you under like a tide, his words soft yet chilling as they thread through your mind.

“You can fight me, but it’s useless,” he breathes against your lips, his tone almost tender but laced with quiet menace. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine. And the moment you tried to run, you sealed your fate.”

In Dainsleif’s arms, you are both cherished and caged, his love a prison of cold eternity. No matter how far you go, no matter how deep you hide, he will always find you, his shadow stretching across the expanse of time itself. You are his, and there is no escape.

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[hjvi]

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𝘜𝘯𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯, 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘈𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘠𝘰𝘶

⚠︎  mdni, heavy smut, eating disorder (anorexia), overall mature subjects, and more

⤷ A gentle reminder: If my content ever feels overwhelming, please take care of yourself and step away. Anorexia is a key theme in this story, and as someone who understands its weight, this fic is deeply personal to me. I want to remind you that you're never alone in your journey.

Sending love and healing to all. 🩷

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𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 2: 𝙎𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙖 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩

The sound of skates carving through ice echoed in the quiet rink, but it barely registered in my mind. I was too focused on the way Chris’s hand felt in mine. The warmth of his fingers, the way they gently squeezed as if trying to anchor me to this moment, to him. I wasn’t sure if it was the silence of the rink or the chaos inside my head, but there was something in the air—something thick with unspoken words.

Chris and I stood side by side, staring out at the empty ice, both lost in the gravity of everything that had been said. He had apologized, confessed his love to me, and promised to help me heal. His words hung in the air between us, fragile and uncertain. I had told him I was willing to give us a chance, to give him a chance. But I wasn’t sure if I believed I deserved any of this.

I glanced down at our hands, our fingers still intertwined. And that’s when I saw it.

His eyes dropped to my bruised hands. The skin was discolored, darkened from the impact of fists, marks left from someone who should have loved me. The edges of his expression tightened for a fraction of a second before he quickly glanced away, like he couldn’t stand looking at them anymore. His jaw clenched briefly before he let out a shaky breath.

“Hey, uh,” Chris started, his voice tight as if he were trying to sound normal. “Do you wanna come over to my house? I have something I want to show you.”

I wasn’t sure what to say. I didn’t know if I was ready for more of his kindness, for more of his attention. But I nodded slowly, almost instinctively. What else could I do? I wasn’t sure how long I could stand there, the weight of his unspoken questions pulling me under.

We left the rink, and within minutes, Matt—his only triplet brother with a license—pulled up in their old, beat-up car. The ride was silent, the kind of silence that feels louder than anything. Chris, normally so animated, so full of energy, sat beside me, his eyes flicking to me every few seconds as if he were studying my every move, trying to make sense of the distance between us.

I could feel his eyes on me, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at him. The silence stretched on, thick and heavy, pressing down on me with every passing second.

When we finally arrived at Chris’s house, I shuffled behind him up to his room, his footsteps quick and purposeful, as if he wanted to show me something important. My heart thudded painfully in my chest as I took in the walls of his room, decorated with rap posters, old vinyl records, and the familiar scent of his cologne and something else—comfort, maybe. It was all so him, yet I felt so out of place.

“You okay?” he asked, concern in his eyes as he glanced over at me. He had been looking at me like that all day—like I was something precious that he couldn’t bear to break.

I nodded stiffly, offering him a weak smile as I dropped my eyes to the sleeves of my hoodie. They were covered in dried tears, remnants of mascara streaking down my face from the few times I had wiped away my tears, trying to keep it together. I wasn’t even sure why I cared.

Chris noticed, and without hesitation, he moved to his closet, pulling out a sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants. “Here,” he said, holding them out to me. “You need something clean. You can change in the bathroom, if you want.”

I accepted the clothes reluctantly, feeling an odd wave of guilt rise in my chest. I didn’t want to take anything from him. But his kindness felt almost overwhelming. And when I inhaled the scent of his hoodie, it was like an old memory wrapped around me, one that made me ache for a time I hadn’t realized I had lost. The familiarity of it made me feel both comforted and strangely distant.

“I’ll wait outside,” he said, stepping out of the room and closing the door behind him gently.

I walked into the bathroom and shut the door. The room was silent except for the hum of the fluorescent light above me. The mirror reflected a version of myself I didn’t recognize. I stood there for a long time, staring at myself. I unzipped my hoodie and slipped it off, throwing it on the floor, before pulling at the waistband of my low-rise jeans, stepping out of them with shaky hands. I was all too aware of the hollow feeling in my body, the emptiness that came from not eating, not caring.

As I reached for the hoodie Chris had given me, I slid my arms into the sleeves, feeling how much too big it was. The fabric hung off me like a curtain, too large for my frame. I felt the fabric stretch and tug, the empty space inside me made all too clear.

I lifted the hoodie, my fingers grazing the sharp outline of my ribs. I swallowed hard, fighting the rising wave of panic. I could feel the hollow hollowness inside of me, the bruises left by years of self-doubt and the echoes of my father’s words.

I stared at myself in the mirror, not realizing how much time had passed. Minutes slipped by like hours.

I couldn’t take it. I yanked the hoodie off, the fabric crumpling in my hands. My skin prickled with a familiar discomfort—the kind of vulnerability that I hated, the kind of vulnerability I had never been allowed to show.

There was a knock at the door.

“Are you okay in there?” Chris’s voice was muffled but full of concern.

I wanted to answer, but the words wouldn’t come. Before I could say anything, the door creaked open just a fraction. And then Chris stepped inside, his eyes immediately catching on my bare skin, my sweatpants hanging off my frame, and the rawness of my vulnerability.

He froze. “Oh God, I’m sorry,” he stammered, his face flushing in embarrassment. But he didn’t turn away. Instead, he stepped back, his eyes not leaving me.

I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came. Instead, I sank down onto the floor, my knees buckling beneath me as my body began to tremble. The sobs came in waves, uncontrollable, and I couldn’t stop them. I just sat there, breaking apart in front of him, unsure how to stop the flood of emotion that had been building for so long.

Chris, to his credit, didn’t try to rush over. He sat down next to me slowly, careful not to overwhelm me. He gave me space, but his presence was steady, like an anchor holding me together when I was slipping away. His hand hovered near me, unsure, but it was enough.

“You don’t like the hoodie color?” he asked, trying to lighten the mood with a joke, but I couldn’t even muster a smile.

“I feel so weak, Chris,” I cried. “I feel so skinny, like I’m fading away, and I can’t stop. I’m just… I’m so broken.”

His hand finally found its way to my back, gently rubbing circles over the fabric of his hoodie. “You’re not weak,” he said softly. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. And you don’t need to feel insecure. I love you. I’ll help you through this. You don’t have to fight this alone anymore.”

His words—gentle, so full of love and compassion—were a balm to the raw wounds inside me. I buried my face in his chest, not caring about how vulnerable I was, how exposed. For the first time in a long time, I let myself cry freely, knowing that someone was here to help me piece myself back together.

When the tears finally started to subside, Chris pulled away gently, his fingers brushing my hair out of my face. “How about a bath?” he suggested quietly. “A vanilla bubble bath. I’ll set it up for you.”

I let out a shaky giggle, feeling a hint of something lighter for the first time that night. “That sounds nice.”

“I’ll get everything ready,” he said, his voice soothing as he helped me stand. “You just… take all the time you need.”

As he went to his brother Matt’s room to give me some privacy, I stood there for a moment, lost in the quiet of the bathroom. I reached up to wipe away the last of my tears, but the weight of everything still hung heavy on my shoulders.

When I walked back into Chris’s room later, towel in hand, I overheard him talking to Matt in hushed tones, the conversation I had been dreading.

“Do you think she’s too thin?” Matt asked, his voice quieter than usual.

“I don’t know,” Chris replied, a tone of sadness in his words. “She’s just… so fragile, Matt. I don’t know how to fix her. I just want to help her.”

The words crushed me. I turned on my heel and fled back to his room, sinking down onto the floor with my back against his bed. It wasn’t about fixing me. I wasn’t some broken thing to be fixed.

I wiped away my tears, quickly swallowing down the rising wave of self-doubt. When Chris entered the room, he froze when he saw me sitting on the floor. “Are you okay?” he asked softly, kneeling down beside me.

“I don’t know, Chris,” I whispered, the weight of it all crashing back down on me. “I don’t know how to wash myself… I hate seeing my body.”

“Hey,” he said, lifting my chin gently, “it’s okay. You don’t have to do it alone.”

He reached under his bed and pulled out a small, weathered box. He opened it slowly, revealing photos of me, my hair ties, old bracelets, small trinkets I had long forgotten about. My breath caught in my throat.

“I kept everything because I can’t live my life without thinking about you,” Chris said softly, his eyes filled with something I couldn’t quite understand. “You are so beautiful. I hate seeing you do this to yourself. But I’ll be here. I’ll always be here, and I won’t leave you.”

I stared at the box, unable to speak for a moment. His words hit me harder than anything. He cared about me, but why did he talk about me like I was something broken, something that needed fixing?

I didn’t know, but I had to find out. And for the first time in so long, I was willing to try.

Chris sat beside me, the silence in his room hanging like a heavy blanket. He’d shown me the box, full of my old trinkets—little pieces of me that I hadn’t even realized mattered to him. But now, staring down at the photos, the bracelets, and the hair ties I had long forgotten about, something inside me was starting to crack.

“I—I didn’t even know you kept these,” I whispered, my voice trembling as I ran my fingers over a photo of me from years ago. It was from a school trip, one where I had laughed so hard my stomach ached, my eyes crinkling with joy. I couldn’t even remember that girl. She felt like a stranger now.

“I couldn’t let go of anything that had you in it,” Chris murmured, his voice low and serious, as if the weight of his words mattered more than anything else. “You’ve always been on my mind. Always. Even when I was… too stupid to realize it.”

I felt a swell of warmth in my chest at his words, but a sharp pang of guilt followed right after. He kept these things because he couldn’t forget me. But I had been so lost, so deep in the dark that I couldn’t remember who I was before all the pain.

“You always knew how to make me laugh,” I said, swallowing hard as I fought against the rush of emotions. “I used to laugh all the time. And now, it feels like I’ve forgotten how.”

Chris didn’t answer at first. His hand, gentle but firm, found mine. His fingers wrapped around my wrist, pulling my gaze back to him. His eyes were so earnest, so full of concern, like he could see right through the walls I had built around myself.

“You haven’t forgotten, though,” he said softly. “You just haven’t had a reason to laugh in a while. But you will again, I promise.”

I looked away, tears gathering in my eyes, and Chris squeezed my hand, the contact grounding me, reminding me that I wasn’t alone in this.

“Chris… I—I’m scared,” I whispered, barely audible. “Scared of what’s happening inside me. I don’t know how to fix it.”

His face softened, and he slowly pulled me into his chest, wrapping his arms around me. I rested my head against his shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of him—the cologne, the faint smell of laundry detergent, and something uniquely Chris, something that felt like home. His embrace was warm, enveloping, and for a moment, the world outside his room, outside of everything I had been through, seemed so far away.

“You don’t have to fix anything,” he whispered into my hair. “I’ll help you, step by step. But you don’t have to fix it all on your own. You don’t have to carry this burden alone. Not anymore.”

I nodded, my breath catching as I allowed myself to lean into him, feeling something shift within me. The heaviness that had weighed on my chest for so long was starting to lighten, piece by piece.

There was a long pause, where all we did was hold each other, not saying anything more. And then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, Chris pulled back slightly, his hand moving to my cheek, lifting my face to meet his eyes.

“You want to take that bath?” he asked softly, his voice coaxing yet gentle.

I hesitated for a moment. I hadn’t planned on doing anything like that. The thought of getting clean, of scrubbing away the remnants of the past, made me feel exposed in ways I wasn’t ready to face. But something in his gaze softened the edges of my fear.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “I think I do.”

“Good,” he said, his crooked smile tender as he brushed a lock of hair from my face. “I’ll get it ready for you.”

I stepped into the bathroom a few minutes later, the soft sound of Chris’s footsteps fading into the background as he prepared the bath. The room was bathed in warm light, the kind of soft glow that felt like it could cradle me in its embrace. He had already filled the tub with bubbles, the scent of vanilla wafting through the air.

“Here,” Chris said, handing me a fresh towel and a pair of his old slippers, the kind he wore around the house. “I’ll give you privacy to change. Just… take your time.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice to speak. The thought of washing away the layers of pain that had accumulated over time felt almost foreign. But Chris was right—this was part of healing. I could start small. I could start with something simple, like the warmth of the water surrounding me.

As I stripped off my clothes and stepped into the bath, the water felt like a second skin. It was soothing and gentle, yet the bubbles seemed to bring everything to the surface. I leaned back, letting the warmth seep into my muscles, trying to breathe deeply, trying to calm the storm that raged inside my head.

But it was still there. The emptiness, the ache. The feeling of being too small, too fragile, too broken.

Chris knocked on the door softly a few minutes later, his voice muffled. “You okay in there?”

“I’m… I think so,” I called back, my voice barely above a whisper.

He pushed the door open a crack, just enough for his head to peek through. “Do you want me to come in?” he asked, his eyes soft with concern.

I hesitated. A thousand thoughts swirled in my head. But in that moment, I needed him. Not in the way I had needed someone before, but in the way that felt raw and real.

“Yeah,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “Please.”

Chris stepped into the bathroom, his presence so calming it was like I could finally breathe a little easier. He moved with quiet care, making sure not to intrude, not to overwhelm.

He sat on the edge of the tub, his hand brushing lightly against my hair, careful not to disturb the bubbles.

“Do you need help?” he asked, his voice a soft murmur.

I shook my head, feeling a lump rise in my throat. “I don’t know if I can… do this,” I whispered.

Chris took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was unwavering. “I’m here. I’ll help however I can, even if it’s just sitting here with you.”

And so, he did. He sat by the edge of the tub, his hand gently resting on my arm, a grounding presence.

I finally closed my eyes, letting the warmth of the water, the comfort of his touch, and the gentleness of his voice wash over me.

The warm water enveloped me like a second skin. The steam rose in gentle swirls, filling the bathroom with the soft scent of vanilla bubbles, calming me just enough to breathe deeper. But as I sank further into the tub, I couldn’t shake the heavy weight pressing down on my chest. The scars, the bruises, the emptiness inside—it was all still there, lingering like a storm inside me.

The soft clink of a bottle being opened echoed in the quiet, followed by the sound of Chris’s voice, calm and steady, like he was trying to anchor me.

“Is the water warm enough?” he asked, standing just outside the tub, his voice soft and considerate.

I nodded, though my eyes were shut, a futile attempt to block out everything. I hadn’t expected this. I hadn’t expected him to stay close, to offer to help. It was overwhelming in a way I couldn’t explain. But still, I felt the faintest stir of relief in my heart. Maybe this was what I needed. Maybe this was how I could start to heal.

Chris, sensing my hesitance, didn’t rush. He waited, patient and gentle, until I nodded again, finally allowing him into the space I had, until now, kept so tightly guarded.

“I’m right here,” he said, kneeling beside the tub. His hand reached out, his fingers brushing softly against my shoulder as if to reassure me. He was so close, and yet he gave me space, the quiet comfort of his presence enough to settle my nerves. “Do you want me to help you wash?”

The words felt strange on my tongue, and I couldn’t bring myself to look at him. But part of me wanted him to stay close, to be the one to help me through this—this vulnerability that terrified me. So, I swallowed my pride and nodded, unsure of what else to do.

Chris’s voice was low and steady, a constant reassurance as he reached for the body wash, the soft scent of lavender and vanilla wafting through the air. He poured it into his hands, lathering it gently before turning his attention back to me.

“I’m just going to start with your arms, okay?” he asked, his eyes soft but filled with something more—something that felt like a promise.

I swallowed hard, afraid of what I might see if I let him in too much, but I couldn’t find the strength to pull away. There was something about his kindness, his unwavering patience, that made me feel a little less fragile.

His fingers gently cupped my wrist as he began to wash the skin of my arms, his touch tender, careful not to overwhelm me. The sensation of his hands gliding over my skin was almost too much to bear, yet it was strangely soothing, like he was washing away pieces of the hurt that had accumulated for so long.

“Let me know if it’s too much,” Chris murmured softly, his voice barely above a whisper, a tenderness in his tone that made my heart ache. His touch was light as he moved down, past my elbows, moving to my forearms, the lather turning into a soft foam as it slid across my skin. His touch was careful, as if he could sense the weight of my past, the scars, both seen and unseen, that I was trying to bury beneath the surface.

I closed my eyes, trying to focus on the feeling of his hands. Trying to let it soothe the growing discomfort in my chest. But with every gentle sweep of his fingers, the floodgates seemed to open, and my chest tightened. The moment felt too intimate, too raw, but still, I stayed.

“You’re doing great,” he whispered, his voice steady like a beacon in the storm. “I’m right here.”

His hands moved to my shoulders, the pads of his fingers tracing over the skin of my upper arms with gentle care. As he reached the back of my neck, his hands hesitated, and I could feel the heat of his gaze, though I refused to meet it. I could feel the weight of his concern pressing against me, like he wanted to do more, wanted to somehow fix what had been broken for so long.

But he didn’t push. He simply washed, quietly, steadily, as if he was trying to reassure me that nothing would change in this moment—he wouldn’t rush, he wouldn’t push me beyond what I could handle.

Slowly, I felt his hands move to the small of my back, washing down the length of my spine. His touch was so gentle, so unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world to make sure I felt cared for. His hands glided over the small curve of my back, and even though I felt exposed, raw, I felt something stir within me—a longing for comfort, for healing. I closed my eyes, biting back the tremors that threatened to overtake me.

“You’re okay,” Chris said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re safe.”

I felt the tears well up in my eyes again, threatening to spill over, but I held them back, clenching my fists in the water, willing them to stay.

His hands moved to my ribs then, slowly, as though he was afraid of hurting me. The touch was so tender that it made my heart ache in a way I wasn’t prepared for. His fingers brushed over the skin of my side, and I stiffened involuntarily, the memories of being touched without care, without kindness, rushing back to me.

Chris noticed instantly. His hands froze for a moment, as though he was waiting for me to pull away. But I didn’t. Instead, I leaned into his touch, trying to let it soothe me, trying to remind myself that I wasn’t broken beyond repair. Not yet.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice trembling with emotion. “I just… I just hate how I look. How I feel.”

Chris’s voice softened, filled with an emotion I couldn’t place. “You’re beautiful,” he said simply, the words steady, unwavering. “You’re beautiful just the way you are. Don’t ever forget that.”

I closed my eyes tighter, not sure I could believe him, but the warmth of his hands on my skin, the way his fingers moved carefully over me, told me he wasn’t lying. He saw me. The real me. Not the broken pieces I tried to hide.

His hands moved to my stomach, gently lathering the soap along the curve of my waist. I could feel myself wanting to shrink away, but I stayed, breathing in deeply, trying to let myself relax. I had to remind myself that this was Chris. The same Chris who had made me laugh in ways I had forgotten. The same Chris who had been my friend, my constant, long before everything had gone wrong. And now, he was still here.

“Almost done,” he said, his voice quiet, soothing. His hands moved slowly, methodically, as though trying to memorize the feel of me, as though he needed to make sure I was taken care of.

I nodded again, my throat tight with emotion, but the discomfort started to ease just a little. His hands felt like safety, like protection, and I let the warmth of the water, of him, wash over me.

When he finished, Chris gently pulled his hands away and grabbed the towel from the nearby rack. His fingers worked quickly, drying my skin with soft, deliberate motions. His touch, while gentle, was insistent, as if he was trying to remind me that I was still here, still whole, even if it didn’t feel like it.

“Come on,” he said, his voice soft, a smile tugging at his lips as he helped me out of the tub. “Let’s get you cozy.”

As he helped me into a pair of his old sweatpants and a loose hoodie, I couldn’t help but notice how his hands lingered over the soft fabric. It felt so… normal. The simple act of being cared for, of being seen, was something I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in a long time.

When he finished, he tucked me into his bed, the soft covers enveloping me like a cocoon. He sat on the edge, just watching me, his eyes full of something I didn’t know how to name.

“I’m here,” he said softly, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “Whenever you’re ready to talk, or not talk, I’m here.”

I nodded, the exhaustion of everything that had happened weighing heavily on me. But for the first time in a long time, I felt like I wasn’t drowning in it all. Chris was here, and I wasn’t alone.

And for now, that was enough.

“Chris,” I whispered, my voice barely audible, “I never meant for any of this to happen. I never meant to let myself get this far.”

“I know,” he replied softly, his fingers brushing through my hair. “But it’s not your fault. You’re not to blame for the things that have happened to you. You’ve been through more than anyone should have to go through.”

I sighed deeply, the weight of his words sinking into me. I closed my eyes, a tear slipping down my cheek despite my best efforts to hold it in. I could feel his hand on my cheek, wiping away the tear.

The room felt heavy, the silence between us thick with unspoken things. I had shared the worst parts of myself with Chris—the parts of me I had been hiding, the parts I hadn’t dared to look at in years. But as the words left my mouth, I realized how much more there was to say, how much I had buried beneath the surface. And now, with Chris here, his steady presence beside me, it felt like the dam inside me had broken open.

Chris didn’t speak immediately, but I could feel his anger simmering beneath his calm exterior. It was there in the way his jaw tightened, in the way his fingers gently squeezed mine, as if he were trying to hold me together while trying to contain the fury building inside him.

“You’re safe now, (Y/N),” he said softly, but there was a strain in his voice. “But I want to know more. I need to know what happened… all of it.”

I looked up at him, the room dim in the evening light, but his eyes were bright with the weight of his emotions. “I don’t know if I can…” My voice wavered, as if speaking the words out loud might make them more real, more permanent. “I don’t know how to tell you.”

He didn’t rush me. He just sat there, steady, waiting. “You don’t have to do it all at once, but I’m here, and I want to hear it. Whatever you’re ready to share.”

I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat like a stone that wouldn’t budge. It was too much, too overwhelming. But his patience, the way he was just there—unwavering—made me feel like maybe, just maybe, I could say it.

I inhaled deeply, trying to steady my shaky breath. “He’s… he’s still hitting me.” The words slipped out like daggers, sharp and jagged, and I couldn’t take them back.

Chris’s face twisted in disgust, his eyes blazing with something darker, something I couldn’t quite place. His grip on my hand tightened to the point of pain, but I didn’t want him to let go. “What do you mean, still?” he spat, his voice trembling with anger. “What the hell do you mean, still hitting you? After everything? After all these years?”

I flinched, the pain of his words stinging more than I expected, but not in a bad way. Chris was angry—for me, for the things I had endured—and I needed that anger. It was the first time someone had ever been angry for me.

“He doesn’t care. He never did. He doesn’t care that I’m his daughter.” I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes again, the tightness in my chest making it hard to breathe. “I don’t know what to do. He’ll always come back. He won’t stop.”

“God, I’m so fucking mad at him right now,” Chris growled, slamming his fist down on the bed between us. “How could anyone do that to you? I don’t care if he’s your dad—no one should ever lay a finger on you. No one.”

I could see the pain in his eyes, the rage that burned there, but it was mixed with something else too—something softer. Concern, protectiveness, the desire to shield me from all of it.

I shook my head, a bitter laugh escaping my lips as the tears started to fall. “He just… he can’t stop, Chris. He gets drunk, and then it’s like he doesn’t even see me anymore. He just sees someone to hurt. And I don’t know how to make it stop. I don’t know how to get out.”

I could feel the panic rising in me again, that familiar, overwhelming sense of suffocation creeping in like it always did when I thought about the fear of being stuck, of being trapped in that life. The life where I wasn’t safe, where I wasn’t even allowed to feel like I mattered.

Chris’s voice became softer, almost a whisper, but it was full of resolve. “You don’t have to go back to him, (Y/N). You don’t have to live like that. I won’t let you.” His hands gently cupped my face, as though he were trying to steady me, trying to pull me back from the edge I felt myself teetering on. “You deserve so much more than this, and I swear to you, I’m going to help you get out of this. We’ll figure it out together.”

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe that things could be different, that I didn’t have to go back to the house that had been my prison for so long. But the doubt gnawed at me, a constant voice in the back of my head telling me that it was all just a dream, that things would never change.

“I don’t know how,” I whispered, my breath catching in my throat again. The panic was slowly building inside me, and I couldn’t stop it. My hands began to shake violently, and I felt like I was drowning in the tightness in my chest. The room began to spin, and I couldn’t seem to catch my breath.

“Chris,” I gasped, clutching at his shirt, “I can’t breathe…”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, you’re okay,” Chris said urgently, his hands moving to my shoulders, pulling me closer to him. “Just focus on me, okay? Focus on me. You’re safe. You’re safe with me.”

But the panic didn’t stop. My chest felt tight, my heartbeat erratic, and I couldn’t seem to calm down. Every breath I took felt shallow, as though the air wasn’t getting into my lungs. I could feel the walls closing in again, just like they did every time I let myself think about what my dad had done to me.

I began to tremble uncontrollably, my hands like ice against his warm skin. My head felt light, and I had to fight the overwhelming urge to collapse.

“Chris, I can’t…” I whispered between gasps, feeling the world slipping away from me. “I’m scared. I’m scared of what will happen if I can’t get away. I’m scared of him coming after me, of never being free.”

Chris’s eyes were frantic now, but he was still holding me steady, his voice unwavering. “You’re not alone in this, (Y/N). I won’t let you go through this alone, okay? You’re safe now. You’re with me. We’ll figure this out, I promise.”

He moved his hands down to my back, rubbing slow circles as he whispered over and over again, “Breathe. Just breathe. In… out… You’re okay. You’re going to be okay. I won’t let him hurt you again. I won’t let him hurt you anymore.”

I tried to focus on his voice, to let the steady rhythm of his words ground me, but my body wouldn’t stop shaking. My breath was still shallow, and I felt like I was drowning in the memories, in the fear of my dad’s hands on me, of his voice shouting at me, of the pain I’d felt when he told me I wasn’t worth anything.

But then, slowly, my breath started to steady. The panic began to recede, and I was left trembling in Chris’s arms, my chest heaving, but the overwhelming tightness starting to fade.

“You’re okay,” Chris said softly, brushing his thumb across my cheek. “You’re here with me. You’re safe. I’m not going anywhere.”

I closed my eyes, clinging to him like he was the only thing that could keep me from falling apart. But as much as I tried to believe it—tried to believe him—there was still a part of me that felt like I was trapped. Still a part of me that didn’t know how to escape the life I’d been born into.

But with Chris’s arms around me, his warmth seeping into me, I felt like maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for something different.

The room felt quieter now, the oppressive weight of my panic slowly lifting as Chris’s steady presence calmed the storm inside me. His arms, strong but gentle, still wrapped around me, and for the first time since I’d entered his house, I felt a sense of calm begin to settle deep in my chest. The world outside might still be chaotic, but here, in this space with him, I was allowed to be broken. I didn’t have to hide. And for once, that thought didn’t scare me—it comforted me.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered again, my voice barely audible. “I didn’t mean to freak out on you like that.”

Chris shook his head softly, pulling me a little closer. “You don’t ever have to apologize for that,” he said quietly, his voice calm but firm, as if wanting to erase the guilt I felt. “You’re allowed to feel whatever you’re feeling. I’m just glad you’re here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

I leaned into him, feeling his warmth seep through the thin fabric of my hoodie. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my ear was grounding. It was like listening to the sound of something real and tangible, something that wasn’t connected to the chaos that always seemed to follow me. His love, his presence—everything about him was real, and it was one of the only things I felt I could rely on.

The minutes stretched on, and gradually, the shaking in my body slowed. My breath deepened, and though I still felt raw, the sharpness of the panic attack had dulled into a more manageable ache. It was as though, piece by piece, I was learning to breathe again.

“Are you feeling better?” Chris asked after a moment, his voice low and careful, as if afraid to disturb the delicate balance we had found. He pulled back slightly to look at me, his eyes searching mine for any sign of distress.

I nodded, but my voice still trembled. “Yeah… just a little… dizzy. But better. Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Chris murmured, wiping a stray tear from my cheek with the pad of his thumb. “I’m just glad I could help. You’re not alone, (Y/N). You never will be again.”

I swallowed hard, trying to suppress the lump in my throat. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. “You’ve always been there for me, Chris. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

“Stop saying that,” he said firmly, his tone soft but resolute. “You’ve always deserved it. You deserve every bit of love and care in the world, (Y/N). You deserve to feel safe. You deserve to heal.”

His words lingered in the air between us, and for a moment, I felt a wave of gratitude rush over me. It was hard for me to accept that kind of love, to believe I was worthy of it, but I didn’t want to push him away anymore. Not when he was trying so hard to give me something I’d never had before.

We sat there for a while, neither of us saying much, just being in each other’s presence. It felt like time had slowed down in the most comforting way possible. The panic that had felt suffocating now seemed like a distant memory, and I realized, with a twinge of bittersweetness, how much I had missed moments like this. Moments where I didn’t have to pretend to be something I wasn’t.

Chris cleared his throat after a while, breaking the silence. “You know, I’ve missed this,” he said quietly, his fingers gently tracing the back of my hand. “I’ve missed having you around. I missed having you sleep over.”

My heart skipped a beat at his words. The memories of spending nights at his house, hiding away from the world, were so much clearer now. There was comfort in those late-night talks, in the sound of his brothers’ laughter echoing through the house, in the feeling of being part of something that wasn’t broken. Something that made me forget the things I had to escape at home.

“I missed it too,” I replied, the words escaping before I could stop them. “It was the only time I felt like… like I had a family, you know? Like I was safe.”

Chris’s gaze softened, and for a moment, I could see the tenderness in his eyes. “You are family, (Y/N),” he said. “You always have been. You’re just as much a part of us as Matt, Nick, and me. Don’t ever doubt that.”

I felt a lump in my throat at his words. It was hard to accept that kind of care, but somehow, with him, it didn’t feel as impossible. It felt like it might actually be real. “You guys were always the closest thing to family I had,” I said, my voice quieter now. “When I stayed at your house, it was like everything else faded away. Like I could breathe for the first time in so long.”

“I know,” he said, his voice soft, yet tinged with an almost protective edge. “That’s why I want you to come over more. And stay as long as you want, okay?”

I nodded, the idea of having a constant refuge growing more and more appealing. “I really appreciate you, Chris. More than you know.”

He smiled then, a small, soft smile, but it was enough to make my heart flutter. “You don’t need to thank me,” he said, reaching over and squeezing my hand gently. “You’re worth it. You’ve always been worth it.”

The words hung between us, and for a moment, I let myself believe them. I had spent so long thinking I wasn’t worthy of love, of care, but with Chris, it felt like I might just be wrong.

Chris then leaned back, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I was thinking… if you’re comfortable with it, you could sleep over tonight. We have a guest room, but if you want, you can sleep in my room too. Whatever makes you feel more comfortable.”

The thought of sleeping under the same roof as him, of being so close to him, made my heart race in ways I didn’t quite understand yet. But the idea of being in a space where I could truly rest—without the constant tension and fear of home—sounded like a dream.

“I… I’d like that,” I said softly, the words barely leaving my lips before Chris’s face broke into a smile.

“Good,” he said, his voice warmer now. “It’s settled, then. You’re staying.”

I smiled back at him, feeling a surge of appreciation flood through me. “Thank you. Really.”

Chris leaned in to kiss the top of my head, his breath warm against my hair. “You’re welcome. Now, go get some rest. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

The night was quiet, the only sound the soft hum of the air conditioning, the occasional creak of the house settling, and the faint sounds of traffic from outside. The room was dimly lit, soft moonlight streaming through the curtains. I stood by Chris’s door, my fingers tracing the edge of the frame, unsure of what to do next.

Chris had already prepared the guest room for me. The bed was neatly made, the pillows fluffed. But as I stood there, I realized something—something I hadn’t admitted to myself until now: I didn’t want to sleep alone. Not tonight. Not after everything that had happened.

I glanced over at Chris, who was sitting on the edge of his bed. His eyes were soft, yet filled with that familiar protectiveness I had come to rely on. He’d given me the option of sleeping in the guest room, but he didn’t press it. He just watched me, waiting for me to make up my mind. And somehow, that quiet patience made everything feel a little easier.

“Are you sure?” he asked gently, his voice low. “You don’t have to if you’re not ready.”

I nodded slowly, swallowing the knot in my throat. “I want to stay with you,” I whispered. The words felt vulnerable, like I was admitting something I’d been too afraid to admit even to myself. But as I looked at him, something in me softened. I didn’t have to be afraid here. Not with him.

Chris didn’t respond right away. He just smiled a little, that soft, comforting smile of his, the one that always made me feel like maybe everything wasn’t so broken after all. He patted the bed beside him, a simple invitation. “Come on then. Get comfortable.”

I hesitated, standing there in the middle of the room, still holding the hem of my oversized hoodie, feeling a strange mix of relief and anxiety. I had spent so many nights alone in my own bed, trying to sleep through the memories of my father’s anger, the shouts, the pounding fists, the feeling of being trapped in a house that never felt like home. But tonight, I wasn’t alone. Not really.

I crawled into the bed, my body feeling stiff, not quite sure what to do next. Chris kept his distance at first, settling in on his side of the bed, turning on his side to face away from me. His back was to me, but I could feel the space between us. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t the closeness I longed for either. I needed something more than distance, more than just his presence across the room.

I reached out tentatively, my hand brushing the edge of his shirt, and in a soft whisper, I said, “Chris?”

His body tensed for a split second, but he didn’t turn around. Instead, his voice was low, a little rough. “Yeah?”

“I… I don’t want to be alone tonight,” I said, barely able to form the words. The truth was, I was scared. Scared of the nightmares that might come, scared of the darkness and what it might bring. But more than that, I was scared of being vulnerable, of needing someone and not knowing how to ask for it.

Chris’s response was immediate. He turned around slowly, facing me, his expression soft, understanding. He didn’t say anything right away, but instead, he reached out, gently guiding me toward him. “You’re not alone, (Y/N). Not anymore,” he whispered, his voice full of conviction.

It wasn’t like I was scared—no, that wasn’t it—but there was a strange sense of comfort in being this close to someone who truly cared. Still, the distance between us remained for a moment, and I couldn’t help but feel a little unsure of myself.

Chris didn’t press, though. He just stayed where he was, pulling the covers up around him. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but I found myself inching closer, seeking the warmth of his body, the connection I had been craving but too scared to ask for.

And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him moving toward the small dresser by the bed. He started to unbutton his shirt, unaware that I was watching.

The suddenness of it made my heart skip a beat. My gaze followed his every movement, captivated by the way his body moved as he shed his shirt. He wasn’t being flashy or deliberate; it was just natural for him, the way he carried himself with a quiet confidence that made my stomach twist in the best way. I could see the muscles in his back shift as he pulled the shirt over his head, his toned body now exposed to the dim light of the room.

I hadn’t expected this—hadn’t expected the moment of stillness where I could appreciate him in his simplest form. He wasn’t trying to impress me, wasn’t posing or playing it up. It was just him.

And for the first time, I truly saw him. The sculpted shoulders, the defined muscles along his arms, the way his skin seemed to glow under the soft light, the gentle curve of his back. Everything about him was perfect. So perfectly human, so real, that it almost overwhelmed me.

Chris turned toward me then, his chest now bare, and I quickly looked away, my face flushing as I realized I had been staring. But before I could feel embarrassed, I caught him looking at me, that mischievous smile curling up at the corners of his lips.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice teasing but with an underlying softness. He knew exactly what I was thinking.

I swallowed, trying to find words. “I, uh… you look perfect,” I mumbled, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

He chuckled, not at all fazed by my awkwardness. “You’re the only one who thinks so.” He reached for the waistband of his sweatpants, pulling them down with ease and slipping into a fresh pair before sliding back into bed beside me.

But there was a softness in his movements now, a tenderness that came with his willingness to let me see him—let me in. He wasn’t just showing me his body, but his trust. And that meant more than anything.

As he settled back into bed, he turned toward me, the space between us finally closing as he reached out a hand. “You sure you’re okay?” he asked again, his voice so gentle that it made my heart ache.

I nodded, this time more certain. “I’m okay. I just… I missed being close to someone. To you.”

And then, he opened his arms.

I didn’t hesitate this time. My heart pounded in my chest, and with a mix of relief and hesitance, I scooted closer, curling up against his chest. The warmth of his body was comforting, a quiet reassurance that I wasn’t in this fight alone. His arms wrapped around me, pulling me in, his embrace tight but not suffocating. I felt his breath on the top of my head, steady and rhythmic, like a heartbeat.

For a moment, everything felt safe. The chaos of my mind, the pain of my past, all of it seemed to fade away as I listened to the sound of Chris’s heartbeat, the steady thrum of life that was so different from the anger and fear I’d been accustomed to. He was here, and for tonight, that was enough.

I let out a long, shaky breath, feeling my body relax in his arms. But I still couldn’t help the thoughts that crept into my mind—the way I felt so small in his arms, how much I had lost, and how little I had ever felt cared for. But then, as if sensing my discomfort, Chris moved slightly, adjusting his position so that we were closer, my head resting on his chest. His hand gently began to stroke my hair, his fingers threading through the strands in a slow, comforting rhythm.

His fingers continued to gently play with my hair, and I could feel the soft, steady rhythm of his hand. It was so soothing, the motion familiar in a way I couldn’t explain. It felt like home, like something I’d been searching for without even knowing it. His scent, that familiar cologne mixed with the clean scent of soap, enveloped me, and for the first time in so long, I felt like I could breathe.

His hand reached for mine then, his fingers lacing with mine in the quiet dark of the room. The simple connection was grounding, and as he pulled me closer, I felt something shift. I had been running from the past for so long, so afraid of what was behind me that I hadn’t realized how desperate I was for the present. For someone who cared.

“Your hair smells so good,” I said quietly, a small smile tugging at my lips. I had never noticed how comforting his scent was before. It was like a reassurance I hadn’t realized I needed.

He chuckled softly, the sound warm and genuine. “It’s just shampoo,” he teased, but I could tell he was pleased by my words. He continued to play with my hair, the action so tender that it almost made me feel like I was someone worth caring for.

“It’s not just shampoo,” I said softly, lifting my head a little to look at him. “It’s you. You’re… comforting, Chris. It’s like… I feel safe when I’m with you.”

I leaned my head against his chest, the steady beat of his heart beneath me calming the frantic pulse of my own. His arm wrapped around me as I settled more fully against him. I could feel his breath on the top of my head as he shifted, pulling me just a little closer.

“You know, I could get used to this,” I said, the words slipping out before I could fully process them. “I missed sleeping over at your house… when I could just escape home for a bit.”

Chris stiffened for a moment, as if processing my words. Then, he ran his fingers through my hair gently, his touch so soft that it almost felt like he was tracing the contours of my soul.

“I know,” he said quietly. “You’re welcome here anytime, (Y/N). Don’t ever feel like you can’t come over. It was never about just ‘hanging out,’ you know? I care about you. I always have.”

My chest tightened at his words, the weight of them sinking deep inside me. I closed my eyes, trying to take in the comfort of his embrace, trying to let myself believe him. I could feel the warmth of his body against mine, the quiet strength that emanated from him, and it made me feel safe in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time.

The words settled in my heart like a balm, soothing the wounds that had never quite healed. I felt his fingers moving slowly through my hair again, and this time, there was no rush. Just us, wrapped in the quiet security of knowing that we didn’t have to face the world alone.

As the night stretched on, I felt myself relax more, his steady breath and gentle touch lulling me into a peaceful stillness. He kept playing with my hair, his hand brushing over my forehead, smoothing out any lingering tension. The rhythm of his movements was comforting, and I found myself drifting, my eyelids growing heavier as I rested against his chest.

“I don’t ever want to leave,” I murmured, my voice barely a whisper now, sleep creeping in.

“You don’t have to,” Chris replied softly, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “Stay as long as you need.”

And with that, I let myself fall into the warmth of his embrace, the first true rest I’d had in what felt like a lifetime.

“I don’t deserve you,” I whispered, the words barely escaping my lips, but somehow, they felt true.

Chris pulled back slightly, just enough to tilt my chin up so I could see his face. “You deserve everything, (Y/N). More than you know. Don’t ever forget that.”

I felt a lump form in my throat, but instead of pushing it down, I let it rise. Tears welled in my eyes as I looked at him, my heart aching with the need to express how much his words meant to me.

“You’re too good to me,” I said, voice breaking. “I don’t know how to repay you for all of this.”

He smiled softly, brushing a stray tear away from my cheek. “You don’t need to repay me. Just… let me be here for you. That’s all.”

His voice was so steady, so comforting, and as he pulled me back into his chest, I felt everything fall into place. For the first time in years, I didn’t feel so alone.

With Chris by my side, I had everything I needed.

A/N: Hey, loves! 💖 First off, thank you so much for making it this far. Your support honestly means the world to me, and I can't thank you enough. I know this chapter feels a little more low-key and maybe even rushed—life’s been a bit chaotic on my end—but I really wanted to take the time to dig deeper into the characters and their emotions. A special thanks to @bernardsbendystraws for being such an inspiration to this fic. You’ve truly helped shape the direction of this story!

This chapter touches on some really heavy topics, especially around eating disorders, and I hope it gets recognition! It's a difficult subject to navigate, but it's so important to shed light on it. I appreciate all of you who stick with me and support these moments in the story. You all keep me going!

If you or someone you care about is struggling with anorexia, please reach out to the helpline at [National Eating Disorders Association Helpline: 1-800-931-2237 or text "NEDA" to 741741]. You are not alone, and there is always support available when you need it.

taglist: @swagalicious260 @watercolorskyy @coquettechris @lovesturni0l0s @christmastreecake @ellbowmacaroni @blog-luvdance @sophand4n4 @meg4-matt44

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[grimmweepers]

— ☆ 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐌𝐀𝐒

alhaitham x ryu. this is obviously a selfship piece for ryuhaitham and it’s in first person. canon au. comfort. fluff. read here if you want more context on us. 0.7k wc

I sat curled on the couch with a blanket drawn tightly around me, staring at the modest decorations I’d strung up days ago when Alhaitham first left for Akademiya business. The lights, the strings of ribbon—they felt out of place here, like foreign embellishments in a world that had no meaning for them.

Christmas. Once upon a time, it had been everywhere—woven into every light, every note of music, every breath of winter air. It wasn’t as though I’d celebrated Christmas extravagantly but the absence of it here made the ache of displacement settle heavy in my chest. Even if I’d only half-participated in the holiday back then, its laughter and warmth had always been a comforting constant.

Teyvat moved without pause. The winds of Mondstadt whipped across snow-buried plains, Sumeru’s ever-shifting leaves played on the breeze and Liyue’s lanterns flickered against a fading sky. It was timeless and unchanging, as if the universe was indifferent to the celebration I longed for. But like the decorations I’d strung up, Christmas had no place here. And in that knowledge, my homesickness deepened, the distance between my old world and this one stretching farther.

Suddenly, the door creaked open, and I startled, my gaze snapped to the figure entering. Alhaitham’s silhouette was outlined against the dim light of Teyvat’s evening and in his hand was a small neatly wrapped package, the paper a rich shade of crimson, tied with thin, silver silk that shimmered softly in the light.

“You’re back,” I mustered, rising slightly from my seat.

“I am,” His gaze swept over me, and a crease formed between his brows. “You look troubled.”

I offered a fragile smile, “Just thinking about… you know.” I trailed off, eyes drifting to the window where whimsy unbeknownst to me twinkled in the inky expanse above.

Without preamble, he extended the gift toward me. “Here.”

I blinked in surprise, looking from his hand to his face. “What’s this for?”

“Isn’t it customary to exchange gifts for… Christmas?”

The word fell from his lips tentatively, as though testing its weight. His eyes searched mine for any sign that he had mispronounced it. Then, a bittersweet ache unfurled in my chest.

“You… remembered?”

He remembered. Even in passing, even if I hadn’t explained it in detail, he had remembered. And more than that, he had acted on it.

“You mentioned it once,” he replied, the faintest hint of awkwardness colouring his tone. “I don’t fully understand the tradition, but it seemed important to you.” He paused, then added softly, “I thought it might remind you of home.”

My fingers brushed the wrapping paper, tracing its edges as a quiet laugh escaped me. “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”

“It matters to you. If it makes this place feel less foreign, then it’s no trouble at all.” He spoke as though his sentiment was the simplest truth in the world.

I bit my lip, his words filling the emptiness in my heart like the flickering flame of a candle in the dark. Slowly, I unwrapped the gift, the paper falling away to reveal a delicate glass ornament, its shape a perfect, crystalline star. It caught the lamplight, scattering prisms across the room like a reflection of something celestial—like fragments of a distant sky.

“It’s not much,” he almost sounded apologetic, “but stars seem to hold significance in your world’s imagery for this holiday.”

I stared down at the gift, my vision blurring as the sting of tears welled unexpectedly. The ornament trembled in my grasp, held close to my chest as the first drops slipped free, unstoppable. “Thank you,” I whispered, so softly it felt like the words might dissolve and me with it.

Watching me closely, a shadow of concern crossed his face, as though uncertain whether he had made me uncomfortable. “You’re crying…” His voice wavered, caught somewhere between a statement and a question.

I wiped at my tears, smiling through them. “They’re happy tears,” I told him. “I really needed this.”

Alhaitham sat beside me with the same calmness that defined his every action. The silence now brimmed with a bubbling warmth, deeply felt like a steadfast anchor.

“If you’d like,” he started, “then we’ll celebrate it. Here, every year. However you wish.”

His offer settled gently. “I would like that,” I said, already untethered.

Alhaitham nodded, brushing his hands against mine, the touch so tender it seemed to carry a promise with a three word phrase hanging in the air. As the glass star shimmered between us, the ache of homesickness began to ebb. In its place bloomed a sense of belonging.

A realisation that home was here. Home was now. And it had been all along.

© 2024 grimmweepers — do not repost, copy, translate, modify my work on any platform

divider: @/adornedwithlight

[yoursinisforgiven]

SKIN TISSUE ──

pairing: xanthus x reader (love) x dontis

cw: pure filth. (smut), afab reader, threeway, porn with feelings, mentions of dontis’s listener (hunter) & their father, reader passes out, religious symbolism, mentions of alcohol, xanthus feeds off of dontis, bloodplay, light spanking, mfm aspects, infidelity (i suppose), no use of condoms, breeding without the intentions of pregnancy, anal (reader’s not receiving), spit used as lubricant, multiple orgasms. oral (male receiving) vaginal fingering, penetrational sex, floor sex.

you are responsible for your own media consumption.

The smell of herbs and sizzling garlic filled the air, a quiet symphony in the otherwise silent kitchen. 

Dontis moved with effortless grace, his hands deftly chopping fresh basil, the rhythm of his knife almost hypnotic. “Do you believe,” he asked suddenly, his voice soft but laced with a thoughtful edge, “that people are meant to suffer to understand what it means to live? Or is suffering just… meaningless cruelty dressed up as divine design?”

His words slithered into the quiet, wrapping around your thoughts like vines. You leaned against the counter, watching him work, the question settling heavily between you. “I’m not sure,” you replied, your voice quieter than you’d intended. “Maybe it’s both. Or neither. Suffering changes people, but whether it’s meaningful depends on what we do with it.”

He turned slightly, the faintest smile curling his lips. “Interesting perspective,” he murmured. “Almost pragmatic, but not quite. It sounds to me like someone trying to reconcile chaos with order.” His gaze lingered on you, sharp and unyielding, like he was peeling back the layers of your soul one by one.

As he turned back to the stove, you felt it—a flicker of something foreign, something wrong. You couldn’t explain it, but in that moment, you saw him for what he truly was. A serpent. A deceiver. 

The serpent beguiled me, and I did eat.

The thought struck you like a hammer. His every word, his every movement, felt like a calculated strike against the bond you shared with Xanthus. That bond was sacred, wasn’t it? A covenant, a tether blessed by something beyond comprehension. Yet here was Dontis, whispering truths and half-truths, sowing seeds of doubt with his silken voice. His charm wasn’t innocent; it was poison wrapped in honey, tempting you to take the bite that would undo everything.

The thought struck like a lightning bolt, your bond with Xanthus stirring as if in warning. You pulled back slightly, your gaze darting to the delicate bracelet on your wrist—a physical reminder of the connection you shared with him. Dontis’s presence felt dangerous, not because he threatened you physically, but because of the way he made you think, feel, wonder.

“You know,” he said, breaking the silence, “you remind me of something this dish always makes me think of—a delicate balance of bitterness and sweetness. Too much of either, and it’s ruined. But find the right harmony, and it’s perfection.”

The words sent a shiver through you, not because of their meaning, but because of the way he said them, as though he were speaking about you, to you, and not the dish. You realized then, in that fleeting moment, that he was dangerous in a way Xanthus had never been: not a predator, but a temptation. A choice.

“I should check on Xanthus,” you murmured abruptly, stepping back, breaking the fragile thread of the moment before it could tighten around you. Dontis looked up, his expression unreadable, the shadow of a smile still lingering.

“Of course,” he said, turning his attention back to the stove. “But remember—sometimes it’s the choices we don’t make that haunt us most.”

 ──

Surely God had been testing you, testing your loyalty, your endurance. Dontis was an incubus—surely he had been doing this on purpose, right?

His every movement seemed calculated, designed to draw attention, to spark desire, even when you tried desperately not to notice. The way his laughter lingered just a second too long, the way his gaze seemed to pierce through you as if he knew every thought in your head. It was maddening.

Xanthus stood nearby–despite you offering him to sit next to you, he assured he had to keep a ‘lookout.’, a silent sentinel, but his presence did little to ground you against the whirlwind of emotions Dontis stirred. The bond you shared with Xanthus hummed faintly, like a distant melody struggling to break through the noise of Dontis's presence. Was it enough to shield you?

Dontis leaned closer, his voice like silk, laced with both mockery and intrigue. “Am I making you uncomfortable?” he asked, his lips curling into a knowing smile. “It’s not intentional, I promise. It’s just… my nature.”

“Dontis,” Xanthus’s voice cut through the moment, low and warning. “Enough.”

The incubus’s smile widened, but he leaned back, his expression a portrait of feigned innocence. “I’m merely being a gracious host,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “You know me, Xanny. I’ve always been accommodating.”

Something flickered in Xanthus’s eyes—a brief, almost imperceptible hesitation. It was gone in an instant, replaced by his usual stoic demeanor, but it was enough to make you wonder.

And yet, as the incubus’s laughter echoed softly, you couldn’t help but wonder if you’d already failed just by letting the thought cross your mind.

You swallowed the spit gathering in your mouth. This was one moment of many, and with it, you were able to come to three conclusions.

First, Dontis was absolutely doing this on purpose. There was no mistaking the deliberate way he manipulated the space around him, the calculated charm in his every word and action. This wasn’t just his nature; it was a game, and you were the unwitting pawn.

Second, Dontis thrived on pushing boundaries. He wasn’t merely testing you; he was testing the strength of your relationship with Xanthus, probing for cracks he could exploit. Whether out of amusement or something more calculated, you couldn’t tell, but it made you all the more determined to hold firm

Third, and perhaps most unsettling, some part of you wasn’t sure if you wanted the tension to stop. It was a dangerous thought, one that you quickly pushed aside, but it lingered like a shadow at the edge of your mind. Did this mean you were weak, or simply human?

You glanced toward Xanthus, hoping for a moment of clarity, but his face was unreadable, his gaze fixed firmly on Dontis. The vampire’s presence was steady, grounding, but his silence spoke volumes. He was giving you space to navigate this, to prove your loyalty—to yourself as much as to him.

“You’re quiet,” Dontis remarked, breaking the silence. His tone was teasing, but his eyes gleamed with curiosity. “Deep in thought, perhaps? I do have that effect on people.”

You straightened, forcing a steadiness into your voice. “Some of us value thinking over speaking,” you replied, the words sharp enough to wipe the smirk from Dontis’s face for a fleeting moment—only for it to soon return. 

Xanthus’s lips quirked upward ever so slightly in approval, a subtle but reassuring sign that your resolve had not gone unnoticed. The bond hummed stronger, a gentle reminder of where your heart truly lay, even as the challenges loomed large.

You closed your eyes and leaned back against the couch. Its upholstery was a deep shade of purple—not bright or garish, but rich and sultry, an echo of Dontis himself. It was as though the very fabric of his home was steeped in his essence, every corner of the space designed to draw you further into his world. The soft velvet beneath your fingertips whispered of indulgence, temptation, and secrets better left unspoken.  

The air felt thick, almost tangible, laden with the faint scent of incense and something indefinable—something uniquely Dontis. It clung to you, invading your senses no matter how hard you tried to resist. Even the dim lighting seemed complicit, casting shadows that flickered and danced, teasing the edges of your vision.  

This was more than a house. It was a reflection of him, a stage upon which he played his games with unnerving skill. And you? You were part of the performance, caught between the lure of his charm and the strength of your bond with Xanthus.  

Xanthus, who remained steadfast, a silent protector in this den of sin. The faint hum of your connection thrummed louder now, a lifeline grounding you in the face of Dontis’s relentless pull. His presence was your anchor, a reminder that there was more to you than the doubts and desires Dontis sought to awaken.  

For a moment, you let the tension ease from your shoulders, inhaling deeply as you tried to reclaim a sense of balance. Dontis’s world was suffocating, intoxicating, but it was also temporary. You had endured this long; you could endure a little longer.  

"Comfortable now?" Dontis’s voice broke through the quiet, smooth and amused. You opened your eyes to find him watching you, his expression one of feigned innocence, though the glint in his eyes betrayed his true intentions.  

You didn’t answer immediately, letting the silence stretch just long enough to unsettle him. Then, with a calm you didn’t quite feel, you replied, “The couch is nice, though it seems a little too fitting for you. I’m not sure whether to find that amusing or suspicious.”  

Dontis laughed, the sound like warm honey with a bitter aftertaste. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, leaning back himself, the picture of ease. “It’s always gratifying to be... unforgettable.”  

From the corner of your eye, you caught Xanthus’s faint smirk, the subtle curve of his lips like a quiet victory. Despite the incubus’s games, you weren’t as easily swayed as he might have hoped.  

The room seemed to exhale with you, the tension loosening its grip. For now, at least, you had found your footing again. But the night was far from over, and in Dontis’s lair, the real test was only just beginning.

 ──

New Orleans was alive with glamour, music, and the tantalizing aroma of food that seemed to waft from every corner. The city was a living, breathing entity, its streets pulsing with a vibrancy that could only exist here. It took no small effort to coax Xanthus out of the sanctuary of Dontis’s home—his carefully constructed fortress of control.

The Trimidainy, had made Xanthus almost painfully vigilant. It wasn’t paranoia, exactly, but a relentless need to maintain constant awareness and control. Xanthus didn’t trust the world beyond his walls, not fully. He had his reasons, of course, though he rarely spoke of his thoughts. Dontis had mentioned it in passing, almost casually, as though it were obvious. “He’s always been that way,” the incubus had said with a smirk, though there was an undertone of something like exasperation.

The streets had an almost ethereal glow, the gas lanterns lining the narrow alleys casting flickering light onto cobblestone paths. Music spilled from every corner—haunting jazz melodies that seemed to weave into the humid night air, enticing you to linger. But there was no lingering with Xanthus. He moved with purpose, his eyes scanning every shadow as though he expected something—or someone—to emerge from it.  

You trailed behind him, the bond between you a quiet reassurance, though his tension was palpable. Dontis sauntered a step ahead of you, his stride languid and almost dismissive, as though he owned the very streets beneath his feet. He tossed a careless smile at passersby, some of whom turned to watch him go, entranced despite themselves. The power he carried wasn’t merely in his nature but in his effortless ability to command attention.  

“Relax, Xanthus,” Dontis drawled, his tone both amused and faintly mocking. “No one here poses a threat to your precious fortress of paranoia. It’s New Orleans. Let the city work its magic.”  

Xanthus shot him a look that could have cut glass but said nothing, his jaw tight. You could feel his frustration like a ripple through the bond, though he held it back with his usual stoicism.  

Dontis chuckled, clearly pleased with himself, and turned to you instead. “What about you? Surely you’re not immune to the charms of this place. The music, the lights… the promise of secrets waiting to be uncovered.”  

You glanced around, taking in the sights. The air was thick with the mingling scents of spices, perfume, and something faintly metallic that made your stomach twist in a way you couldn’t quite place. It was intoxicating, but also unnerving—like the city itself was alive and watching.  

“It’s beautiful,” you admitted, though your voice held a hint of caution.  

“See?” Dontis gestured at you with a flourish. “At least someone here has taste.”  

Xanthus ignored him, his gaze fixed on a small group of musicians gathered on the corner. Their song was slow and mournful, a melody that seemed to resonate with something deep within you. Xanthus lingered, his posture softening just slightly, and for a moment, you saw a glimpse of the man beneath the armor he so carefully maintained.  

The moment passed quickly. Xanthus turned sharply, his voice low but firm. “We should keep moving.”  

Dontis rolled his eyes but fell into step beside him, though the tension between them was almost visible. “You’re wasting the night,” Dontis said, his voice lilting with exasperation. “There’s so much to see, to experience. Honestly, Xanny, I don’t know how you can live like this.”  

Xanthus didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than you expected. “I need to keep them safe Dontis—it is my duty..”  

Dontis raised an eyebrow, but there was a flicker of something in his expression—curiosity, perhaps, or recognition. He didn’t press further, though his silence felt heavy, as though the conversation had only just begun.  

The three of you wandered deeper into the city, the vibrant energy of the French Quarter giving way to quieter streets where the buildings loomed taller, their wrought-iron balconies casting intricate shadows. It was here, away from the crowds, that the city’s true age became apparent.  

“This,” Dontis said suddenly, his voice softer now, “is where the magic lingers.”  

You looked around, unsure of what he meant, but there was a strange stillness in the air—a feeling that the past was closer here, brushing against the edges of the present. The city seemed to hold its breath, and for a moment, even Xanthus paused.  

“This city has seen things,” Dontis continued, his tone uncharacteristically serious. “Things most people can’t even imagine. Blood, love, betrayal… it soaks into the very bones of the place.”  

There was something in his voice, a hint of wistfulness that caught you off guard. You glanced at Xanthus, but his expression was unreadable, his gaze fixed on Dontis as though he were trying to decipher a puzzle.  

“Don’t get lost in it,” Xanthus said finally, his tone sharp.  

Dontis laughed, the sound echoing softly against the walls. “Oh, Xanny,” he said, his smirk returning. “Getting lost is the best part.”  

The tension between them was like a taut wire, vibrating with unspoken words. You felt caught between them, their history a shadow that loomed larger with every step you took.  

“Where are we going?” you asked, breaking the silence.  

“Patience,” Dontis said, his smile sly. “You’ll see soon enough.”  

And so you followed, the city wrapping itself around you like a living thing, its secrets waiting to be revealed. But with every step, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were walking deeper into something far more dangerous than the night itself.  

──

The further you walked, the quieter New Orleans became, its bustling energy fading into a softer, more intimate rhythm. The narrow streets were kissed by the glow of lantern light, casting warm golden tones over the cobblestones. You followed Dontis as he led you through a labyrinth of alleys and courtyards, the city’s heartbeat slowing in these hidden spaces.  

“Not much further,” Dontis said over his shoulder, his voice smooth and unhurried. His steps were deliberate, his presence magnetic even when he wasn’t trying—or perhaps especially because he wasn’t trying.  

Xanthus followed closely, his posture stiff as always, though there was a subtle shift in him. The tension in his shoulders was less severe, the faintest relaxation in his gait betraying the pull of the city’s charm—or perhaps, something else.  

The three of you emerged into a secluded courtyard hidden behind wrought-iron gates. It was like stepping into another world: a single oak tree dominated the space, its gnarled branches heavy with lanterns that bathed the area in flickering light. A fountain bubbled quietly in the center, its gentle melody mingling with the faint hum of the night.  

Dontis paused beneath the oak, his silhouette a striking contrast to the golden glow surrounding him. “This,” he said, spreading his arms, “is one of my favorite places in the city. Quiet. Private. Beautiful, wouldn’t you agree?” His words lingered, heavier than they should have been, and his gaze flicked to you briefly before settling on Xanthus.  

“I've only showed one other human this place, a hunte—”

Xanthus moved cautiously, his sharp eyes scanning the courtyard before stepping closer to the fountain. “Why bring us here?” he asked interrupting the incubus, his voice low, though not hostile.  

“Because,” Dontis said, his tone softening, “even you, Xanthus, deserve moments like this. Even you can appreciate beauty when you’re not too busy pushing it away.”  

Xanthus’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he lowered himself to sit on the edge of the fountain, his hands brushing over the stone as if grounding himself.  

You hesitated, caught between the two of them. Dontis stood under the tree, a figure of deliberate ease, while Xanthus sat by the fountain, a quiet storm of unspoken thoughts.  

“Don’t let him intimidate you,” Dontis said, his tone playful but carrying an edge of something deeper. “The fountain is plenty big for two.”  

Three, you thought but held your tongue.  

You moved toward Xanthus, sitting beside him. The bond between you hummed softly, a tether that steadied you even in the face of the tension Dontis so expertly conjured. But tonight, the bond felt different—alive, as if it were its own presence between you. It pulsed faintly, a living thread weaving through you and Xanthus, growing stronger not in opposition to Dontis but because of him.  

Xanthus didn’t look at you, but you felt the faintest shift in him, an almost imperceptible easing of his guard.  

Dontis remained where he was, leaning against the trunk of the oak tree. His gaze lingered on the two of you, something unspoken flickering in his eyes. “You know,” he said, his voice quieter now, “this city has a way of exposing what’s hidden. Sometimes it reveals things we’d rather keep buried.”  

His words hung in the air, and for a moment, you thought they might have been meant for Xanthus. But when you looked up, Dontis’s gaze was locked on you. It wasn’t the usual teasing glint—it was something deeper, rawer. A yearning that made your breath hitch.  

Xanthus seemed to sense it too, his hand tensing against the stone. “Dontis,” he said, his voice sharp, “whatever game you’re playing, stop.”  

“I’m not playing a game,” Dontis replied, his tone softer than you’d ever heard it. He straightened, stepping closer, though he stopped a few feet away. “Not tonight.”  

You looked between the two of them, caught in the weight of the moment. Dontis’s eyes softened as they held yours, his usual smugness replaced with something achingly sincere. “You’re stronger than you realize,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “But even the strong need to be seen. To be wanted.”  

Your heart twisted at his words, the vulnerability in them cutting through your defenses. It wasn’t just a ploy; there was truth in his gaze, a longing that made it impossible to look away.  

Xanthus shifted beside you, his presence a steadying force. His hand brushed against yours—not just a fleeting gesture, but a deliberate connection. The bond between you surged in response, like a second heartbeat, alive and radiant. And for the first time, you understood: Dontis wasn’t unraveling it. He was strengthening it.  

His words, his presence, his relentless push against your walls—they weren’t breaking you apart. They were forcing you and Xanthus to acknowledge the depth of what you shared. And yet, there was something else—a thread of tension woven into the bond itself, something that pulsed faintly in Dontis’s direction.  

He saw it too. You could tell by the way his gaze lingered, not with triumph, but with something quieter. You felt Xanthus’s hand tighten on yours, a grounding force that didn’t deny the truth in Dontis’s voice.  

The night seemed to hold its breath, the three of you caught in a moment too fragile to shatter. You glanced at Xanthus, his eyes dark and searching, and then back at Dontis, who stood before you with a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to show.  

The bond between you hummed louder now, not as a barrier, but as a bridge. It was alive, growing, adapting to encompass truths you hadn’t dared to face.  

In this quiet corner of New Orleans, hidden from the world, the weight of what lay unspoken between you all pressed down like the humid air, heavy with possibility. 

 Music poured from open doorways, laughter bubbled over from shadowy corners, and the aroma of spices and sweet pralines wafted through the air, mingling with the faint scent of jasmine. But in the quiet, tucked-away courtyard where the three of you lingered, the world felt suspended, holding its breath.

Dontis leaned casually against the wrought-iron railing, his eyes glinting in the dim light like dark jewels. “You’ve both become... quite the pair,” he said, his tone light but tinged with something unreadable. His gaze lingered on Xanthus for a moment longer than it should have, a flicker of something in his expression—fondness, regret, maybe both.

Xanthus didn’t reply immediately. His grip on your hand was steady, grounding, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed the unease he refused to voice. “We’re stronger together,” he said finally, his voice low and firm. “That’s all that matters.”

Dontis tilted his head, a smile curling on his lips that was neither mocking nor entirely sincere. “Strong, indeed,” he murmured, his gaze flickering briefly to you, then back to Xanthus. “I can see why you’d hold onto it so tightly this time.”

This time. The words echoed in your mind, subtle yet loaded, like a secret whispered just loud enough to tease but not to reveal. There was history here, intricate and layered, but it stayed in the shadows, unspoken. It made the air between them hum with an unnameable tension, a thread you couldn’t quite grasp but couldn’t ignore.

The bond pulsed faintly within you, alive and aware, as though it too was listening, learning, feeding off the emotions swirling between the three of you. Where you had once thought Dontis was a threat to it, you now felt the opposite. His presence, his words, even the emotions he seemed to draw out—none of it was fraying the connection you shared with Xanthus. If anything, it was weaving the bond tighter, making it stronger, more vivid, more alive. 

You had been so quick to see him as a serpent, a deceiver. A threat to everything you held sacred. Your bond with Xanthus had seemed untouchable—a divine covenant, a blessing etched into your very soul. And yet, Dontis’s words didn’t feel like poison anymore. They felt… like truth. Not a truth that sought to unravel, but one that sought to reveal.

You leaned against the counter, staring at the faint reflection of yourself in the window. Was this what the garden was truly about—That’s what he was, the garden. Not the garden itself, but what it represents. Choice. Change, Not the loss of innocence, not the bite of temptation, but the moment where choice created meaning. The moment when free will transformed the static into the infinite.

“Dontis,” you said softly, drawing his attention. His gaze shifted to you, dark and probing, and for a moment, it felt like he could see into the very heart of you. “You’re not as detached as you pretend to be.”

A laugh escaped him, low and velvety, but it lacked his usual sharp edge. “Detached,” he echoed, as if tasting the word. “Maybe I’m just... careful.” His eyes flicked to Xanthus again, something unspoken passing between them before he looked away, his expression shuttered. 

Xanthus’s hand tightened around yours briefly, a silent acknowledgment, though of what, you couldn’t quite say. “Careful is one word for it,” he said, his tone edged but not unkind. “Calculated might be another.”

Dontis smiled, a faint, bittersweet curve of his lips. “And you would know.”

There it was again, that subtle thread of something deeper between them, something steeped in a past you weren’t privy to but could feel in the air, in the way they spoke, the way they moved around each other. It wasn’t hostility, not exactly. It was... complicated.

The tension shifted, not dissipating but evolving, becoming something heavier, more charged. The courtyard felt smaller, the space between the three of you narrowing as though drawn by invisible strings. Dontis straightened, his eyes lingering on you, then on Xanthus, his smile softening into something quieter, something more honest.

“Shall we call it a night?” His voice was smooth, almost teasing, but there was a vulnerability in the way he asked, as though he wasn’t sure what the answer would be.

Xanthus glanced at you, his expression unreadable but his bond with you thrumming faintly, reassuringly. “Let’s go,” he said, his voice steady. His eyes flicked to Dontis, and after a moment’s hesitation, he added, “You’re welcome to join us.”

Surprise flickered across Dontis’s face, quickly masked by a smile that was almost too casual. “How generous of you,” he said lightly, though his voice carried a warmth that betrayed the act. “I’ll take you up on that.”

──

As you walked hand in hand with Xanthus, the city’s nocturnal hum began to fade, replaced by the steady rhythm of your bond. It pulsed with warmth, a living connection that had carried you through trials and doubts. Tonight, however, it felt different—richer, as if the presence of Dontis had become a note woven seamlessly into its melody. Not discordant but... complementary.

The incubus walked quietly beside you, his gaze flickering from the ground to the horizon, then back to the two of you. His usual smirk had softened into something thoughtful, even vulnerable. It was an expression you rarely saw, but one that stirred a strange ache in your chest.

On an impulse, you reached out and clasped Dontis’s hand, intertwining your fingers with his. The warmth of his touch was immediate, steady yet electric. He glanced at you, his lips parting slightly in surprise, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, his grip tightened, a silent acknowledgment of the gesture’s significance.

Xanthus, on your other side, gave your hand a gentle squeeze. The weight of his gaze settled on the intertwined fingers between you and Dontis, but he didn’t seem upset. If anything, his expression softened as his eyes returned to yours, his own hand grounding you further. The bond, once a private thread connecting only you and Xanthus, seemed to hum louder now, expanding, welcoming. It was alive, growing, strengthened not by division but by the shared energy flowing between the three of you.

The walk back to Dontis’s home felt longer than it was, each step steeped in unspoken words, shared glances, and the tension that coiled tighter with every passing moment. The air carried a charge that was impossible to ignore, a promise of something transformative waiting just beyond the threshold.

As you walked along the cobblestone streets, your gaze wandered to Dontis, whose attention seemed anchored to a bar you were passing. His expression, so often composed of teasing smirks and playful glances, now held something more subdued—something unspoken.

“What is it?” you asked, your voice cutting through the quiet.

“Nothing,” Dontis replied, though his voice lacked its usual conviction. His eyes lingered on the bar, its old wooden sign faded but still legible. “I just… I met someone there. A hunter. Long ago.”

Your brows furrowed slightly as you studied him. There was something in the way his shoulders tensed, the faint flicker of nostalgia or regret crossing his face. “Go on,” you prompted, sensing the weight of what he wasn’t saying.

He let out a soft laugh, the sound tinged with self-deprecation. “It’s a long story,” he murmured, his fingers brushing absently against the edge of his coat.

“We have all the time in the world,” Xanthus said, his voice low but steady. Dontis met Xanthus’s gaze, and for a moment, the incubus’s carefully crafted mask slipped. His eyes softened, the usual glint of mischief replaced by something raw and unguarded.

──

When you finally arrived, Dontis opened the door with a graceful sweep, his home aglow with a dim, golden light. The warmth of the room wrapped around you as you stepped inside, the rich, velvety scent of incense brushing against your senses. The door clicked shut behind you, sealing you away from the outside world.

Dontis turned to face you both, his usual playful smirk replaced by an expression that was unreadable, almost tender. His gaze flickered between you and Xanthus, searching, lingering. “I’d ask if you wanted a drink,” he murmured, his voice lower now, quieter, “but I think that’s not what anyone needs tonight.”

Xanthus took a step closer, his presence as steadying as ever, though his eyes gleamed with something unspoken. “You always were good at reading the room,” he said, his tone soft, yet there was a weight behind the words—a history that hinted at shared moments long buried but never forgotten.

Dontis let out a quiet chuckle, though there was no mockery in it this time. “I try.” His eyes met yours, and the vulnerability in his gaze was startling. “This… whatever this is… it’s not something I want to ruin.”

“You’re not ruining anything,” you said, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions brewing inside you. “If anything, you’re part of what makes it stronger.”

The incubus seemed momentarily at a loss for words, his fingers still entwined with yours. Xanthus stepped closer, his free hand brushing against Dontis’s shoulder—a simple touch, but one that spoke volumes.

“We’re all here,” Xanthus said, his voice rich with meaning. “About the past, I’m—.”

“Enough, Xanny.”

The bond between you all seemed to thrum in agreement, alive with the promise of what was to come. 

As the three of you stood in the softly lit room, the atmosphere was charged with unspoken emotions and a palpable tension that seemed to thrum in the very air around you. The bond connecting you and Xanthus pulsed with a newfound intensity, now harmoniously intertwined with Dontis's presence, creating a triad of connection that felt both exhilarating and profound.

Xanthus's gaze met yours, his eyes reflecting a mixture of love and desire, silently seeking your consent for the uncharted path you were all about to explore. Dontis, usually so confident and teasing, now watched with a vulnerability that spoke of his longing to be part of this intimate convergence.

With a slight nod, you affirmed your willingness, and Xanthus stepped closer, his hand gently caressing your cheek before his lips met yours in a tender, lingering kiss. The familiar warmth of his embrace grounded you, even as the excitement of the unknown sent shivers down your spine.

As you parted, Dontis moved nearer, his eyes searching yours for permission. You reached out, your fingers grazing his cheek, and he leaned into your touch, his breath hitching slightly. When his lips finally met yours, the kiss was both tentative and deep, a melding of curiosity and suppressed desire that had been building between you.

The three of you gravitated toward the large plush seating area, a silent agreement guiding your movements. In this intimate space, words became unnecessary, The air was thick with tension and anticipation as the three of you settled onto the plush, velvet-covered chaise. The soft glow of the room enveloped you, casting a warm, intimate light over your entwined forms.

Xanthus's hand found yours, his fingers interlacing with yours in a gesture of comfort and connection. His touch was familiar, yet now imbued with a new layer of intensity, a silent acknowledgment of the shared bond that had grown between the three of you.

Dontis, usually so confident and teasing, now watched with a vulnerability that spoke of his longing to be part of this intimate convergence. His gaze flickered between you and Xanthus, seeking, searching for a sign of acceptance, of invitation.

As if sensing your unspoken consent, Dontis shifted closer, his hand coming to rest on your thigh. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver through you, a delicious anticipation of what was to come. His lips brushed against your neck, a feather-light touch that sent goosebumps racing across your skin.

Xanthus's presence remained a steadying force, his hand moving to cup your face, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze. His eyes, usually so guarded, now shone with a mixture of love and desire, a silent pledge of devotion that transcended the physical.

The air seemed to crackle with energy as the three of you moved together, a dance of touch and caress that was both familiar and new. Dontis's hands explored your body with a gentle reverence, his touch igniting sparks of pleasure that mingled with the warmth of Xanthus's embrace.

As the moments passed, the barriers between you began to dissolve, the boundaries of your individual selves blurring into a single, harmonious entity. The bond that had grown between you and Xanthus now pulsed with a newfound intensity, intertwined with Dontis's presence, creating a triad of connection that felt both exhilarating and profound.

The room seemed to fade away, the outside world ceasing to exist as you lost yourself in the sensations of the moment. The scent of incense mingled with the heady aroma of arousal, Xanthus's eyes, already darkened with desire, flashed with a hunger that went beyond the physical as he gazed upon your exposed neck. His gaze was intense, almost feral, as he leaned in closer, his cool breath ghosting over your racing pulse. You could feel the heat of his body pressing against yours, his arousal evident even through the fabric of his clothing.

"May I?" Xanthus murmured, his voice a low, hypnotic rumble that sent shivers down your spine. At your whispered consent, he didn't hesitate. His lips parted, revealing the glint of his sharp fangs, and then he was upon you, his mouth latching onto the tender skin of your neck.

The sensation was unlike anything you had ever experienced - a sharp, intense pleasure-pain that had you gasping and arching into him. Xanthus's tongue lapped at your skin, his fangs piercing, and then the first draw of your blood hitting his palate. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through his chest and into your own.

As Xanthus drank, you could feel a corresponding ache building between your thighs, a throbbing need that grew with each pull of his mouth. His hips began to move, rocking against yours in a slow, deliberate rhythm that mirrored the cadence of his feeding. The hard length of him pressed against your core, separated only by the thin barrier of your clothing, stoking the flames of your arousal.

As Xanthus continued to feed, his hands began to roam your body with a newfound urgency. He tugged at your clothing, practically tearing it in his haste to remove the barrier between your skin and his questing fingers. Buttons popped, fabric ripped, and then his hands were on your bare flesh, calloused palms skimming over the soft curves of your body.

Dontis, not to be outdone, joined in the fray of disrobing you both. His deft fingers made quick work of the remaining scraps of your clothing, leaving you bare and exposed to their hungry gazes. The cool air kissed your heated skin, pebbling your flesh and making you ache for their touch.

"Exquisite," Dontis breathed, his voice rough with desire. "Even more beautiful than I imagined." 

Lost in the haze of sensation, you barely registered Dontis's movements until you felt calloused fingers skimmed over the swell of your breasts, teasing the sensitive peaks until they pebbled and strained towards his touch.

Dontis leaned down, his tongue flicking out to lace over one straining nipple before drawing it into his mouth. He suckled gently, his teeth grazing the sensitive bud, sending jolts of electricity straight to your core. His other hand continued its exploration, drifting lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your pants to cup your mound.

The dual sensations of Xanthus feeding and Dontis's touch were overwhelming, pushing you closer to the edge of a precipice you'd never before approached. 

Xanthus pulled back from your neck, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips as he licked the last drops of blood from his fangs. His eyes, now darkened with lust and power, roamed over your flushed face, taking in the dazed expression of pleasure that graced your features.

"Dontis," Xanthus purred, his gaze flicking to the incubus who was still lavishing attention on your breasts. "Have you ever tasted the blood of a human?"

Dontis paused in his ministrations, his head snapping up to meet Xanthus's gaze. There was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes, a hint of the insatiable hunger that was a part of his very nature. "No," he admitted, his voice a low rumble. "Never."

A wicked glint entered Xanthus's eyes, a predatory smile curving his lips. In one swift motion, Xanthus grabbed Dontis by the hair, pulling him up and into a searing kiss. The vampire's tongue delved into the incubus's mouth, forcing the taste of your blood onto Dontis's tongue. Dontis's eyes widened, a low groan escaping him as the unique flavor of your essence flooded his senses.

Xanthus deepened the kiss, his fangs grazing Dontis's lower lip, the coppery tang of blood mingling with the heat of their passion. Dontis's hands fisted in Xanthus's hair, pulling him closer, wanting more of that intoxicating taste.

As the two men lost themselves in each other, you lay back, your chest heaving, your body still thrumming with the aftershocks of pleasure. Your gaze drifted over the erotic scene before you Xanthus and Dontis locked in a passionate embrace, their mouths and hands roaming over each other's bodies with a hunger that was both primal and arousing.

The sight alone was enough to reignite the fire within you, and you found yourself arching into the cool air, craving more touch, more sensation. Your hands drifted down your body, fingers teasing over the sensitive skin of your stomach. 

As they explored your body, their own clothing began to fall away, revealing the hard planes and sinewy muscles beneath. Xanthus's chest was a work of sculpted perfection, his abdomen a six-pack of lean, taut muscle. Dontis's body was no less impressive, his broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, his skin a warm, dusky hue that spoke of his incubus heritage.

The sight of them, all raw power and barely leashed desire, had your mouth going dry and your heart pounding against your ribs. You reached out, your hands greedy to explore the expanse of their chests, to feel the heat of their skin, the play of muscle beneath flesh.

Xanthus caught your wrist, bringing your hand to his mouth. He pressed a kiss to your palm, his tongue flicking out to taste your skin, before guiding your hand lower, over the ridges of his abdomen, to the thick, hard length of him. He was impressive, long and thick and throbbing with a life of its own.

Dontis mirrored Xanthus's actions, taking your other hand and guiding it to his own impressive arousal. The heat of him seared your palm, the silky hardness a stark contrast to the velvety softness of the skin. He hissed through his teeth as your fingers curled around him, his hips rocking into your touch.

You began to stroke them, your grip firm and purposeful, your thumbs swirling over the sensitive heads to catch the beads of moisture that leaked from the tips. Xanthus's eyes fluttered shut, a low moan escaping his lips as you worked his thick length, while Dontis's gaze remained locked on yours, his expression one of pure, unadulterated lust.

As you continued to pump their cocks, Dontis's hand joined yours on Xanthus's shaft, his long fingers wrapping around yours, stroking in sync with your movements. Together, you pleasured the vampire, your combined touches making him shudder and gasp, his hips rocking into your joined fists.

Spurred on by Xanthus's reactions, Dontis leaned down, getting on his knees, his tongue flicking out to taste the weeping slit of the vampire's cock. Xanthus let out a sharp hiss, his fingers tangling in Dontis's hair, holding him in place as the incubus's tongue swirled around the swollen head, lapping up the salty-sweet essence that leaked from the tip.

Emboldened, you joined him—sliding off the plush coach and joining him on your knees leaning in your tongue joining Dontis's in its exploration of Xanthus's thick length. Together, you lapped and suckled at the vampire's flesh, your tongues dancing and twining around his throbbing cock. Xanthus's grip on Dontis's hair tightened, a guttural moan tearing from his throat. You could feel the heat building, the air growing thick with the scent of sex and the sound of panting breaths and pleasured cries. Your own arousal mounted, your core clenching and fluttering around nothing as you lost yourself in the act of bringing Xanthus to the brink of ecstasy. 

You and Dontis worked in sync, your mouths exploring every inch of Xanthus's thick, throbbing cock. Your tongues swirled around the swollen head, lapping up the salty-sweet essence that leaked from the tip, the taste of his arousal exploding on your taste buds. You could feel the heat of his skin, the silky hardness that pulsed with a life of its own as you both lavished attention on his impressive length.

Dontis's hand joined yours at the base of Xanthus's shaft, his long fingers wrapping around the thick flesh, stroking in time with the bobbing of your heads. Together, you pumped and suckled, your tongues dancing and twining around his cock, your lips stretching wide to take him deeper into your eager mouths.

You could feel Xanthus's grip on your hair tightening, his hips rocking into the dual assault of your mouths, seeking more of that exquisite pleasure. His moans and growls filled the air, the erotic symphony spurring you on, urging you to bring him closer to the edge of release.

As you pleasured Xanthus, Dontis's hand drifted lower, his fingers slipping between your slick folds. He groaned against Xanthus's flesh as he felt the evidence of your arousal, your body dripping with need. Two fingers plunged into your hot, tight core, pumping in time with the stroking of Xanthus's cock, the combined sensations pushing you both closer to the brink.

You could feel the coil of tension building in your stomach, your body aching for release as you lost yourself in the act of bringing Xanthus to his peak. Your free hand drifted to your breast, kneading the soft mound, plucking at the hardened nipple, the dual stimulation making your head spin with pleasure.

Xanthus's balls tightened, his shaft throbbing against your tongue as he neared his climax. With a curse, he came undone, his hot seed erupting from the tip of his cock, flooding your mouth and Dontis's in thick, creamy ropes. The taste was overwhelming, the sheer volume of his release making you both struggle to swallow it all.

Throughout his intense orgasm, Dontis continued to stroke Xanthus's shaft, coaxing out every last drop of his release, while his fingers pumped into your dripping core, taking you over the edge with him. 

As Xanthus rode out the waves of his intense climax, his grip on your hair tightened to the point of pain, holding your head in place as he emptied himself into your eagerly suckling mouths..

Xanthus's moans and growls softened to low, satisfied rumbles as the last spurts of his release dribbled onto your tongues. Finally, his grip on your hair relaxed, his hands falling away as he slumped back against the plush of the couch, his chest heaving with the force of his breathing.

Dontis released Xanthus's spent cock, his tongue lapping gently at the softening flesh to catch any stray drops of the vampire's essence. 

He turned to you, only then does he pull his fingers from your core. His eyes glinting with mischief and a hunger that was far from satiated, he brings his fingers to his lips sucking on your arousal from them. "You taste divine together," he purred, his voice a low, seductive rumble. 

With that, he captured your lips in a searing kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth to dance with yours. You could taste the mingled flavors of Xanthus's release on his tongue, the salty-sweet essence making your head spin with renewed desire. As you kissed, Dontis's hands roamed your body, stroking and caressing, stoking the flames of your arousal that had only briefly been banked.

Xanthus watched the erotic display through heavy-lidded eyes, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. "Insatiable creatures," he murmured, his voice a low, approving rumble.

You couldn't help but notice that while Xanthus had found his release, Dontis had not. A flicker of concern crossed your mind, followed swiftly by a surge of determination to ensure the incubus was just as satisfied as the vampire.

Breaking the kiss, you trailed your fingers down Dontis's chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. “You have yet to come Dontis”

Dontis's eyes flashed with hunger as he met your gaze, a wicked grin spreading across his face. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you flush against him, letting you feel the hard, aching length of his arousal pressing insistently against your stomach.

Rolling onto your back, you guided Dontis to settle between your thighs, your legs falling open in clear invitation. He settled his hips against yours, the head of his cock nudging against your slick, swollen folds, teasing you with the promise of what was to come. You shiver slightly against the carpet of the floor.

As Dontis began to slowly push forward, easing the thick length of his shaft into your tight heat, Xanthus moved off the couch to kneel behind the incubus. You watched, transfixed, as Dontis shuddered, a low moan escaping him as he felt Xanthus's presence behind him. "Fuck," Dontis gasped, his hips jerking forward, driving him deeper into your welcoming body. 

Emboldened, Xanthus spat directly onto Dontis's hole, watching as the saliva dripped down to coat his fingers. Without warning, he pressed a finger into Dontis's ass, feeling the tight ring of muscle clench around the invading digit. He pumped his finger slowly, working Dontis open.

Meanwhile, you wrapped your legs around Dontis's waist, your heels digging into the small of his back as you urged him deeper,

Xanthus worked a second finger into Dontis's tight hole, then a third, pumping them slowly, stretching the incubus. Dontis grunted and moaned, his hips rocking back against Xanthus's hand, seeking more of that delicious friction. All the while, his own hips never ceased their steady thrusts into your hot, slick channel, the wet sounds of your coupling filling the room.

"Enough," Dontis growled, his voice strained with need. "I need more, Xanthus.”

Xanthus chuckled darkly, removing his fingers and replacing them with the swollen head of his impressive erection. "As you wish," he purred, gripping Dontis's hips tightly and pushing forward.

Dontis threw his head back with a guttural moan as Xanthus's thick shaft breached him, the tight ring of muscle stretching to accommodate the vampire's girth. Xanthus didn't stop until he was fully sheathed, his hips flush against Dontis's ass, his heavy balls resting against the incubus's skin.

You reach a trembling hand up to rub the pad of your thumb along Dontis’s cheek—an attempt at comforting, though you wondered if you found pleasure in the pain.

The dual stimulation of your tight pussy gripping his cock and Xanthus's thick length buried deep in his ass was almost too intense to bear.

Xanthus set a hard, driving rhythm, pounding into Dontis with supernatural strength and speed. The force of his thrusts drove Dontis deeper into you, his cock slamming against that sweet spot deep inside that made you see stars.

"Harder," Dontis demanded, his voice a low, feral snarl. "Fuck me harder, Xanthus."

Growling, Xanthus complied, his hips slapping against Dontis's ass with brutal force, the obscene sound echoing through the room. Dontis soon realized his body was no longer his own as he was used for both of their pleasure.

His cries of ecstasy filled the air, mingling with Xanthus's dark, approving rumbles and your own moans. The room grew thick with the scent of sex and the sound of flesh slapping against flesh, the erotic symphony pushing.

Your inner walls clamped down around Dontis's pistoning shaft, gripping him like a velvet vice as your climax crashed over you. Wave after wave of ecstasy washed through you, your body convulsing and shaking, your toes curling from the sheer intensity of your release. You threw your head back, a silent scream of pure rapture tearing from your throat as your pussy gushed around Dontis's cock, drenching his shaft and balls with your honeyed essence.

Your head felt heavy, as though it were submerged in a fog you couldn’t quite shake. A strange, unnatural warmth coursed through your body, seeping into your limbs and making it difficult to move. Panic began to creep in as your vision blurred, the world around you fading into a wash of brilliant, blinding white.

Xanthus chose that moment to lean down, his lips ghosting over the tender juncture of Dontis's neck and shoulder before sinking his fangs into the soft flesh. Dontis cried out, his voice a mixture of pain and pleasure that echoed through the room. His body convulsed as a bolt of white-hot ecstasy surged through him, the sharp sting of Xanthus's bite melting seamlessly into an overwhelming flood of bliss that left him trembling.

The coppery tang of Dontis's blood spilled onto Xanthus's tongue, rich and intoxicating—a taste he savored not out of hunger, but out of pure, unbridled greed. Each pull from the wound was deliberate, each moment a declaration of dominance, and yet there was an intimacy in the act that left Dontis's heart pounding. “Xanthu—!”

Dontis's words dissolve into a guttural moan as his orgasm crashed over him like a tidal wave, his cock pulsing and throbbing inside you as he found his release. His seed erupted from his shaft, painting your walls with his hot, sticky essence, the sensation pushing him off the edge.

Xanthus groaned above you, his hips stuttering as he rutted into Dontis's spasming ass, chasing his own rapidly approaching climax. The feeling of Dontis's silken walls gripping his cock like a hot, wet fist, along with the erotic sight of your body writhing in pleasure beneath him, was quickly becoming too much for the vampire to withstand.

"Fuck, I'm going to... I can't..." Xanthus grunted, his voice a low, guttural rasp as he teetered on the brink of release. With one final, brutal thrust, he slammed into Dontis's ass, burying himself to the hilt as his orgasm overtook him.

Xanthus threw his head back, unadulterated bliss erupting from his throat as his cock jerked and throbbed, painting Dontis's inner walls. 

As Xanthus's hot seed flooded Dontis's ass, Dontis let out a guttural groan, his body shuddering with the force of his own intense climax. The feeling of Xanthus's thick, pulsing cock throbbing deep inside him, pumping him full of the vampire's potent release, pushed Dontis over the edge once more. His own shaft, still buried to the hilt inside your fluttering pussy, jerked and twitched as he found an almost immediate second release, his seed erupting from his cock to mix with the slick fluids already filling you.

As Xanthus's climax began to subside, he collapsed forward, blanketing Dontis's back with his powerful, sweat-slicked body. Dontis welcomed the weight, making sure to keep him upright. 

 ──

How should I hold my soul, that it may not be touching yours? How should I lift it then above you to where other things are waiting?

Ah, gladly would I lodge it, all forgot, with some lost thing the dark is isolating, on some remote and silent spot that, when your depths vibrate, is not itself vibrating.

You and me—all that lights upon us, though, brings us together like a fiddle-bow drawing one voice from two strings it glides along.

Across what instrument have we been spanned? And what violinist holds us in his hand? O sweetest song.

-rainer maria rilke

──

author's note: said it would take me at least a week and it took me less then a day, true dedication.

[vaguely-concerned]

even at this point in the story and with the romance well and truly confirmed it's very possible that lucanis has never seen even a sliver of rye's naked skin below the throat. very likely no one on the team has yet except possibly emmrich if rye got hurt in battle and needed help patching it up. high-necked watcher garb with gloves and all stay ON at all times. thank god for rye's sake that lucanis' history of romantic interest indicates that surprise bitch he could be kind of into that fhsdkjfas

[nopeferatu]

been thinking about this post lately and i wish i had the gumption to write a fic where jack calls his mama to tell her the news that he's getting married after knocking lureen up. i don't know if he'd tell her he got her pregnant, but i like thinking about how she'd react to the news. i don't think jack had ever mentioned lureen to his mama before, so when he says he's getting married it probably comes as a real shock to her, and she probably figures that something fishy is afoot. her concerns are also probably confirmed when she gets word of little bobby's arrival less than nine months after the wedding...

i think she'd be okay with it, though. sure, she wouldn't be happy that he got her pregnant before they were married, but she's probably glad to see some uhh. direction in jack's life. i feel like she's also always had her suspicions about her son's sexuality, and so it comes as a reassurance to her that he's finally interested in the things he 'should' be interested in, like having a wife and raising up a family.

but then he visits home after seeing Ennis in the fall of 1967, and he spares very few words for his family in between all the ramblimg about Ennis, and it's at that moment she knows without a doubt that her baby boy is different, because it's the first time she's seen him so vibrant and alive since...well, since the summer he'd met Ennis. And it hurts her, but she realizes then that it's something she has to come to terms with, cause it seems like Ennis del Mar is going to be sticking around for awhile yet...

[kateschi]

same book, different chapters

synopsis: an ordinary evening takes a turn when katsuki expresses what you've always known but never expected to hear.

pairing: timeskip!bakugou katsuki x f!reader

being with katsuki is a lesson in unspoken understanding. you knew who he is long before you started dating him—loud, brash, and not the type to share his feelings openly.

but it didn’t take long to realize there’s so much more to him than that. his love is quiet, reserved, and shown in the details:

how he pulls you out of the way of a passing car, or how he remembers the smallest things, like your favorite kind of tea or that you prefer your coffee without sugar.

and that is enough for you. mostly.

you didn’t expect him to be the kind of boyfriend who says "I love you" with ease. katsuki isn’t like that. it isn’t something you hold against him either.

but every now and then, a small part of you wonders what it would be like to hear him say it—to hear those three words slip past his lips in the same way they had from yours.

you say it first, a quiet “I love you” in the middle of a peaceful night when the world outside feels still.

his response comes in the shape of hugging you tighter, securing you in his arms. however, he doesn’t say it back, and you don’t expect him to. you don’t need him to.

still, there are times when you find yourself holding your breath, wondering if one day he’ll actually verbalize it.

it isn’t that you doubt his feelings. katsuki isn’t one to waste time on things or people he doesn’t care about.

you know how much he cares by the way he silently takes care of you, always putting you first in his own way, even when his words are rough around the edges.

it’s just that sometimes, words have a way of making things feel more real.

tonight is one of those easy evenings you cherish—one where you don’t have to think too much about anything. the two of you are in your kitchen, making dinner together, though “together” is generous.

you’re doing most of the work while katsuki stands next to you, arms crossed, casting a critical eye over everything you do.

“you’re putting too much salt,” he says, the frown on his face making you smile.

“pretty sure this is the exact amount the recipe says to use,” you reply, amused at how serious he always gets when it comes to food.

“tch, that recipe’s wrong. I could’ve made this better with my eyes closed.”

“then why don’t you?” you tease, turning your head to glance at him. his gaze is sharp as usual, but the small curve in the corner of his lips betrays him.

“maybe I’ll cook next time,” he grumbles, looking away like the very idea of giving in bothers him.

you laugh softly, enjoying the banter. this is something you love about him—how even in these simple moments, his presence fills the space with a sense of ease.

there’s no pressure to be anything other than yourselves, even when his blunt honesty clashes with your more relaxed approach.

as you stir the pot, you can’t help but let your thoughts wander back to the three words. you know katsuki isn’t the type to say things until he’s ready, and you respect that.

but part of you is curious—would it ever come naturally to him, or would it always be something unspoken between the two of you?

still, as you stand there, the warmth of his steady presence beside you, you realize that maybe you’re okay with it remaining unspoken. katsuki shows his love in ways that don’t need words to validate them.

and then, without warning, you feel his arms wrap around your waist from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder. you freeze for a moment, caught off-guard.

“katsuki?” you ask, your voice soft, as you lean into him instinctively.

he doesn’t answer right away, just holds you there. his touch isn’t hesitant, but it is different from the usual casual touches you’ve grown used to.

“you’re annoying sometimes,” he mutters, voice low in your ear.

you chuckle, relaxing further into his hold. “I know.”

there’s silence for a beat, and then: “but I love you anyway, idiot.”

you blink, unsure if you’ve heard him correctly. you turn your head slightly, trying to see his face, but he buries it against your neck, hiding his expression. “did you just—?”

“don’t make a big deal out of it,” he mumbles, voice suddenly gruff, though you can hear the embarrassment beneath the words.

a smile breaks across your face, warmth spreading through your chest. you didn’t expect it, but that makes it all the more special. he isn’t saying it because the moment demands it.

he isn’t saying it because you’re waiting. he says it because he wants to, because he feels it.

“I’m not,” you reply, trying to sound nonchalant but failing miserably as your happiness bubbles up in your voice. “but…I love you too.”

you feel his grip tighten around you and a kiss pressed to your shoulder.

kofi — navigation — masterlist

do not copy, translate, or plagarize

[bunnygirllover45]

— THE THRILL OF THE HUNT.

♱ TRIGGER WARNINGS: Johann literally hunts down the reader, Small outburst at the end, and a lot of bullshit talk about hunting because I like it, DEAD DOVE. No violence was used.

Synopsis: You escape from Johann, he has to track you down. WORD COUNT: 1.6k

Johann wasn't exactly the thrill-seeking kind. He always preferred a slow-paced life, not filled with many excitements or tragedies. He wasn’t an adventurous spirit or a fiery soul in search of greater meaning. In his head, the only thing he needed was you.

And maybe that’s why this exact moment made his blood boil with newfound rapture, he could swear for a moment his skin bumped at the feeling of his heart throbbing so quickly against his ribcage. The thrill of the hunt, like his father used to say, made mere men become beasts, some because it was vital for their survival, others because of the rush of power it gave them.

But he couldn’t quite understand it until now. For him, hunts weren’t that exciting. The game was always too easy to track down, the footsteps effortlessly concealed. The gun didn’t feel heavy enough. His breath didn’t quicken at the mere chance of letting his prey slip away; he’ll always find a way to reach them again, after all. Animals have their habits; they’re easy to decipher once you know their true nature.

This is the type of hunt he’s been craving for so long. Johann had to press a hand against his mouth to prevent a low chuckle from escaping. Oh, how right his father was. This was truly trilling to the core, the kind of thrill that made a foreign heat rise towards his head and seep into his very brain tissue.

Humans aren’t like animals, their behavior is a little more erratic, animals can be divided between highly intelligent beings and straight-up dumb ones, but humans? All of them had their quirks, you couldn’t easily guess how prepared someone could be under certain circumstances. “Isn’t that so fucking interesting?” 

Lowering himself to the ground Johann reached to touch the freshly shaped footstep that his precious prey left behind. If they’re leaving such a pretty trail behind they’re expecting me to find them, what a tease.

“You know what kind of animals roam these types of terrains?” His voice was loud enough to carry its sound through the extremely quiet, when the hunt begins, the forest goes quiet, no need to scream. “Bears, moose, sometimes even wolves. Had to detangle a lot of ‘em from traps before, not without properly securing they won’t be able to bite, ‘course.” 

His heavy boots made the rotten wood and debris scattered around the forest soil yield under their weight, no need to change onto more quiet shoes, his bunny wouldn’t be able to hear him coming, surely their heartbeat was the only thing resounding inside their ears. Reaching into his pocket he took out his watch, starting a countdown. “I’ll give you two minutes to gain distance, cover your tracks, you can try hiding if you want, but I wouldn’t recommend staying still, it makes you easier to spot.” 

“Once the two minutes are done I’ll begin searching, I'll make a bird calling each 45 seconds, and once three minutes pass by, I’ll stop making bird callings and hunt in earnest, ‘kay? Just want to make the game easier for you, it isn’t fun if I’m the one with the upper hand all the time even if this is my subject.” 

With a deep sigh, he crouched down again, his hands fidgeting inside his pocket until he found a cigarette, the last one actually. Grabbing his lighter he lit up the tip, taking a slow inhale before letting the smoke escape from his lips. 

His free hand reached to grab the gun he always had with him, it was an old friend of sorts, stuck by his side in all the worst situations, a lot of people meeting their death at the end of this same barrel. Maybe it should have your name, after all, people do name their guns sometimes.

The forest grew more eerily quiet, the sun setting down in the distance while Johann quietly awaited the starting gunshot of the race, he didn’t really need to put the time on his watch, he could already count the time down to the millisecond inside his head. “Forty-eight, forty-nine…” His gloved fingers tapped against his lips, hands tightly clad in leather gloves, perfect for the harsh Austrian winter. 

A part of him wished you didn’t even make the effort to run away, maybe finding you curled up against a rock or a tree just waiting for him to find you was more exciting than actually pursuing you, after all, that meant you truly gave up on the idea of leaving him behind—still, another part of his brain screamed for you to run, so he could find you and make sure you won’t try pulling up bullshit like this again.

Slowly he stood up, the watch making a low beeping sound before he began to walk, settling the gun back onto the strap around his thigh. Holding the cigarette in between his lips he began to prepare the clothes you were going to use once he caught you, after all, little you decided to escape both barefoot and barely dressed, the worst thing in this forest beside him was the cold. Holding the spare jacket he always brought with him inside his bag and a blanket he continued to walk nonchalantly, not even sparing a single stare in any direction that wasn’t just dead front and center. 

Johann's stare drifted onto the floor, a little disappointed that you didn’t take his recommendation into account, there, clear as day, were your pretty little marks for him to follow like a bloodhound. Johann even took the time to carefully make sure he didn’t accidentally step into any of them, not wanting to overshadow the loving tracks you left behind for him with his heavy boots.

He knew very well he was taking all of this too lightly, this was a high gamble where he could lose everything or gain all, but still the elated sense of happiness and bubbling excitement made him more self-confident, too sure you wouldn’t get away too far, and even if you did, he’d stay in the damn forest all the time necessary for you to realize you need to go back onto his loving arms.

Stopping dead in his tracks he turned around as he heard a small sound coming from behind a fallen stump, dead bark peeling off the tree’s corpse. There you are.

And there you were indeed, curled up in a ball, back pressing against the rough bark as you held your arms around your torso, bracing yourself from the harsh winter cold, from the shiver that ran down your shoulders towards your legs or the sight you so pathetically defenseless made him smile, a blush creeping up onto his features.

“You didn’t even run far enough to let me do any bird calls, are you that tired, baby?” He kneeled down in front of you, but as soon as you jolted up in surprise Johann’s hand shot to grab your wrist with unnerving quickness. His dark eyes bore into you, a small smile gracing his lips, but there was no emotion behind that expression of his. “That’s okay, next time I’ll give you some proper equipment, some shoes wouldn’t hurt.” 

His thumb caressed the skin of your wrist, while his other hand threw away the now almost half-smoked cigarette that Johann held in between his lips. Eventually he reached to grab your head in between them, rubbing your cheeks with such tenderness that it could be even soothing in a different situation. “There, you did good. Not good enough to grant you a reward, but you did have me a little scared back there.” His smile widened as he lied through his teeth. You frowned, tired, freezing cold and also breathless, but still with enough energy to try and pry his hand away from your wrist, it was useless, he was latched onto you like a handcuff. “Fuck yo—” Before you could even finish he reached to clasp his free hand onto your mouth, the sudden movement making you stumble backward, head pressing against the tree. “Fuckin’ language.” He whispered between his teeth, staring at you dead in the eyes. “You should be grateful I didn’t put a damn bullet in between those pretty eyes of yours. Runnin’ away from me like that? After all I did for you? I let you away from my sight for just a second and you go jolting away like a fucking rabbit.” 

Taking a deep breath he lowered his head, slowly pushing his hand away from your mouth, his face leaning closer to you, the only warm feeling gracing your warm body being his hot breath against your face. “Sorry ‘bout that.” He pushed your lower lip with his thumb, pressing a soft kiss onto your flesh as some sick and twisted kind of apology.

“I won’t be as lenient next time, ‘kay? You know I care about you a lot, meine Liebe, don’t want you getting hurt.” He forced a smile, leaning his forehead against yours, but again his voice was masked by the thumping sound of your heart against your ears. “Let’s get you back to the car, I’ll get you all warmed up and cozy.” 

You just let him grab you, his hands effortlessly grabbing you and carrying you bridal style as both of you made your way back toward the car, you stole a few glances at Johann’s face, finding a small smile and that darn blush in his cheeks that showed how much he enjoyed himself, maybe a twisted part of him was truly pleased by all of this, even if it just started as a rebellious act of trying to escape from your part.

“Hear that? It’s a White-tailed eagle. Birds of prey, always hunted them with my father as a child.” Suddenly the forest wasn’t so quiet anymore, the hunt has ended.

[covenofagatha]

A Helping Hand

You're helping your Professor gather ingredients for a potion she's brewing when you accidentally knock over a jar of sex pollen and need help.

Word count: ~3100

Warnings: smut, mommy kink, fingering, Top Agatha, magic cock, blowjob, magic cum, pure filth, teacher x student, age gap (everyone's legal)

Your brow furrows as you stare at the open spell book in front of you. You have a Potions test tomorrow for Professor Harkness, and evident by your lack of understanding of any of the words on the page, you are not going to do well. 

“What’s wrong?” your roommate, Wanda, asks you. The two of you are the top witches at the Academy of Dark Arts, and yet, neither of you has a strong suit in potions. 

And of course, the Potions teacher, Agatha Harkness, is the hardest teacher you have. 

“This is impossible. How am I supposed to remember that, for the Wolfsbane Potion, you have to stir three times counterclockwise, say this incantation, and then stir four times clockwise, all while making sure I’m continuously pouring in Dragon’s Blood?” Your head hurts just from reading it from the book. 

Wanda snorts. “Agatha doesn’t expect it to be perfect.”

You give her a look. You both know that’s a lie. Agatha is the teacher that makes you redo written homework assignments if you leave too much space between the words. 

The Academy of Dark Arts was a home for witches like you and Wanda: witches that did not have a coven, or even a family. The Academy was supposed to teach girls to harness and understand their powers. 

You have been here the longest, ever since you were twelve. You are almost twenty now. You had always put off taking Potions until you could no longer avoid it, mainly just because of how hard everyone else said it was. You had briefly interacted with Professor Harkness before the class, passing her in the corridors or making eye contact at meals. 

And maybe, just maybe, you had developed a bit of a crush on her once you were in her class. 

Who could blame you, though? She was the definition of perfection, with the way power just exuded from her, and the way her long, dark hair tumbled down to her lower back, and her piercing blue eyes that you suspected could see right into your soul. 

But your little infatuation was not what you needed right now – no, right now, you need to study. 

“I just don’t know anything,” you groan, dropping your head into your hands. “I can’t even read my notes.” Agatha often went so fast in class that you had no other option than to just scribble down everything you thought she said as quickly as you could. 

And now you just had pages of illegible chicken scratch. 

“She’s probably still in the green house, why not just go ask her for help,” Wanda says noncommittally, too engrossed in sketching a picture. How she is so calm with this test hanging over the both of you, you have no idea. 

But you nod. That’s a good idea. You can go see Agatha, ask her to clarify a few things, and then stay up all night cramming ingredients and directions into your brain. 

“I’ll be right back,” you promise, and then scoop up your book and your notes. 

You pass by some younger witches in the hallway and you give them a tight-lipped smile. Wanda was really your only friend at the Academy, the other girls too boy-crazy or too self-absorbed for you to really connect with them. 

Other than those girls, though, the Academy is quiet. No sign of any of your other teachers, and you’re sure they’re either in their private quarters or still grading papers in their classrooms. 

You have to leave the main house of the Academy to get to the greenhouse, where Potions takes place. The cold November air stings your cheeks and makes your eyes water, but luckily, it’s a short walk. 

“Hello, Professor Harkness?” you say timidly, knocking on the door as you push it open. She’s sitting at a stool, cutting plants with a sharp knife. Her hair flowing down her back and she's wearing a tight white button-down shirt on that’s tucked into high-waisted purple pants, and a long, navy coat.

She glances up and smiles when she sees it’s you. “Y/n, what can I do for you?” 

“Oh, I just wanted to come see if you could help me clear some things up for the test tomorrow,” you say, a little flustered by how good she looks. 

“Sure thing, hon. First, I need your help. Hand me those powders from over there?” She points the knife over to the counter by the sink and you oblige, grabbing the four vials and putting them down next to her. She picks each one up and examines the label closely. “Ah, shoot. Sorry, dear, could you find the jar with the powdered root of asphodel? It should be in the pantry somewhere. I thought I took it out, but I guess I forgot.” 

“Yeah, of course.” You repeat the powder name in your head a few times so you don’t forget it and then go search for it. 

You finally spot it on the fourth shelf, sitting in the middle of some other jars, and you reach up on your tip-toes to grab it. As you’re pulling down the correct jar, you accidentally knock it into another and it falls to the floor next to you. 

“Shit!” you mutter, immediately crouching down to assess the damage. The jar of some unknown powder has broken and its contents are spilled everywhere. Without even thinking, you start to sweep the powder into your hands so you can try to put it back in the bottom half of the jar that’s still intact. 

You didn’t even notice Agatha coming over after she heard the noise. “Everything okay – don’t touch any of that!” she exclaims, seeing the bottle that broke on the floor.

You drop the mound of powder in your hands and whirl around, eyes wide open. 

“What is it?” you ask, afraid of the answer, but she doesn’t give you one, instead opting to pull you by the sleeve over to the sink. 

“Wash your hands now,” she demands and stands there watching you scrub your skin until it’s red. “How do you feel?” 

“I feel fine,” you say, but as you say that, you notice something. There’s an unmistakable heat growing in your stomach. And it only gets worse when Agatha places a hand against your forehead. You lean into the touch and have to forcibly bite your tongue so you don’t moan. 

She looks you up and down and you can feel yourself getting hotter. You’re sure your cheeks are flushed. 

You’ve never felt this way before. 

“Um, just out of curiosity, what was that powder?” you ask, wetness pooling between your thighs. The ache between your legs is becoming hard to ignore. 

Agatha meets your eyes. “It’s called sex pollen.” Your heart skips a beat. “I honestly forgot it was back there. I came across some a few decades ago and wanted to study it.”

You swallow hard. “So if someone gets some of it in their system, do they just need to touch…” You feel yourself blushing, not quite believing you’re asking Agatha Harkness if masturbation is the key to get this heat inside you to die down. 

She smirks. “You can’t get it out of your system by yourself.”

Well, fuck. “There’s no other way?” 

“Where would the fun in that be?” She winks playfully, and you wonder if she’s ever used it, or used it on someone else. “But you said you feel fine so you shouldn’t have to worry about it.”

“Right,” you reply shakily. Her fingers brush a strand of hair out of her face and you literally clench at the sight of them. You feel so empty, so needy, so desperate for her. 

“You said you had some questions for the test tomorrow?” She takes the root of asphodel that you had forgotten you were holding and beckons you back over to where she’s working. She pats the stool next to you and you sit, the pressure on your clit making you jump. 

You just have to make it through this, go back to your room, and then drag Wanda out with you to a club or something so you can get fucked. 

The only problem is, you’re not sure you can wait that long. Your hips have started squirming on the stool beneath you and you can’t control it. 

“Um, so,” you start, opening up the textbook to the Wolfsbane Potion you were studying earlier. “The directions for this potion are–”

You’re cut off by her putting her hand on top of yours and you literally whimper at the contact. You stiffen and see her turn her full body towards you, taking in the slight sheen of sweat on your forehead, your darkened eyes, the way your hips are moving on the seat. 

“Oh, you poor baby,” she taunts. 

You give up the pretense of being unaffected by the pollen. “Professor, I’m so…I need…please…I think the pollen...” 

She laughs. “Yes, dear, I think the pollen got into your system. Do you have anyone who can take care of you?” 

You blush at the implication of Agatha asking if you have a fuck buddy and then shake your head pathetically. “I was gonna go out with Wanda and try to find someone,” you mumble. “I’ve never…” You trail off, not wanting your incredibly hot professor to hear you say out loud that you’re a virgin. 

“Honey, you can’t have your first time with a random person from a bar,” she tuts. “Plus, sex pollen amplifies feelings you already have. Getting fucked by a random person won’t help as much as by a person you already want.”

“I don’t know what else to do,” you whine. “Can you…will you…please?” You can tell the pollen is affecting your ability to think straight because there is no way you just asked your centuries-old professor to fuck you. You’re about ready to run out of the room and die of embarrassment when she grins. 

“You want me to help you?” 

Your breath catches. “Professor, please, please, I need it. I need you. I just feel so…hot.” 

“I’ll say,” she says appreciatively, this time letting her eyes wander over you slowly. “Are you sure? I don’t want you regretting this when the pollen wears off.” 

You shake your head. “I won’t. I’m sure. I want you so bad. I have for a while. And you said it has to be someone you already want.” 

Her eyes darken. “Get on the table.” 

You’ve never moved so fast in your life. She takes your shirt off and throws it somewhere else in the room, and then her hands are cupping your breasts and her mouth is on yours. 

You moan hungrily into her hot mouth, feeling her tongue against yours. Your hands tangle in her hair, pulling it gently, and she groans into your mouth. Agatha quickly undoes the clasp of your bra and finds your nipples, tugging at them. She kisses down your neck and your fingers leave her hair to hike up your skirt. 

“So eager for me,” she whispers against your clavicle. You gasp when she bites down. 

“Please, professor, touch me.” 

“I am touching you,” she teases, fingertips lightly skimming down your stomach. You tense at the touch as she gets lower. 

Your moan is downright pornographic when she first slides her hand into your underwear, sliding through your folds. She makes a sound as well. 

“Fuck, baby, you’re soaked,” she says. 

“All for you,” you say weakly, hips grinding up and down against her fingers. She’s yet to touch your clit, but you fear the second she does, you’ll cum. 

“My dirty girl.” Agatha finally pushes her middle finger into you and you clench down immediately, needing more. She easily finds the spot that makes you squeal, and her thumb brushes against your clit. “Do you think you can take another finger?” 

“Oh my god, yes,” you enthusiastically agree and she slides in her ring finger as well. It’s a bit of a stretch but you’ve never felt better. 

“Your cunt feels so good around me,” Agatha says, grabbing your chin with her other hand so you meet her eyes. “So wet, so warm. I want to stay here forever. You can’t get enough of my fingers, can you?” 

“No, Professor, I love your fingers,” you babble, right on the edge. She knows it too. 

“Be a good girl and come for mommy,” she whispers right into your ear, her hot breath warm, and the name, coupled with the way she twists her fingers and roughly strokes your clit, sends you climaxing. 

“Fuckkkk,” you moan, your nails digging into her shoulders. She fucks you through the aftershocks of your orgasm and then slowly pulls her fingers, which are drenched, out of you. You can’t help but feel empty and the heat inside you isn’t completely gone. 

Before you can say anything, she slides her wet fingers into your mouth and you lazily lap at your juices. She bites her lip at the feeling. 

“How are you feeling now, baby girl?” 

Her fingers leave your mouth with a pop. “Better but I still think I need more.” 

Her eyebrow raises playfully. “My fingers weren’t enough to quell your thirst?” 

You shake your head, feeling a little embarrassed. 

“I think I know something that might help.” She waves her hand and a poof of purple smoke appears. You’re not quite sure what she did, but she gives you a wicked grin and unzips her pants, pulling out a purple strap-on. 

Your mouth falls open. 

She grabs a hold of the base and starts to stroke herself, groaning. 

“Wait, can you-” 

She looks up at you. “Feel it?” She nods. “I wanna feel you clench around my cock. Wanna fill you up.” 

You let out a small gasp. “Mommy, please, I need your cock.” 

She steps back over to you and runs a hand up your slit, collecting your wetness, which she then rubs on her cock. “You’re plenty wet already, but why don’t you get on your knees and show me how much of a good girl you can be.” 

She doesn’t have to tell you twice. You practically fall to the ground in front of her, ignoring the sharp pain in your knees. You look up at her, awaiting instruction, and she bites her lip softly at the sight of you. 

She puts a hand on your head and pushes you closer. “Put a hand around the base and then run your tongue up and down the length.” 

You do as you’re told and you delight in the loud moan that tears from her mouth. Her hand just rests on your head as you then experimentally suck the tip of her cock between your lips. 

“Good girl,” she says gruffly, and her praise drives you to test the waters and go down further. You bob your head on her dick, never breaking eye contact. “Fuck, baby, your mouth is so hot.” 

Meanwhile, the need inside you is growing so much you can barely fight the urge to slip a hand up your skirt. But you don’t. You figure Agatha won’t like that, and also, you want to focus all your attention on making her feel good. 

“Such a dirty slut on her knees for mommy. So desperate for this cock,” she says and you groan around the strap-on, making her hands tighten in your hair. She pulls you back and a string of saliva connects your lips to her. “Get up.” 

Once you’re standing in front of her, she flips you around and bends your front over the table so she’s standing behind you. She pushes your skirt up and traces your pussy with her cock, sliding it up your slit to your clit and then back. You’re grinding against her, trying to get some stimulation. 

“Are you ready?” Agatha asks. 

“Yes,” you answer, voice hoarse with anticipation. You feel her line the tip up with your hole and then slowly start to push in. 

Both of you moan. She is so big but the stretch is exactly what you need. Once she bottoms out, she holds still for a second, letting you adjust to her size. 

“You take my cock so well.” And then she’s pulling out and thrusting back in, picking up speed and intensity. You lift a leg up so she’s able to get deeper and you can feel her hips stutter. “You pretend to be so innocent but look at how desperate you are for me. Just a little slut, needing me to fill her up.” 

“Yes, just a slut for you, mommy.” 

Her nails dig into your hip and her other hand comes down to rub your clit. You clench around her. 

“You’re so tight, so hot, you feel so good squeezing my dick,” Agatha murmurs, saying the filthiest things right into your ear. You’re so close and it’s only been a few minutes of her pounding into you. 

“I’m gonna cum,” you whimper. Her hand leaves your clit and you gasp. 

“Not yet, baby, wait for mommy. Do you want me to fill you up?” 

“Want you to fill me up, mommy, wanna feel you dripping out of me,” you babble. 

“Oh shit, baby, gonna cum in you. Cum for me,” she says, and you do. This orgasm is even more intense than the one before and you feel her give you one last hard thrust before warmth spreads through your cunt. She stills for just a second and then gingerly pulls out. You can feel her cum dripping out of your hole and down your leg and it almost makes you cum again. 

Agatha turns you around and spreads your legs so she can watch it better. She takes two fingers and lazily smears her cum mixed with yours all over your pussy lips. She raises her fingers to your lips and you eagerly taste both of your juices, moaning around them. 

“Do you feel better now?” she asks, a playful glint in her eyes. 

You sigh dramatically. “For now. But who’s to say I won’t get into more sex pollen some other time?”

She chuckles and matches your smirk with one of her own. “Well, I guess I better keep a careful eye on you then.” 

[luveline]

jade!! I come on hands and knees begging for more rockstar!remus with shy!reader. I LOVE THEM. how are they doing?!

thank you for requesting! fem, 1k

You fit the part, tonight. Marlene has dressed you in her clothes —you wear a dark jacket covered in gothic, skeletal linework, a skirt barely long enough to show beneath it, with black tights and tall shoes. 

Remus isn’t sure what it is about the slightly too big jacket that he likes so much. Maybe it’s your thighs on show, shadowed flanks of softness he knows too well. It could be your eyes, their ringing of dark kohl, your lengthened lashes. Perhaps it’s none of those things. After all, Remus has always loved to watch you laugh. 

James thrusts his pint against yours, a splash of his cherry cider lapping the end of the cup to seep into your lemonade. Remus is unsure if there’s anything in it of substance, but you sip it through a breathless laugh and confirm that it hasn’t changed. No harm, no foul. 

Remus taps his cigarette carton against the table out of habit. Sirius reaches for him before Remus has even split the seal, fingers pinching, pale hand expectant. Remus knocks into them with the carton and turns so Sirius can’t see him opening the box. “Thought you were off them?” Remus asks, quiet with the slower atmosphere at the table, so far from the bar. 

“Can anyone ever really be off them?” Sirius asks. 

He pressed himself into Remus’ arm, all the overfamiliarity of a best, best friend. Searching for comfort and selfish vices. 

Remus hugs him suddenly, a rough arm around the back of his head in a hold that tugs curls as he uses the other hand to slide a cigarette between his lips. “Here, you baby.”

“Fuck off,” Sirius says around it. 

Remus takes his own cigarette and shoves the box back in his pocket. Sirius lights his own, lights Remus’, and together they tip their heads back, getting a glance at the oranging ceiling and the upstairs drinking pit. 

“She’s sweet, letting Marl dress her up a bit.” 

“Makes Marlene feel better,” Remus says. 

“Yeah, it does. Reckon she and Mary will mend it?” 

Remus shrugs. The love triangle between Mary, Marlene and Dorcas is confusing. He loves them, though, so it’s a confusing he understands. “It won't be long before we find out.” 

You, James and Emmeline begin to make your way back to the table. You have two drinks each, too many for the amount of people, though none of you seem to have noticed. You’re just giggling and meandering around low chairs until you get there. 

James slams his drinks down and grabs you from the side. “My sweethearts, I return the sweethearts.” 

“Can I have one?” Emmeline asks. 

Remus passes her the cigarette carton dutifully. 

“Can I–”

“No,” Remus says. 

You squint at him. “Don’t be weird,” you say, embarrassed, taking the box when Emme passes it, sliding it between painted lips, “I’m not a baby.” 

You talk around the cigarette with the ease of practice. If there’s one thing life on the road gives, it’s addiction. Remus is thankful that you and all of your friends chose nicotine. 

“You’re trying to quit.” Remus feels the funny burn of smoke as he inhales again. “And I’m trying to help you.” 

“Same help you gave Sirius, clearly,” James says. 

“C’mere,” Remus says, opening his arm for you. “Come on.” 

You grin and weave around Emme to his side of the table, propping a drink in front of him. “For you.” 

“Thank you.” He blows smoke as far from your face as he can manage and tucks you under his arm. 

The makeup on your lips is rubbing off, a darker outlining with light insides, but it’s enough to express Marl’s taste. Remus will be happy to kiss the rest of it away later on, when James and Sirius are drunk enough to become openly obsessed with one another and leave him alone, carving out some rare alone time. 

You smoke as Remus taught you to. He remembers the day, your shaking, his chest pain, not wanting to corrupt you and yet enlivened by the way you looked trying to foster the flame at the end of it. Nicotine helps calm your nerves, which you’re often in need of, but Remus never meant for it to become a crux. He snuffs his cigarette in the ashtray and catches yours to do the same, barely two puffs in. 

“Wha–”

“Let me have a look at you,” he says. 

Your friends scoff and jeer but quickly move on. Remus catches your chin between his fingers. 

He’s not like Sirius. He couldn’t do this to any girl, can’t seduce like that, but it’s not any girl he touches. Your eyes go to swimming pleasure as he pulls you forward, edging downward to kiss you. You both taste of smoke, of drink, and it would put him off if there wasn’t something sweeter to be chased in your mouth. He kisses you like there’s no one at the table but you.

He’s had more to drink than he thinks. 

“You taste like jaeger,” you say, pulling away with cheeks he’d find hot if he were to cradle and a shy smile. 

“Do I?” 

“That’s a thousand times worse for you than those, you know.” You point at his quickly dwindling pack of cigarettes. 

Remus curls an arm behind your neck and kisses you again. James cheers, says, “Fuck, I wish Moony kissed me like that,” and Remus tries his best to ignore him, but you’re laughing. The kiss breaks.

“Just ask him nicely like I do,” you advise. 

“You know that doesn’t work!” James says, tipping his head back with a hand to the forehead. “I always ask him nicely, he just doesn’t want to kiss me. Must be something about you…” He gives a huge smile as he lifts his cider.  “Something I don’t have?” 

“Impossible,” Sirius says blithely, “you’ve everything, gorgeous boy.” 

“Something about you,” Remus echoes. 

You shake your head minutely, a silent warning. Don’t flirt with me, it says. Don’t torture me. 

“How do you want the answer?” Remus asks, sliding his arm back behind your shoulders, pulling your burning face against his neck. “I can give it to you in an essay or a list, but it’s an extensive explanation.” 

“Write it down for me.”

[jaylalolz]

❛ 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄 ❜ p2 . . . charlie mayhew

INNOCENT!reader x PRIEST!charlie 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

PART 1

SUMMARY, after ignoring charlie for a week after the incident, he finally gets her close in the bathroom.

A/N, sorry i took way too long to make a p2. if you want a p3, leave some recommendations of what i should do for that part in my inbox bc i have no idea how to keep it going 😂 anyways, have fun reading, angels. 🪽🪽

WARNINGS, smuttyyyyy

Charlie had noticed the change immediately after their last conversation—the one where Maddy had admitted, with a tremble in her voice, that she had thought about him in ways she knew weren’t right. He had been shocked, then flattered, and finally, filled with guilt after everything. But what troubled him the most was her absence.

For a whole week, Maddy hadn’t spoken to him. She didn’t show up at mass, didn’t linger after church like she usually did. Every time he tried to reach out, she brushed him off with curt messages or avoided him entirely. She wasn’t just distant—she was actively ignoring him.

At first, Charlie tried to give her space, assuming that she needed time to process what had happened between them. But as the days passed, his concern grew. The gnawing guilt inside him—the feeling that maybe he had crossed a line, that maybe he had hurt her more than he realized—began to fester.

It wasn’t until late one evening, after most of the congregation had already left, that Charlie spotted her. Maddy, rushing down the hallway, her face flushed, disappeared into the restroom. The church was quiet, the echoes of footsteps fading, and Charlie hesitated for a moment before following her.

He knocked softly on the bathroom door. “Maddy?”

There was no response, but he heard a faint sniffle, the kind that comes after holding back tears for too long. Charlie’s heart clenched. He hesitated, not wanting to invade her space, but the sound of her pain pushed him forward.

“Maddy, please talk to me,” he said gently. “I know you’ve been avoiding me, but I can’t help you if you shut me out.”

There was a long pause, and then the door cracked open. Maddy stood there, her eyes red and puffy, but there was something hardened in her expression. She looked exhausted—not just physically, but emotionally.

“Why do you care so much, Charlie?” she asked, her voice thick with frustration and hurt. “I’m trying to keep my distance, like I’m supposed to. Isn’t that what you want?”

Charlie frowned, stepping closer. “What I want is to understand why you’ve been avoiding me. After everything we talked about, I thought we could work through this together, but you’ve been shutting me out completely.”

Maddy let out a bitter laugh, wiping at her eyes. “Work through this? Charlie, you don’t get it. I’m embarrassed. I told you something I never should have said, something unholy, we did something for which I will never be forgiven. And every time I look at you, I see the judgment in your eyes.”

Charlie’s breath caught in his throat, realizing the depth of her shame. “Maddy, no,” he said, stepping toward her, his voice softening. “There’s no judgment. I promise you that.”

“Then why does it feel like there’s a wall between us now?” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Why did it feel like I crossed a line that I can’t uncross?”

Charlie closed his eyes, fighting the turmoil in his chest. He had wrestled with his own guilt all week, and now hearing hers, it was clear they were both lost in their own pain. He opened his eyes and met hers, his gaze steady.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he said softly. “What you told me… it was honest. I do not regret what we did together, i am not ashamed of it.”

She looked at him for a long moment, her eyes searching his face for any hint of dishonesty. When she didn’t find it, she exhaled slowly, some of the tension leaving her shoulders.

“So, why does it matter so much, Charlie? Why did we both make it feel like the end of the world?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Charlie ran a hand through his hair, taking a breath. “Because it’s hard, Maddy. It’s hard to admit that something’s there, something we both feel but can’t have. It’s hard because I want to help you through this, but I also… I’m fighting the same thoughts, the same distractions.” His confession hung in the air between them, heavy and real.

Maddy’s breath hitched, her eyes widening slightly. “You mean…?”

Charlie nodded, looking down. “I’m not immune to this. But I’m trying to stay strong for both of us. And ignoring me won’t make it go away. We have to figure out how to deal with this together.”

Maddy wiped at her eyes again, this time with less urgency, as if the weight of their shared secret had lightened slightly. “I don’t know how to make it stop,” she admitted, her voice small.

“Neither do I,” Charlie said quietly. “But I can help you, Angel.”

He stepped closer to her, trapping her exit from the restroom. His fingers interlocks with her hair as he pulls a strand behind her ear and grabbed her face and pulled her closer. “Tell me you don’t regret it, please” he says eagerly as he places his forehead on hers.

“Just Let me worship you”

Her head spins from the thousands of negative possibilities but her body just wants to surrender to him.

Without kissing her, he trailed his lips up her curve and exhaled till the heat tingled sensuously across her delicate skin. She closed her eyes, sensing his hands running up her sides over her white button-up blouse. He clasped his hands over the cloth, tracing a line up her hips and down the sides of her chest before finishing at the collar of the weightless material.

He made two hard fists out of the blouse collar and tore it open causing her to gasp in shock as the shirt split open to reveal her white lacy bra.

He turned to face her and grabbed her hips once again, the moment the door was locked. Before her thoughts could register, his lips dropped hungrily to her neck and her back collided with the wall. He brushed his teeth on her flesh right away, pressing his body against her while groaning.

Her hands instinctively gripped his hips, tossing her head to one side. They kissed for a long time, his sensual lips breathing heavily into her neck in between, making her eyes drift close. He thrust forward, bringing his hips to meet hers, offering whatever kind of pleasure he could. Her hands clenched around his hips over his pants, and she let out a sigh of pleasure.His hands trailed down her nude thighs, extending to her behind to seize it above the dress. He pulls her hips against his harder.

"I can't wait to take this dress off you." He graveled.

His words cause her core to ache and she arched her back further off the wall to feel his body against her even more. He takes the motion and decides to just pick her up instead. His hand reaches behind her thighs, where he raises her and surrounds her weak legs around his hips. Her back against the wall as their hips collided, she took a deep breath at the abrupt change.Now at eye level with her, he planted a kiss on her jaw and positioned himself between her legs. Wrapping her arms around his shoulders, she held him in place. She felt weak as a result of his forceful hip thrust between her legs.

She dug her hands into his hair and let out a cry through a pant. When she pulled it, he gave a grunt. He clamped down harder on her neck, and in response, she let out an uncontrollable whine.

He tightly clamped his teeth into a single area, creating such strong suction that she was certain it would leave a mark. She almost lost consciousness when she separated her lips in response to her aggressive action, arching her back. Feeling him rough on the pale skin, she reflexively jerked her hand to the back of his head. She got mild pain spikes with it, but other than that, it was enjoyable.

She pulled at the roots above his neck, and he whispered into her neck. She knew immediately that he enjoyed it when she yanked his hair. His moan provided the necessary stimulation between her legs. He drags out every motion so that she begs him to keep going.

With her bra and panties on, she arched her back, feeling the tight fit of his jeans pressing on her inner part. she could feel how hard he was becoming quickly, he was absolutely bottled up in those tight jeans. Suddenly, he sets her down on her two feet and goes on his knees. He lanced down at her stomach, licking his lower lip with his tongue before lowering his head to give her abdomen a moist kiss. Her whole body trembled at the light touch.

He reached her panties and raised his head, gazing up into her eyes all the way up her body. Grabbing the edges of her lace panties, he sits up between her legs and pulls it up off her hips and down her thighs right away. She tensed slightly as he took off the final piece of material covering her body. She raised her legs into the air and he pulled the thin material away from her ankles.

He tossed the last piece of clothing to the floor, leaving her completely vulnerable. “Now, you’re gonna be a good girl and stay quiet. we don’t want anyone to hear you”

Just by feeling his tongue running up her center, her stomach lurched and her entire body flexed. He forced his mouth against her tightly and rolled his tongue straight to the cluster of nerves before she could even begin to grasp the strange sensation of his sharp tongue sliding up her slit. "Charlie-" her back curved off the wall before she could even complete her statement.

Without holding back, he went straight into her clit with a wonderful rhythmic roll of his tongue. Her eyes narrowed as she closed them.

Her hips twitched with the intensity of this wild new feeling right away. "Charlie, oh my god," she said, rolling her eyes inside her head. He maintained a death grip on her thighs, keeping them forced open to give him complete access to enjoy her in any way he pleased. She was unable to regulate her sensitivity, and it would make her body twitch.

His wet tongue rolled in the perfect place at different rhythms and at a steady pace, making her experience things She have never felt in her entire life. He just started, and she was unable to catch her breath.Her hands would be death grasping his thick hair right now if she could control them.

He placed her legs over his shoulders, reaching lower and squeezing a firm grasp around her outer thighs and hip bones. With a deep inhale through his nose, he caressed her with his tongue, sending a surge of ecstasy up her neck and into her veins. With a moan, she chokes and throws back her head, putting her legs across his long back.

She wasn't prepared for the kind of pleasure he gave her when he slid his lengthy tongue inside of her and ran it down. He was an expert at what he was doing and was doing it very well. Then the knot in her stomach turned to give her trembling thighs. Before returning to her clit, which she could now feel pulsating, he slid his tongue in and out of her a few times. The pressure burning inside of her intensified as soon as he made touch with it once more.

She flinches and draws in a short breath as he flicks the tip of his tongue up and down on the bundle of nerves. "I need it so bad.. charlie..." She could not be silent in the room; she was a mess of heavy pants. She was unable to stop herself from breathing heavily and was always accompanied by whimpers and whines that were concealed in the back of her throat.

He looks down between them, his ring and middle fingers digging deep into her. He instantly coiled and shoved them at the same moment, making her gasp. She was taken aback by the furious action. He was panting as well, so she arched her back and let out a whimper into the thick air. The two fingers he didn't have rings on, his fingers rocked into her mercilessly.

She let out a cry, tightly clenching her eyelids and contorting her hips. He coiled up and compressed his fingers, striking a sensitive area within her which she had no idea contained so many nerve endings."You're so fucking tight-" In his deep voice, he whispered.

Her legs trembled as she yelled out, “please." "Does that feel good?" He rasps into the burning air while simultaneously caressing her clit with his fingers. Shutting her eyes tightly, she gave a nod. Her stomach felt like it was about to burst; there were no words to express the feelings she was experiencing.

"Do you feel that knot in your stomach, Angel?" He whispered, reading her thoughts.

She groaned and nodded once more, her chest heaving in a need for breath. "Use your words." More forcefully, he remarks, It was so difficult to focus on anything other than the euphoric rush coursing through her blood. “Y-yes." was her stutter.

"I'm adding a third." Before striking a third finger into her, he muttered. She let out a gasp as he pushed past the line, his third finger descending in unison with the other two. She let out a cry, her back automatically arching off the wall.

"Oh my god!" The pressure between her hips immediately increased as the third finger was thrust in, causing her to cry. her body came out in another sweat, her hips suddenly having a mind of their own when they bucked.

He glanced up at her face, saw how shaken she was getting, her legs trembling with her inability to remain silent. He pulled his hand away from her clit and instead brought it up to cover her lips because she was extremely loud. When the build started to get more tense, he began to shove his three fingers deep into her.

"Everyone is right next door." He smirks.

"You can yell into my hand."

With her eyes squeezed shut, she yelled into his big palm that was placed across her mouth. Her back continued to arch off the wall as the condition grew progressively deeper. She felt as though she were on a cloud and was at a loss for words regarding what was occurring to her body.

"Cum for me baby-" He encouraged, drawing his eyes into hers. He knew she was close.

She whimpered into his fingers, her body's gears shifting like a moving train. Her thighs trembled as though she was freezing, her stomach was drawn in, and her chest pumped fiercely. She kept screaming into his palm at the crushing strain that was killing her, and his fingers kept jamming into the same area.

Her entire body was tight; she was too weak to continue in this state for very long. She let out his muffled name in a scream and then abruptly stopped moving. Everything—shaking, arching, breathing—stopped abruptly.

She undid herself on his fingers. She moans at the feeling of emptiness as he pulls away. He puts a kiss on her forehead and adds, "I knew you would be such a good girl for me." She was still trembling from what had happened, so he gently placed her clothing and underwear on her.

She slid to the floor, tears spilling down her cheeks. The shame she felt was suffocating, wrapping itself around her until she could barely breathe.

“Maddy,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

She shook her head, wiping at her tears with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry,” she choked out, her voice broken. “I’m so, so sorry. I don’t know why i’m crying”

Charlie was kneeling beside her before she could finish, his hands gentle as he reached for her. “Maddy, stop,” he murmured. “You don’t have to apologize”

She shook her head, tears still spilling down her cheeks. “It feels wrong, Charlie. All of this. I feel guilty for even wanting this.”

Charlie sighed, brushing a strand of her hair away from her face. “I know. I feel it too. But guilt isn’t going to help either of us right now. We need to be honest with ourselves about what’s happening, and we need to figure out how to move forward.”

Charlie’s thumb gently wiped away one of her tears, his touch comforting but careful.

Maddy closed her eyes, leaning into his touch, even though part of her knew they shouldn’t be this close. But in this moment, she needed the comfort, the reassurance that she wasn’t alone in this guilt. That they would find a way through it, together.

[wearysparrows]

My First, My Only, My Last

ao3/masterlist

Summary: With the passing of time, your dragon has grown to expect your touch. He is like clay in your hands, and you mould him.

CW: fluff, cuddling & snuggling, some suggestive themes, you caress your dragon, very touchy feely, dragon Sylus, no use of pronouns or Y/N 1K

As of late, your dragon had begun to change.

Not of his physicality – he still radiates an imposing heat, sharp edges ready to eviscerate anything that comes too close. Lives shudder and end tremulously under his claws.

Well, all except for yours.

No longer was he wary of your approach. He welcomed it, pulling you closer with the powerful muscles of his tail, as if he could crush you to himself and make two into one. His gifts, too, changed with him. Instead of gold – flowers whose blooming you had never known, the songs of birds, delicacies from far away lands. Things you knew he desired to share and understand, together.

You approach him, now. He was lounging much the same way he did when you had first met – on a throne cast in stone. Since your arrival, however, it had been covered with the softness of furs and silks to aid in your comfort. The only light in the cave came from flickering sconces adorning the walls. His shadow flutters underneath them.

He supports his head with one hand, and the tip of his tail twitches to and fro at the sound of your approach. He turns over to face you. The mark of his teeth on your neck stutters with the briefest of pains. As you come within his proximity, his tail slips around to the small of your back, and bids you come closer, as if your pace wasn’t quick enough for him. It stays there, caressing your spine with its heat. In the flash of his eyes you see his barely concealed amusement, excitement at your encroachment on his space. His youth.

“Approaching a dragon with nothing to defend yourself? How bold.”

His voice, bereft of malice, and full of tender warmth. You kneel onto the throne beside him, notching yourself between the gentle curve of his legs and torso. He makes room for you, and his tail follows your movements, now curled possessively around you. You feel the scales of it touch the soles of your bare feet.

“I have no fear.”

His quiet laugh reverberates through his chest and into you from where your forms connect. You take one of his hands into your lap. He lets you.

“Are you certain that’s wise?”

His hand uncurls and curls around nothing in your lap. The collective warmth of your bodies pools beneath you through the furs, warming your calves.

“I have no need for wisdom. I know you as I know myself.”

You massage the soft web of a junction between his thumb and index finger, encouraging the muscles there to loosen under your touch. The same motion is repeated between each tendon – index and middle, middle and ring, and ring and pinky. The scaley pads of his palms were like leather softened with age and use – well loved. His fingers twitch reflexively as you maneuver them. He carefully avoids puncturing your skin with the sharpness of his claws.

“What is the purpose in this?”

You hear the ingenuousness in his question. He doesn’t pull away.

“Pleasure.” You say.

A word he understands. This seems to compel him, and he rolls onto his back. His hands wrap around your waist, and deposit you into a straddle on top of him. His hold on your middle doesn’t cease. His back is supported by the stone arm of the throne behind him, and only a few inches of space is left between your faces. Gone were the usual slits of his pupils, now blown wide with a blackness that nearly dwarfed the ruby of his eyes entirely.

“Like this?” He accentuates the statement with a roll of his hips into yours, eliciting a responsive heat from your body. You steady him underneath you, hands splayed on his chest. You had grown to understand that you were the first to touch him in a capacity that was free from violence. By his admission, he had only known the sensation of suffering, even by his own hand. You reach up, letting your palms drift over the grit of his horns. Black, and wrought like iron. You rubbed them at the base with your thumbs where they met his skull, disappearing into the softness of sterling hair. He rattles out a purr of surprise underneath you, but doesn’t stop your attentions. His neck bends towards the touch, and you slip your hands up, up, wrapping your fingers around the bony protrusions. They fit perfectly, like the spaces there were made for your hands alone. You feel his hands around your wrists, then, and he directs them from his horns to his face. You cup it. Barely restrained heat colors his cheeks.

“Only you would dare to tease a fiend.”

There’s breathlessness in his words that he tries to conceal. His grip drops from your wrists and returns to your waist. He presses you into him again. You laugh brightly, feeling his interest make itself known underneath you.

“It’s not teasing. It’s adoring.”

You drag your nails up and down the plate of scales on his jaw, and the muscles underneath it flex in response. His nostrils flare at the combination of your words and your touch. You drop your hands to his chest again, and drag a finger around the contours of the gem that thrums with his lifeforce. His blood rushes in and out of it there, a tiny microcosm of life. He shudders, a quiet gasp escaping him. His purr continues to rumble, and though you know it comes from within him, the sound is so inhuman that it's hard to believe he produces it. His tail wraps around your entirety, replacing his hands at your waist. He sits up, his breath just a ghost against your lips.

“It’s my turn to adore you now, then.”

Your dragon learns that there are pleasures of all kinds. Those that excite the senses, invigorate the mind, and electrify the skin. He learns the pleasure of the mundane, too – the crunch of residual volcanic ash under foot, the ground warmed by its activity. The radiant flash of a fish in deep waters. A name that can’t be pronounced, given anew. He learns to share in pleasure, to become one in all ways. The arc of two souls no longer separated by flesh. He learns and merges, and the place where he begins and you end ceases its existence, and there is only the one song left behind in its wake.

[jezebelblues]

slowpoke | h.s

summary: harry passes the lime torch to his son. or in which you teach your son how to ride a bike.

cw: fem!reader, literally sickeningly sweet dadrry. (also unedited)

word count: approx 3.1k

| dadrry never fails to cheer me up fr. i hope everyone’s doing alright in light of today, please take it easy.

— as a dv victim myself, i understand how the news of liam’s passing can be a really conflicting feeling to struggle with if you’ve experienced dv. please know i can be an outlet, and ur not alone. <3 ash

not my gif. if u have the info of the original creator, lmk so i can appropriately credit them.

masterlist

october, 2023 | london

The air was crisp, tinged with the scent of damp leaves and earth, as the soft sounds of autumn filled the neighborhood streets. Fallen leaves crunched beneath shoes, and the occasional gust of wind sent orange and gold spiraling through the air. In the distance, the hum of city life could be heard faintly, but here, in the quiet of their neighborhood, it felt like a peaceful little bubble in the midst of the bustling world.

YN stepped outside, adjusting her scarf that Anne knitted herself for her birthday last year. Harry followed close behind, his eyes shining with excitement, a grin lighting up his face. His curls tussled in the wind, his hand held tight on his son’s hand. His fifth birthday had just passed in May, and Atlas, their boy, was finally ready to take off the training wheels. Harry, ever the doting father, was already emotional prior to this evening—realizing his baby was ready for a big-boy bike already. His dimples crater his cheeks, the other hand gripping the handle of the small lime green bike, just the right size for Atlas’ small frame.

“This is going to be fun, bub.” He grinned, bending down to look into his son’s wide eyes. “Jus’ like Daddy’s bike, yeah?”

Atlas looked up at Harry, a glimmer of excitement mixed with nerves evident in his expression. “It’s the same color!” He mused, his voice tinged with wonder as he examined the bike again. His little fingers ran along the frame, tracing the lime green paint.

YN smiled at the two of them, her heart swelling. Harry had always loved his bike, the one he had ridden around Italy so many times, and now, here he was, passing that same joy to their son. “Do you remember how much daddy rides his bike around?” She asked, squatting down to his level and gently brushing a stray curl away from his face.

The boy nodded, his eyes lighting up. “He goes really fast! Will I go fast too?”

“We’ll take it slow first, mate.” Harry chuckled, a pang in his chest from the boy’s eagerness to grow up so fast. First was the bike, next was his eighteenth birthday. “You’ll be zooming around in no time.” He tossed his wife a wink, and she couldn’t help but grin back at him.

She looked down the street, a perfect place to practice—quiet and lined with trees, the leaves creating a soft, colorful carpet on either side. It was the kind of autumn day that felt timeless, like something out of a painting. The sunlight filtered through the branches, casting golden streaks onto the pavement.

Harry gave the bike a little jostle in his hands and then looked back at Atlas. “Alright, bubba. Let’s get you started—y’ready?”

He hesitated for a moment, chewing on his lip. He glanced up at his mom, seeking reassurance, to which she knelt beside him, her hand on his small shoulder. “You’ve got it, love. One pedal at a time, hm?”

“I don’t want to fall.” he whispered, his little hands gripping the handlebars of the bike as though they were his lifeline.

Harry crouched down beside him, his hand resting over his on the handlebar. “S’alright if you do. I’ve fallen loads of times, but guess what? Every time, I got back up. That’s what makes it fun. Falling down, getting back up, ‘nd trying again.”

She nodded, running small circles into her son’s back. “Daddy won’t let you fall, okay?”

Their boy looked between them, a flicker of courage dancing in his eyes, and nodded. “Okay, m’ready mama.”

Harry helped him position the bike in the middle of the street. He held it straight up for him, looking at him expectantly, but he hesitated.

His dark curls, so much like Harry’s, peeked out from underneath the spider-man helmet that seemed slightly too big for him. The helmet had been Harry’s doing, of course—safety was always the first priority. He tried to talk YN into letting him scour ebay for an old one direction helmet, but she shook her head with a laugh, insisting on either spider-man or luigi, his all time favorite characters.

Eyes that resembled his mother’s stared at Harry wide, his lips parted.

His eyebrows furrowed, lips pulling into a slight frown. “S’wrong Attie?”

He shrugged, casting a nervous glance toward YN who only smiled and sent him a thumbs up. With a deep breath, his fingers traced the handlebars, gazing up at his father. “Will y’show me again, dad?”

Harry grinned, a breathy chuckle falling from his lips as he nodded. He threw his leg over the bike that sat far too low beneath him. Atlas smiled widely as his dad unstrapped the helmet from his mess of curls, placing it on his own. He couldn’t get it to buckle, and it sat loosely upon him, if he were to tip his head it would surely fall off.

The boy giggled, running off to stand against his mother’s legs as she combed her fingers through his locks. Harry lowered into the seat, his knees nearly scraping the ground as he pedaled. He kicked off into a circle, wobbling purposely. “See, even y’old man has to practice a bit!” He smiled, making a loop around the ones he loved most in this world. He mocked a clumsiness that he had hoped would ease his son, and it did, as he fell into a fit of giggles. As Harry pedaled back to the start point, YN brushed some of Atlas’s curls from his ear, whispering, “You’re gonna go so much faster than him.”

He nodded enthusiastically, giddily running toward the bike his dad now sat off of. “Such a slowpoke, dad.” He grinned as Harry placed the helmet back onto his head, feigning offense as he buckled it under his chin. “Cheeky boy.” He murmured, gently pinching his cheek and wiggling his hand lightly, which cause his son to smile wider. Harry tugged on the helmet, making sure it was tight before he sat onto the bike. He held it steady as he climbed on, the boy’s legs wobbling as he tried to find balance.

Harry leaned down slightly, peering out toward the empty road in front of them. “Okay, high speed, m’gonna hold on while y’start pedaling. Don’t worry about steering jus yet, okay? I’ve got you.”

He made sure his feet were firmly on the pedals, his small frame looking both tiny and determined on the lime green bike as he nodded. Harry’s hands held the back of the seat steady while Atlas gripped the handlebars, his face scrunched up in concentration.

Atlas took a deep breath and began to push on the pedals, slowly at first, wobbly as he adjusted to the motion. Harry jogged alongside him, his large hands keeping the bike steady as he moved forward.

“Good job, Attie!” YN called from behind, watching as her son started to pick up the rhythm.

The boy smiled, and she could see the edges of his uncertainty melting away, replaced by the sheer joy of it. “M’doing it!” he squealed, the surprise in his voice making Harry chuckle.

“You are, baby!” His mother called back, walking quickly to keep up, her scarf fluttering in the breeze. “Look at you go!”

Harry let out an encouraging laugh as he continued running beside his boy, keeping the bike upright. “That’s it, Atlas! Keep going!”

He was pedaling faster now, but his hands were still shaky on the handlebars. His little body swayed as he tried to balance, but Harry was always right there, keeping him steady, making sure he felt safe.

After a few more feet, Harry spoke again, his tone calm and reassuring. “Alright, bub. M’gonna let go now, just for a second. I’ll be right here if y’need me.”

Atlas’s eyes widened, but he nodded. “Okay, daddy.”

Harry’s hands hovered over the seat for a moment, his steps slowing just slightly as he prepared to release his grip. Then, in a brief but powerful moment, Harry let go.

For a few glorious seconds, Atlas rode on his own. The bike wobbled a bit, but he was moving forward, his little feet pushing the pedals, his body balanced, and his face was lit up with pure delight.

“Faster than you, dad!” He yelled, his voice full of joy, and he could see the pride shining in his eyes.

But before YN could take another step, the inevitable happened. The bike tilted too far to one side, and despite Harry’s quick reflexes to grab it, Atlas tumbled to the ground in a flurry of leaves and laughter.

He was on him in an instant, kneeling beside him and lifting the bike off his small legs. “Y’alright, mate?” he asked, concern lacing his voice.

Atlas sat up, his cheeks flushed from the excitement and the fall, and for a split second, YN thought he might cry. But instead, he let out a breathless laugh, shaking the leaves from his jacket. “That was fun!”

She breathed out a sigh of relief and walked over to him, kneeling beside Harry. “You did amazing, sweetheart. That was so good!”

Atlas beamed up at his parents, his face full of pride despite the tiny scrape on his knee. “Can I do it again, mama?”

Harry grinned, ruffling his hair. “Of course, you can, buddy. Let’s get you back up.”

With Harry’s help, Atlas was back on the bike in no time, this time with even more determination in his eyes. His little body seemed more confident as he positioned himself, ready to try again. Harry stood beside him, keeping a steady hand on the seat for a few moments before slowly letting go, and this time, Atlas stayed up longer before wobbling.

His mom cheered him on from the side, her heart swelling with pride as she watched their son push past his initial nerves and embrace the thrill of riding. His laughter filled the street, echoing off the nearby houses, blending with the rustling of leaves overhead. It was the kind of sound they wanted to bottle up and keep forever.

Time passed in a blur of laughter, gentle falls, and moments of success. Harry’s patience never wavered, and YN couldn’t help but smile as she watched him guide their son with such care, the two of them bonding over each small victory.

At one point, Harry ran a few steps beside Atlas again, his eyes locked on his baby, a look of pure love and pride on his face. “You’re flying now, Atlas! Look at you!”

His grin stretched from ear to ear, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “Just like you, Daddy! Look, m’fast like you!”

YN laughed, catching Harry’s gaze as he beamed back at you, his heart clearly bursting with pride. “He’s got your speed.”She teased. “Maybe more.”

“He’s got more than that,” Harry replied softly, his eyes lingering on Atlas before he fell to a brief stop, waiting on his wife to meet up with his strides. “Maybe a little of you too. I guess.”

And so, they continued—struggles of balance, wobbly starts, and triumphant rides that grew longer with each try. YN watched as Harry guided their son, his patience unwavering, their laughter filling the air, blending with the soft rustling of autumn leaves.

As the sun began to sink lower in the sky, Atlas rode one last lap, his helmet askew, his grin wide, leaves swirling in the air behind him. YN stood beside Harry, her heart swelling with love for the life they'd built, for the man beside her and the boy in front of her.

"Givin’ his old man a run for his money," Harry mused, slipping his arm around her waist as Atlas played in a pile of leaves, tossing them into the air with a squeal.

YN smiled, leaning into him, her fingers curling around his. "Got a kink in my back already."

Harry's arms tightened around her as his wife smiles, pulling her closer as they watched Atlas giggle, his small hands sending a flurry of golden leaves into the air. The sound of his laughter danced through the air, mixing with the rustle of the trees and the soft evening breeze.

"Y'know," Harry whispered, his lips brushing her ear, voice low and filled with warmth, "I've been thinking–.." He paused, glancing down at her with a soft, adoring smile before his gaze drifted back to their son. "It's hard to believe our little boy's getting so big."

YN's heart swelled at the tenderness in his voice.

"He's growing up too fast," she murmured, resting her head on his chest as they watched Atlas dart through the leaves, his laughter filling the air.

Harry's hand moved gently to rest on her stomach, a subtle but meaningful gesture. "Maybe it's time we gave him a sibling. What d'ya think?"

Her breath hitched slightly, her heart skipping a beat as she turned her head to look up at him. His green eyes were soft, filled with love and hope, the idea of another little one filling the space between them.

"You want another?" She asked gently, her own smile starting to bloom.

Harry's arms wrapped tighter around her, pulling her against him. "I do. I'd love nothing more than to see him running around with a little brother or sister. Just imagine–..”He trailed off for a moment, his voice taking on that playful tone she loved so much. “‘Nother little Styles running amuck.”

YN let out a soft laugh, butterflies in her belly at the thought. She imagined it—another tiny hand holding onto theirs, another set of wide eyes learning to ride a bike, another burst of giggles filling their home.

Atlas, still playing in the leaves, looked up at them, his cheeks flushed, his energy endless. Harry pressed a kiss to her temple as her lips parted. “Dunno if the world could handle three of you.”

He laughed, nibbling her earlobe as she shook in his grasp from a small giggle. YN felt her heart flutter as she leaned back into him, the thought of growing their little family filling her with joy. She turned in his arms, catching his lips in a soft, lingering kiss, before they both turned their gazes back to Atlas, who was still gleefully tossing leaves into the air. "I think you might be right," she whispered against his lips, feeling the warmth of his embrace as they both imagined the beautiful future ahead-one filled with more laughter, more love, and the promise of another little soul to share it all with.

Harry only drew a sharp inhale as he wrapped his arms tighter around her waist, wiggling her into a hug with her feet a few inches off the ground.

Just as they shared a soft, lingering kiss, lost in the tenderness of the moment, they heard the unmistakable sound of their son’s giggles. Harry eased her back onto the ground, as they both turned their heads in the direction of their son, just in time to see Atlas bounding toward them, his small arms full of crisp orange and reddened leaves. His cheeks were flushed pink from the chilly air and his recent excitement, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

His curls bounced with every run forward, his laughter bubbling up as he raced over, his tiny legs moving as fast as they could.

Before they could react, Atlas flung the pile of leaves up into the air with an exaggerated grunt, his tongue between his lips in focus, wanting to toss the leaves up high enough to reach them. A flurry of vibrant colors cascaded down over their heads, the leaves scattered across their shoulders, tangling in Harry’s curls and catching on YN’s scarf, all while Atlas’s laughter rang out loud and clear.

Harry feigned a gasp of shock, dramatically shaking his head to get the leaves out of his hair. “Oi! What’s this then, Attie? Attackin’ us with leaves, are ya?”

YN couldn’t help but laugh, her heart full as she shook off the leaves, her fingers brushing through Harry’s hair to remove a few stubborn ones. “Oh no! We’ve been caught in a leaf storm!” she teased, looking down at Atlas, who was now doubled over with giggles, clearly proud of his ambush.

With a playful growl, Harry lunged toward Atlas, scooping him up into his arms and spinning him around. “Y’think you can get away with that, huh?” he said, his voice filled with laughter as he squealed in delight, wriggling in his arms.

Atlas flailed with laughter, tiny hands grabbing at more leaves as Harry twirled him around. “M’leaves! More!”

YN grinned, quickly gathering a pile of leaves at her feet, and as soon as Harry set Atlas back down, she tossed them gently over both of them. “Got you both this time!”

Harry let out an exaggerated “Oof!” as the leaves fluttered around him and Atlas, catching in their hair and sticking to their coats. The boy’s eyes were wide with delight, and he scrambled to scoop up more leaves in his little hands, tossing them right back at YN. “Mama! Catch!”

Before long, all three of them were knee-deep in leaves, tossing them high into the air and letting them fall down like confetti. Harry knelt down beside Atlas, grabbing fistfuls of leaves and tossing them toward YN with a mischievous grin. “We’ll get her, bub!”

He followed his father’s lead, giggling as they both launched leaves toward YN, who pretended to shield herself, laughing as she stumbled backward, covered in the golden debris.

“Alright, alright! I surrender!” she cried, holding up her hands in mock defeat, but her laughter betrayed her as Harry came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her down into the soft pile of leaves they had created together.

With YN now nestled in Harry’s arms, Atlas climbed onto her lap, still giggling, his cheeks rosy from the crisp autumn air. His small hands grabbed at more leaves, sprinkling them over both his parents as they laughed together, completely lost in the moment.

The three of them lay there in the leaves for a few quiet seconds, the sound of their breathing soft, the laughter having died down into contented smiles. The rustle of the trees above, mixed with the occasional burst of wind, made the world around them feel distant and peaceful. Harry’s arm was wrapped securely around YN, while Atlas sprawled across them both, eyes twinkling with joy.

Atlas suddenly sat up after a beat, throwing a final handful of leaves into the air. “More leaves tomorrow, Mama?”

YN laughed softly, brushing a stray leaf from his curls. “Definitely more leaves tomorrow, Attie.”

Harry grinned, ruffling his son’s hair as Atlas wiggled between them. “But now we gotta help y’mum make dinner, yeah?”

And as the last bit of sunlight filtered through the trees, casting a golden glow over them, they shook themselves of the grass and leaves, trotting into their home with rumbling stomachs and full hearts.

[pucked-bunnie]

menace ⎜l.hughes

pairings: luke hughes x reader ⎜ ft matt rempe prompt: "back the fuck off" genre: fluff ⎜established relationship ⎜ warnings: matt rempe being a menace as per usual ⎜angry luke ⎜protective bf luke ⎜mentions of fighting ⎜insults towards reader and luke ⎜ synopsis: you never realised your boyfriend could get so fired up by a simple little comment. word count: 3.6k authors note:  this was requested a while ago and was the clear winner of the poll I put up so I hope you all enjoy. also don't pay too much attention to the timeline it is less than accurate.

(UNEDITED)

+

+

Luke doesn’t know a lot about many things. 

But he does know a lot about hockey. 

His life has always been about hockey - sleep, eat, hockey, repeat - so when he met you it was refreshing to not have to live for hockey. 

It was refreshing to live for him. 

The first time the two of you had met, you were sitting at the only table with a free seat in the library - Lukes textbook for his sports management classes in his arms as he looks around for any other possibilities, not wanting to disturb the brunette girl with her nose in her own textbooks. 

“You can sit down, you know.” Your voice was quiet, and at first he was sure he had imagined it and continued glancing around for other seats. “I’m not going to bite.” You added as you pushed your headphones off your head, glancing away from your books at the lost boy. 

Lukes eyes shoot to yours, his head nodding quickly as he shuffles over to the seat, his shoulders rising in a cringe as his textbooks drop on the table - the bang resonating through the library, a few heads turning his way as he quickly slides into the chair. You watch him as he opens his text book staring at the page for a few moments before pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. 

“You good there, curly?” Luke's eyes raise to meet yours, your head tilted in amusement as you glance down at his books and then back up at him. 

“This class was supposed to be easy.” He admits slowly, sighing as a smile blooms on your face - your hand flicking closed your textbook, the front cover matching his. 

“Super easy.” You admit, as you close your laptop, your headphones are still around your neck as you scoot your chair around the round table to look down at his notebook. “You’re a bit behind on the lessons?” You question, noting his notes are from a class over two weeks ago. 

“I get caught up with sports sometimes.” He can’t help the goosebumps that rise as your arm brushes over his - reaching to flick his textbook back a few chapters. 

“You do know that the student comes first in the name student athlete?” Your words are sharp but the smile on your face lessens the blow, his head nodding quickly again - and he’s sure there’s a dumb glazed look in his eyes. 

“I can help you out if you want.” Lukes never agreed to something quicker in his life - his hand shooting out to shake yours as he almost yells his name in introduction - he repeats your name under his breath a few times after you return his introduction not wanting to forget anything about you. 

Months passed quickly - the two of you meeting up at least once a week to go over the material you had learnt in class, making sure Luke was understanding everything - even going as far as to FaceTime when the team was on road trips. 

It was a Thursday afternoon - the two of you sitting on Luke's small bed in his dorm room, textbooks splayed on the bed though neither of you were paying much attention to them. Luke's attention was focused on the hockey game on his laptop, and your attention was focused on him. 

“Hey, Luke?” You call quietly, his eyes never leaving the screen as he hums in response - his body tensing every time one of the players in red get close to the goal. “When are you going to ask me on a date?” Luke doesn’t look at you, but you can tell his attention is no longer on the hockey game in front of him - the goal horn blaring as he sits frozen on his bed. 

“You’d want that?” He finally asks, his voice cracking as his head lifts to slowly close his computer, his hands gripping the cold metal as he waits for your response. 

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want it.” Luke can feel his heart burst in his chest, your hand reaching out, a gentle finger on his chin turning his head towards you - “ask me.” You say firmly, his eyes locked with yours as you wait for his brain to reboot. 

“Would you like to go on a date with me?” He asks, the words falling out of his mouth before his brain can catch up. 

“I would love to go on a date with you, Luke.” 

+

+

It’s funny how true the silly little saying your parents teach you as a kid can be so true. 

Time really does fly when you’re having fun. 

It also flies when your boyfriend gets called up into the professional hockey league and has to leave you behind. 

“Did you watch the game today?” Luke asks through your phone, his small face on your phone propped up beside you on your desk, his hair wet from his shower post game, a soft glow on his skin as he smiles at you when you’re not looking. 

“Of course.” You say, jotting something in your notebook before closing it softly, “I also watched when you almost got your back broken by being hit into the bench.” You huff, a frown on your face as you glance over your boyfriend. Luke's smile drops a little, as he sits up in his bed, watching as you wipe at your face roughly. 

“I just worry about you, Luke.” You say quietly, your eyes teary - Luke can feel his heart stop as he looks around his room in panic, for what no one knows. Luke feels his chest tighten as you let a small sniffle escape before wiping at your face again. 

“When are you going to ask me to be with you?” Luke never knows what to do when you ask questions like this - his response typically falling under a freeze response, his brain moving slower than normal when you catch him by surprise. 

“You’d want that?” He asks, the deja vu settling in his bones as he adds, “What about school?” 

“I’m doing a degree in business management, Luke - I can do that online if I wanted to.”  Luke feels like he’s going to have long term effects if you keep making his heart stop and start like this - the deja vu hitting again as you add, “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want it.” 

Luke feels like he’s going to explode as he yanks his laptop from where it is charging, looking up flights and hotels as quickly as possible. 

Luke doesn’t know a lot about many things. 

But he knows he would pay whatever he had to, to have you here with him - to be able to entwine his two favorite things in his life together. 

+

+

The last six months have been a crash course in ice hockey - after the play off season had ended with an unfortunate loss Luke had dragged you to Michigan for the summer, wasting no time in introducing you to his whole family and everyone around who would listen. 

His two older brothers had put in the work to sit you down every night after dinner. A game from the previous season loaded onto the T.V a notebook in your lap as Luke slipped onto the couch behind you - his hand fiddling with whatever they could latch onto. 

“Okay so what is it called if one player insults another player?” Jack quizzes, the video paused on his captain's mouth open mid yell. 

“Chirping?” You say Jack giving a strong nod and a smile, resuming the video. 

“And what do we do when someone chirps us?” Jack asks, his smile mischievous as he waits for you to respond. 

“Chirp back?” You assume, Jack clapping his hands together in joy as Luke shakes his head behind you - leaning forwards to pull your short hair out of its bun. 

“No, we ignore it.” Luke corrects, his fingers gentle on your scalp as he detangles the knots left in your hair from the day on the boat. 

“That’s not fun, Lukey.” Jack huffs, looking over to his older brother for back up, Quinn just throwing his hands up with a shrug. 

“I think ignoring it is a better answer.” Quinn says softly, his attention solely on his phone. 

“Alright let’s watch something else - I think she knows everything she can.” Luke says pulling the remote from Jack's hand as he exits off the hockey game, pulling up Netflix to scroll through. His arm banded around your waist as he pulls you to lie back against him, a blanket thrown over the two of you as his brother argues over what to watch. 

“The post is blowing up, Luke.” You say quietly, showing him the notifications on your phone - Luke had posted an instagram story early, undeniably hard launching the relationship into the public - both of you had expected some attention but this had been more than anything you would imagine. 

“It’ll settle down eventually - you’re lucky Jack hasn’t posted anything, that would probably make your phone crash.” You let out a small chuckle, leaning into Luke further as you scroll through your notifications trying to clear your inbox as much as possible. 

“Hold up, who’s that?” Luke asks as you stop scrolling through your inbox, clicking on the message he pointed at. “Matt Rempe? Why does that sound so familiar?” Luke questions as you click on his profile scrolling through the photos in confusion. 

“You mean the giant kid who was just signed to the rangers?” Jack asks, his attention momentarily leaving the movie trailer Quinn was showing on his phone to respond to Luke. 

“How do you know that?” Luke asks, his brother just shrugging in response. “What did he say?” Luke asks as you swipe back to the message reading over the words with a frown. 

“Hey, how’s heaven handling things now that you’ve left?” You read aloud, Quinn letting out a loud snort and Jack's mouth falling open in surprise. “Oh dear god, that’s bad.” You sigh, moving to delete the message before Luke’s hand stops you, his hand swiping the phone from your hand as his fingers tap on the screen. 

“Luke, what are you doing?” You hiss, watching as he types out a message before deleting it and starting again “What happened to ignoring it?” 

“This is off the ice - you don’t hit on other players' girlfriends.”  Luke types again before hitting send on the one sentence message. 

‘She has a boyfriend.’ You roll your eyes before snatching your phone back, the device dinging as you place it back in your lap. Luke looks at you expectantly as you pick up your phone again showing him the response. 

‘We’ll see about that.’ 

“He’s messing with you Luke, just leave it.” You say, blocking the players profile before turning off your phone and tucking it under the blanket before he can type out more messages to his fellow rookie player. 

The message echoes around Lukes head for the rest of the night - the man shocked by his fellow players' audacity. 

Luke doesn’t know a lot about many things. 

But he knows about hockey - and you don’t go after another player's girlfriend. 

+

+

The season started off tense - with most of New Jersey’s star players out with injuries the team was scraping by on wins - only just managing to pull ahead towards the end of each game. 

The most anticipated game of the season slowly sneaking up behind every one - the New Jersey Devils against the New York Rangers - normally a big rivalry but this year everything seemed more tense - especially with the rising enforcer of the New York Rangers making his presence and dislike for the New Jersey Devils team known. 

“Everything will be fine.” You reassure Luke for the hundredth time, squeezing his hand once more before releasing it to fall back to his side, his face falling as he stares down at his empty palm. “I’ll meet you in the locker room after you take the arrival photos.” You say softly, before leaning up to press a soft kiss to his cheek, smoothing out his unruly curls before giving him one last smile. 

He watches as you walk away, greeting some of the staff you pass as you move to where the other family members were gathering to wish their player good luck before the game. You lean against the wall as you scroll absentmindedly on your phone, occasionally adding something to the conversation going on around you, each of the wags splitting off towards their players as they make their way to the locker room. 

“Excuse me?” A deep voice says from behind you, a large hand tapping on your shoulder. You turn slowly your head lifting as you glance up at the abnormally large man, his face immediately flagging recognition in your memory. “Are you a keyboard?” He asks quickly - your brows pulling together as you frown. 

“What?” You respond. 

“Are you a keyboard?” He tries again, waiting for a few moments before adding, “because I think you’re just my type.” You can’t help the scoff that comes out of you, physically cringing at the pick up line. 

“Wait, I have more.” He exclaims quickly, a soft smile on your face as you shake your head. 

“I’m aware - I’m pretty sure heaven is fairing pretty well without me.”  Your retort seems to strike something in the man's memory, his mouth falling open in surprise before a slow grin grows back in its place. “You’ve really lived up to your name as hockey’s new menace.” You add, glancing over your shoulder to see Luke making his way up to the locker room. 

“Ah so you’ve been watching me?” Matt’s confidence in himself is jarring, your frown deepening as you shake your head. 

“Unfortunately for me, you seem to pop up in a lot of conversations about my boyfriend.” You say quietly, “Maybe it was due to your blatant disrespect for your fellow rookie players in this league.” Matt hesitates for a second, his eyes grazing over your face for any sign that you were joking. 

“You’re not my type, and frankly I was hoping you got the message when I blocked you, but clearly your thick head isn’t good for anything other than fighting.” You add, and you know you shouldn’t be adding fuel to the fire but you just can’t help it. 

“Everything okay over here?” Luke's voice is like dousing fire with water, his hand smoothing over your back to sit against your hip as he slides up beside you.

“You should keep your girl on a tighter leash.” Matt speaks before you can reassure your boyfriend, “Seems like she’d jump ship to anyone offering her a good time.” You can feel Luke tense beside you, a few of his team mates pausing in their movement, watching their rookie player glare up at the intruder. 

While Luke has always been considered in the group of larger hockey players - Matt was on a whole other level. 

“What did you just say about her?” 

“You heard what I said - your girlfriend is a whore.” You flinch at the words, your arm looping around Luke’s back to grab hold of his suit jacket hoping he was smart enough not to engage with the larger man. 

“What are you gonna do about it?” Matt continues his taunting, your gaze flicking over your shoulder hoping to catch the attention of another person. 

Luke takes in a deep breath, rolling his eyes before stepping away from you a little, his hands moving you behind him slightly as he moves toe to toe with the fighter. “Look, back the fuck off dude. She said she wasn't interested and I’m not interested in paying a fine for bothering with someone like you.” 

You let out a sigh of relief as one of the older players steps up besides you, pulling you a step further away from the pair, his own glare set on the two boys. 

“This can be dealt with on the ice.” Kurtis says roughly, tugging on Luke’s arm to break contact, the rookie quickly following the wordless instructions of his veteran teammate. “Forget what you said about her…” Kurtis pauses, waiting for Luke to object before adding, “Why don’t you fight someone your own size?” You can see the anger rolling off the two rookies as they finally nod at each other in understanding, Matt glaring at the three of you before turning towards the away team locker room. 

“Leave him for me, Kid.” Kurtis says quickly as Luke turns towards him, adding “You’re not a fighter, Luke. We need you to be able to play.” Luke nods hesitantly, the two of you watching as Kurtis kisses his wife quickly before moving into the locker room, your gaze turning up to your boyfriend. 

“He’s right, you know.” You say. 

“I know.” Luke agrees, leaning down to give you a chaste kiss on your cheek before following after his team mate. 

“Play safe.” The words falter as Kurtis’s wife thread her arm through yours - reassuring you everything will be okay. 

“Kurtis will sort that kid out.” She says quickly, the cheeky gleam in her eyes.

The pre game warm ups move quickly - both teams seemingly tense on the ice, neither making much contact with each other, Luke goes through his normal motions, his body seeming no looser than before as he exits the ice to walk back into the locker room. 

“Why do I have a feeling this is going to be bad?” You ask the wives and girlfriends besides you - all of them agreeing with your gut feeling, all of you tense in your seats as you watch the teams take the ice again - a strange mix of players starting for New Jersey - Luke steaming from the bench as he watching the referee talk to the players at center ice. 

It’s not clear who starts it from where you’re sitting - but as soon as the puck hits the ice, chaos breaks out - each of the ten players on the ice matching up a five on five brawl sprawling across the ice. Most of the fights end quickly, each player slowly making their way to the penalty box as they get pulled apart by the officials, but one match up continues. 

Matt and Kurtis go head to head for over five minutes - both teams cheering them on the pounding of sticks on the boards echoing through the arena. Finally the two get pulled apart and to everyone's joy Kurtis comes away relatively unharmed - the other team's rookie seeming to have gotten the worst of the hits in the fight. 

You watch Luke yell something across the ice as Matt is dragged from the ice the two of them yelling at each other back and forth until Luke’s captain pats his shoulder gently, motioning for him to calm down.  

The game continues tensely - the ejected players cleaning themselves up before joining your group in the family area, Kurtis patting your shoulder gently as you thank him for stepping in. 

“The kid needing a proper welcome to the NHL - I’m glad I was the one to give it to him.” Kurtis says quietly, before adding, “Luke’s pretty fired up, try to get him home in one piece.” 

The game finishes with a loss for the Devils, everyone disappointed but unable to wipe the smiles off their faces as they reminisce on the earlier fight - everyone wanting to share their point of view. Luke pushes his way out of the locker room, his face set in a deep frown as he reaches his hand out for yours, his shoulder dropping a little as you squeeze your hand in his. 

“You need to relax and try not to crash on the way home.” You comment as you both get into the car. Luke lets out a long groan before flopping against the driver's seat.  

“I feel like such a wimp.” Luke’s words surprise you, your boyfriend had never had much interest in fighting before definitely being a lover and not a fighter. 

“Why?” 

“Because I let another player fight my battle.” You let out a snort of a laugh. 

“That’s his job, Luke.” Your boyfriend flicks his faze over to you, “He’s supposed to give and take the hits to keep the best players on the ice, I think Kurtis had more fun than anyone else that player today.” You continue, reaching over to pull on one of the curls sitting on his forehead. 

“It’s not a bad thing to know when to fight and when you’re outmatched - Matt is a fighter and knows what he’s doing and you’d be stupid to think you could take him on.” Your words are harsh, just like they were when you had first met - but the blow is softened as you smile softly as the man sitting next to you. 

“I’m proud of you for choosing the high road - he’s a meat head hockey player who’s got more brawn than skill - but you have talent and it would’ve been a shame to see you waste it all for one stupid fight.” Luke nods slowly at your words, turning his head to press a kiss against your palm before turning back to the front of the car. 

“Okay, I think it’s safe to drive now.” He jokes, his posture far more relaxed than it was before. 

Luke doesn’t know a lot about many things. 

But he knows that he would do anything for you. Even get in a stupid fight.

[winterarmyy]

He Hates Me, Doesn't He?

A series of random Bucky Drabbles that I can't let go but don't have the brain to make the whole complete plot of.

Summary: You hurt Bucky's girl, and now he hates you.

Pairing: tfatws!bucky x female!reader

Words: 6.7k++

Warnings: angstyyyyyyyyy, but with happy ending because I cannot live in agony. miscommunication galore. 'I want to strangle bucky's girlfriend.' soft reader, cold/mean bucky. bucky should've grovel more. horrible attempt of writing verbal arguments. nothing much but pain.

Inspiration: I remember reading a bucky fic years ago and I like the pain that it caused me to feel. Idk why the pain suddenly came back to me lately. So, this is my take on the same idea. I haven't able to find it. But when I do, I'll reblog it in my another acc!

Read my other works here: Masterlist

y/n had always been a steady presence in the Avengers, known for her gentle demeanour and unwavering support. Her relationship with Bucky Barnes had blossomed from a quiet friendship into something deeper. When they first met, Bucky was reserved and hesitant, still grappling with his past as the Winter Soldier. y/n, with her gentle nature and patient understanding, slowly helped him come out of his shell.

She remembered the sleepless nights they spent together when they were on the run with Steve and Sam. They'd share stories, and sometimes just sit in silence, her quiet company offering solace to Bucky's restless mind. The unspoken bond growing stronger with each passing day. Bucky looked up to her, finding comfort in her presence, and in turn, he became fiercely protective of her. They'd watch each other's backs during missions, their synergy on the battlefield a testament to their deep connection. 

And somewhere along the line, she fell for him. She had fallen for Bucky's resilience and vulnerability, though she never expected more, knowing that a relationship was not what he needed right now. At least, that's what she thought. Little did she know, Bucky had always loved her; ever since the day she offered him tea the first night they were on the run to Wakanda. Maybe she was just simply aloof, or maybe Bucky’s flirting skills weren’t translated the way he wanted, but they never crossed the line between friendship and ‘something more’.

Then when Jen came into the picture, it felt like things started to change. Jen was bold and confident, and it wasn't long before she caught Bucky's eye. Their relationship seemed to spring up overnight, and y/n, though hurt, tried to be happy for Bucky. Jen was supportive and caring, or so it seemed, and Bucky deserved happiness.

Now, as planned the team was instructed to moved into the Avenger compound for a few months to train new recruits. It had only been the first month but surely it was jam packed with endless of rigorous training sessions. The original team—y/n, Sam, Bucky, Jen, Clint, and his mentee Kate Bishop—were all assigned to train the new recruits, with additional of few agents from different branches coming in to help out.

y/n was heading to the training room; she knew it was way too early but she thought that if she didn’t get out of bed now, she might not even get up at all. To her surprise, she was not the first one. She saw a few new trainees were already on the way to the training room; some of them greeted her a good morning. She simply smiled at their enthusiasm. 

The moment she entered the area, she overheard voices coming from the corner of the room. She paused, recognizing Jen's voice, which was raised and laced with contempt. Curiosity piqued, y/n stepped closer, staying just out of sight behind the white board. In hindsight, it might seem weird that she was sneaking around to eavesdrop on Jen, but she couldn't help it.

Initially, y/n liked Jen. She tried to welcome her into their tight-knit group and even supported her relationship with Bucky. However, as time went on, Jen began acting strange. The things she said about Bucky sometimes sounded condescending. She would make comments like, "It's amazing how well he's adjusted, considering his past," or, "It's great that he's trying so hard to be normal." The way she acted often differed from her words, with Jen giving Bucky disapproving glances or sighing heavily whenever he mentioned something from his troubled past.

She had noticed these discrepancies and started to feel uneasy around Jen. She couldn't shake the feeling that Jen’s support was just a facade. Now, standing behind the whiteboard, she strained to hear the conversation.

"…and honestly, I don’t understand how anyone can trust him," Jen was saying. "I mean, sure, he's got that whole 'reformed hero' thing going on now, but let’s be real. He was Hydra’s pet assassin for decades. The things he’s done? It’s unforgivable."

Her friend, another agent from a different branch, nodded hesitantly. "But you’re dating him, aren’t you? Doesn’t that mean you trust him?"

Jen laughed, a cold, humourless sound. "Dating him? Please. I’m in it for the fame and the perks. Have you seen the way people look at us? Besides, he’s hot, I’ll give him that. But trust him? Never. People like him don’t change. They’re broken. He's a monster, and he always will be. It’s only a matter of time before he snaps again."

y/n felt a surge of anger rise within her. How dare Jen talk about Bucky like that? 

Memories flooded her mind, flashing back to Bucky’s nightmare-plagued nights. She remembered the prominent dark circles under his eyes, the haunted look that never quite left his face. The silent pain he endured, adjusting to a modern world where he felt like an outsider, magnified when Steve left. She could still see the wary, suspicious glances people cast in his direction, the whispers behind his back when they first ventured out. Before the fame he acquired as he regained his reputation after the Flag-Smasher incident.

She had witnessed his hardships firsthand—the nightmares that woke him in a cold sweat, the moments of crippling doubt and self-loathing. But she had also seen his triumphs, the small victories that slowly built his confidence. The first time he laughed freely in her presence, the genuine smile that lit up his face when he finally allowed himself to relax. She cherished those moments, the sunshine that broke through the clouds of his tortured past.

All of this came rushing back, breaking the chains on the Pandora's box inside of her. The fury she felt wasn't just for the disrespect to Bucky; it was for every ounce of pain he had suffered, every moment of joy he had fought so hard to reclaim. Her eyes hardened with resolve as she stepped forward, her voice steady but cold. "Take that back," she demanded, her presence startling both Jen and her friend.

Jen turned slowly, a smirk spreading across her face as she saw y/n. She knew from the beginning about the cute little crush y/n had on Bucky. To be frank, everybody sort of knew about it, except for Bucky somehow. 

"Or else what, y/n?" she replied with a mocking tone. "You’re quite pathetic aren’t you? You think that I can’t see how you’ve been eye-fucking my boyfriend all this time? Come on, now. Backing him up would not give you a leeway into his pants, y/n."

y/n’s face went through a range of emotions—shock, embarrassment, and then seething anger. Jen’s words were like poison, each one landing like a punch to the gut.

Jen continued, confidence oozing out of her cocky demeanor, "Besides, we all know that I can easily beat you in a fight, doll" 

The use of doll—a nickname Bucky had given y/n from day one, when Steve had quite literally kidnapped Bucky from the government—made y/n blood boil. Hearing it from Jen felt like a personal attack, a deliberate attempt to undermine everything she shared with Bucky.

And it was true that Jen had graduated top of her batch from the Avengers program and had countless successful missions under her belt, but y/n knew this wasn't about accolades or abilities. This was about something deeper, something more personal.

y/n clenched her fists, taking a step closer. "You think this is about who can fight better?" she said, her voice shaking with restrained fury. "This is about respect. You don’t get to talk about Bucky like that."

Jen scoffed, a cruel smile on her lips. "Respect? For that monster? You’re delusional. He’s a ticking time bomb, a liability to the team. And deep down, everyone knows it."

y/n’s patience snapped. In one swift motion, she slapped Jen hard across the face, the sound echoing through the room. Jen stumbled and fell to the ground, shock and anger flashing across her features.

She stalks forward like a predator cornering its prey, "I’m just done with your lies and your insults. Bucky deserves better than you." Jen instinctively crawled backwards towards the centre of the room. Seeing that she got the attention of the few new recruits she regained her composure, smirked again, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. "You’re pathetic, y/n," she taunted. "Defending a lost cause." her voice was loud enough for y/n to hear but quiet enough that the others might not be able to decipher her words.

At that moment, Bucky and Sam burst into the room, followed closely behind by a new recruit who alerted them of the incident. Bucky’s eyes widened as he took in the scene—Jen on the ground, y/n standing over her, shaking with rage. "What’s going on here?" His demand was completely ignored as y/n’s mind was hyper-focused on the wrath bubbling within her. 

"Get up," y/n demanded, her voice shaking with wrath. Bucky’s momentarily froze as he watched the confrontation escalate before him. y/n, usually so composed, was now a whirlwind of rage, her eyes blazing as she stood over a trembling Jen. Bucky had always known her to be fierce in battle, but this was different—this was raw, unbridled anger. "I'm going to make you regret every word you said. So get on your fucking feet before I rip it off you.." 

Jen, still on the ground, looked up at y/n with wide, teary eyes, playing the role of the victim to perfection. "Please, I didn't– I don’t know what you're…," she whimpered, casting a fearful glance at Bucky and Sam, who had just arrived on the scene.

Bucky's mind raced. Why was she doing this? He stepped forward, trying to diffuse the situation. "y/n, hey!" he shouted, his voice a mix of confusion and anger. "What are you doing?"

Completely ignoring him, "Get up," y/n snarled, her eyes blazing with intensity. "Get up and fight me. I’ll show you who the real monster is." Jen looked up, her hand on her cheek, disbelief mingling with her fury. "You’re crazy," she spat, scrambling to her feet.

Her response was only a furious shout. "I said, get up!"

"y/n, are you crazy?!" Bucky yelled, moving quickly to intervene. He grabbed her wrist, his grip tight and unforgiving.

She turned her fierce gaze towards Bucky; her expression momentarily faltering at the hurt in his eyes. "Bucky, you don’t understand, she--" she began, but the words caught in her throat as she saw Jen's smirk flicker for just a second.

"There's nothing to understand," Bucky snapped. "You’re acting insane."

y/n looked at him, her eyes filled with hurt and frustration. "Bucky, you have to listen—"

But he cut her off, his expression hard. "I don’t care! You hurt her, y/n. You think I don’t see that bruise on her cheek?!" Bucky shouted, his face contorted with anger. His eyes, usually filled with a gentle warmth when he looked at y/n, were now blazing with fury. "This isn’t like you, y/n. I’ve noticed that you’ve never liked Jen, and I don’t know why. But this? This is just immature and reckless." His metal grip on y/n's wrist was tighter than he intended. She winced, her eyes watering not just from the pain but from the sting of his words. 

y/n had never seen Bucky like this. His anger was palpable, radiating off him in waves. It was like being hit with a physical force, and she felt her heart breaking under the weight of it. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she blinked them away, her anger flaring even hotter. "Bucky, you don’t understand," she tried to explain, but the words caught in her throat.

Bucky’s expression remained hard, the force on her wrist tightening painfully. "You need to grow up, y/n," he seethed, his disappointment evident in his tone. "You're always causing drama lately, and it needs to stop. Jen’s been there for me in ways you haven’t, and I won’t tolerate you attacking her like this."

The words cut through her like a knife. Her heart shattered at his harshness, at the realization that Bucky thought so little of her. She yanked her wrist free, feeling the sting of his grip lingering. "Fine," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Believe what you want."

Without another word, she turned and stormed out, leaving Bucky standing there, torn between confusion and guilt.

A gnawing sense of remorse tugging at him, but he couldn't shake the confusion and anger clouding his mind. "Jen, are you okay?" he asked, helping her to her feet.

Jen, tucking herself to his side, managed to summon a few tears, looking up at Bucky with a feigned innocence. "I don’t know why she hates me so much," she murmured, playing her part perfectly.

Bucky fingers softly traces on her wounded cheek before his gaze switched to y/n’s retreating form, a knot tightening in his chest. He wasn’t sure why those mean words had spouted out of his lips. Was it because he saw Jen injured on the ground and his protective instincts kicked in? Or was it because Jen had been whispering doubts in his ear about y/n’s loyalty, making him question his longtime friend? 

The truth was, Bucky had always relied on y/n’s unwavering support. She had been his rock through the toughest times, and seeing her so furious, so hurt, shook him to his core. Yet, in the heat of the moment, he had lashed out, unable to reconcile the image of Jen crying with the fierce anger that radiated from y/n.

As Bucky comforted Jen, his mind was a storm of conflicting emotions. He couldn't shake the image of hurt on her face, nor could he ignore the nagging feeling that he was missing a crucial piece of the puzzle.

On the side, Sam was only able to watch the scene play out silently, a frown creasing his brow. He had a feeling there was more to this story, and he intended to get to the bottom of it.

As weeks passed, the rift between Bucky and y/n deepened, fueled by Jen's cunning manipulation. In a private conversation, Jen planted seeds of doubt in Bucky's mind, suggesting that y/n harboured hidden resentments and intentions.

"I hate to say it, Bucky, but maybe she's not who we thought she was," Jen insinuated, her voice dripping with false concern. "Maybe she's been hiding her true feelings all along, waiting for the right moment to strike." 

Bucky, already vulnerable and confused after the incident in the training room, absorbed Jen's words like poison, allowing them to fester and take root in his mind. He began to view y/n through a new lens, one tainted by suspicion and distrust. This single conversation, filled with subtle manipulations and insidious suggestions, was all it took to fracture the bond between Bucky and y/n, leaving Bucky cold and distant towards the one person who had always stood by his side.

Most days he would avoid eye contact with her during team meetings, barely acknowledging her presence when they were forced to interact. In training sessions, his instructions to her were curt and clipped, lacking the warmth and camaraderie they once shared. y/n felt each of these interactions like a stab to the heart.

She couldn't understand how quickly Bucky had turned against her, how easily he had accepted Jen's version of events without even giving her a chance to explain. The hurt festered inside her, eating away at her sense of self-worth.

Then one night, as y/n sat alone on the rooftop, staring out into the darkness, Sam found her there. He knew this was where she retreated when she needed space to think, to process her emotions. He approached her cautiously, sitting down beside her without a word.

"Why aren't you at dinner, y/n?" Sam finally asked, breaking the silence. He could see the emptiness in her eyes, the weight of her sorrow pressing down on her.

She shook her head, her voice hollow. "Lost my appetite," she muttered, her gaze still fixed on the horizon.

Sam gently prodded, knowing there was more to her withdrawal than just a lack of hunger. "Is it because of what happened the other day at the training room?" he asked softly.

Instantly, her demeanor shifted. Anger flared in her eyes, directed not just at Jen and Bucky, but at the entire situation. "I don't want to talk about it, Sam," she snapped, her frustration bubbling to the surface. But Sam wasn't one to give up easily, especially when he knew how much y/n was hurting. "Come on, y/n," he urged, his voice gentle but insistent. "You can't keep bottling this up. Talk to me."

Her expression softened slightly at Sam's persistence, but the pain still lingered in her eyes. "Seriously, Sam, please just drop it," she pleaded, her voice wavering with emotion.

Sam could see the cracks forming in her facade, the vulnerability seeping through the tough exterior she usually projected. Without a word, he pulled her into a comforting embrace, letting her bury her face against his shoulder.

As she clung to him, her facade finally crumbled. Her lips trembled, her eyes filled with unshed tears. "He hates me, doesn't he?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of her own heartbreak. "Bucky hates me."

Sam held her tighter, offering silent comfort as she grappled with the weight of her sorrow. He knew there were no easy answers, no quick fixes to mend the shattered pieces of y/n's heart. But in that moment, all he could do was be there for her, a steady anchor in the storm of her emotions.

The dim glow of the kitchen's overhead light provided a faint sense of solace in the otherwise silent darkness of the compound. Bucky sat at the wooden table, his tired eyes staring blankly at the cup of untouched tea before him. It was a nightly ritual lately, this dance with sleeplessness and the haunting memories that lurked in the shadows of his mind yet again.

Footsteps broke the stillness, and Bucky's gaze shifted to the entrance of the kitchen. y/n stood hesitantly in the doorway, her presence casting a tentative aura over the room. There was a palpable tension between them, an unspoken weight that hung heavy in the air.

She cleared her throat, breaking the awkward silence. "Mind if I join you?" she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper. She was expecting Bucky to ignore her completely but he didn’t; Bucky simply shrugged nonchalantly, his guard seemed to flatter. "Suit yourself," he muttered.

As she quietly took a seat opposite him, a heavy silence settled between them. Bucky's thoughts churned with a whirlwind of emotions, each one vying for dominance over the others. His guard seemed to falter in the presence of her tentative yet comforting aura. The weight of his own vulnerability loomed large in his mind, drowning out the anger he had harboured towards her.

As the silence stretched between them, she felt a surge of compassion wash over her. She knew why he was awake at this time. She knew that the tea he brewed was to help him sleep. She was the one who planted that habit to him after all.

And despite everything that had transpired between them, she couldn't bear to see Bucky suffer alone. With a deep breath to steady her nerves, she decided to reach out to him, to offer what little comfort she could.

Without a word, y/n rose from her seat and moved to stand behind Bucky's chair. He stiffened at her touch, his muscles tense with apprehension. But as her gentle hands began to massage the tension from his neck, a wave of unexpected relief washed over him.

Her touch was soft and comforting, a stark contrast to the coldness he had grown accustomed to due to Jen’s unwillingness to acknowledge this side of him. She ran her fingers through his hair, coaxing him to relax, to let go of the burdens that weighed heavily on his shoulders. For a brief moment, Bucky allowed himself to forget the walls he had built around his heart. In her presence, her voice, and her touch; he felt a glimmer of hope, a flicker of warmth that he had long since forgotten.

But then, like a sudden gust of wind extinguishing a fragile flame, the weight of Jen's words came crashing back down upon him. Anger flared within him, hot and fierce, directed not only at y/n but at himself for allowing his heart to yearn for her.

He pushed himself away from the table, his movements sharp and abrupt. "I don't need your pity, y/n," he spat, his words laced with bitterness. "Just leave me alone."

With that, he stormed out of the kitchen, leaving y/n alone in the suffocating silence.The disbelief that clouded her thoughts gave way to a searing agony that twisted in her chest. How could he say such things? How could he push her away so callously, after everything they had shared?

y/n buried her face in her hands, her body trembling with the force of her sobs. The weight of her shattered dreams pressed down on her, crushing her spirit beneath its merciless grip. She had never felt so alone, so utterly abandoned by the one person she had trusted above all others.

The pain of losing Bucky, of losing the love that had sustained her through the darkest of times, threatened to consume her whole. Each breath felt like a struggle, each heartbeat a painful reminder of the emptiness that now filled her soul.

In that moment of crushing despair, she couldn't help but believe that Bucky truly hated her. The thought tore through her like a knife, leaving behind a raw, gaping wound that no amount of time or distance could ever hope to heal.

As she sat alone in the suffocating silence of the kitchen, y/n felt the full weight of her heartbreak descend upon her like a tidal wave. She was lost in a sea of pain and sorrow, drowning in the agony of losing someone she had loved so deeply, so completely. And in that moment, she couldn't help but wonder if she would ever find her way back to the surface again.

Unbeknownst to her, Bucky lingered just out of sight, his heart heavy with guilt. He wanted to go back, to take back his harsh words and hold her close, to chase away the tears that stained her cheeks. But the poison in his mind was too strong, clouding his judgement and trapping him in a cycle of self-destructive despair. And so, with a heavy heart, he turned and walked away, leaving y/n to cry alone in the darkness.

The mission had already been tense enough, but as y/n found herself face to face with Jen in a location she wasn't supposed to be, the atmosphere crackled with an added layer of hostility. It was as if fate had conspired to place them in this confrontation, and her jaw clenched involuntarily as she braced herself for what was to come.

Jen's presence in that spot was no coincidence, and she knew it. Her suspicions were confirmed as Jen turned to face her, a smirk playing on her lips, a gleam of malice in her eyes. y/n's grip tightened on her weapon, her pulse quickening as she prepared for the verbal assault she knew was coming.

"How does it feel, knowing that Bucky hates you now?" Jen's words sliced through the air like a knife, each syllable carrying the weight of y/n’s deepest fears. It was a direct hit, striking at the core of her insecurities, and for a moment, she felt as though the ground had been ripped out from beneath her feet.

But she refused to let Jen see her falter. With a steely resolve, she squared her shoulders and met Jen's gaze head-on, her expression a mask of defiance. She may have been shaken by Jen's words, but she refused to let them break her.

Ignoring the taunts, she focused on the mission at hand, determined to prove her worth despite Jen's attempts to undermine her. But with each passing moment, the weight of Jen's words hung heavy in the air, casting a shadow over y/n’s every move.

It was a battle on two fronts – against the enemy they faced together, and against the doubts that threatened to consume her from within. But she refused to back down, drawing strength from the knowledge that she fought not just for herself, but for the team she believed in with all her heart.

But Jen's relentless barrage of insults made it difficult to concentrate, her words like daggers slicing through y/n’s defenses.

"Aww come on y/n, bet you’re reeling in the loss right now, aren’t you." Jen continued, her voice ice cold. "The Asset’s little lapdog, clinging to him like a lost puppy."

y/n’s temper flared at the insult, her grip tightening on her weapon as she fought to keep her emotions in check. But Jen's mocking laughter only fueled the fire burning within her, pushing her to the brink of her patience. "Shut your mouth, Jen," she growled, her voice low and dangerous. "Or I swear to God, I'll make sure that the team finds your body disassembled in one of these rooms."

Jen simply rolled her eyes, unfazed by her threat. "You love him that much, huh?" y/n had no intention to deny that fact; she does love him, "More than you ever could." her voice was firm and true. Jen’s smirk fell as she scoffed. "Ain't that cute, the Winter Soldier and his little psycho sweetheart."

Before y/n could respond, a voice cut through the tension like a knife, freezing her in place. It was Bucky, his expression dark and stormy as he stepped into view. "What's going on here?" he demanded, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as he took in the scene before him.

y/n’s heart sank as she realized that Bucky might have heard everything. She turned around to meet his eyes and his face confirmed her suspicion; he heard it.  Bucky had heard everything – every taunt, every insult, every word exchanged between her and Jen; even the confession of her true feelings. She met his gaze; searching for some sign of understanding of his emotions and the little that she saw was: disappointment, betrayal and guilt, mirrored back at her in the depths of his stormy blue eyes. 

In that moment, all she wanted to do was pull him into her arms, to pull him away from all the painful memories and hurtful words; so far away that he would forget he had ever been taunted, betrayed, or made to feel less than he was.

Before she could utter a word, let alone take a step towards him, Jen's voice broke through, but it lacked the usual confidence. "Bucky, it's not what you think," she stammered, her eyes darting nervously between Bucky and y/n. "I-I was just..."

y/n’s clenched her jaw, her patience wearing thin as Jen stumbled over her words, unable to come up with a coherent explanation. She could see the confusion and hurt in Bucky's eyes, a reflection of the turmoil raging within her own heart.

"I-I mean," Jen continued, her voice faltering. "I was...um...just trying to...uh..."

But her feeble attempts to justify her actions only served to further incense Bucky. His brow furrowed in anger, his fists clenched at his sides as he struggled to make sense of the situation.

"Enough," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "I don't want to hear any more lies."

y/n’s heart ached as she watched Bucky's expression darken with anger and disappointment. She wanted to explain, to tell him the truth about Jen's betrayal and her own misguided attempt to defend him. But the words caught in her throat, choked by the weight of her guilt and regret.

With a heavy sigh, Bucky turned away, his shoulders slumped with defeat. "Let's just finish the mission," he muttered, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "We'll deal with this later."

As he was about to walk away, y/n noticed a red dot on his chest, the unmistakable mark of a sniper's laser sight. Without thinking twice, she leaped towards him, her body acting as a human shield. Time seemed to slow down as she collided with Bucky, pushing him out of the way.

"y/n, no!" Bucky shouted, his voice filled with panic as her body slumped against his chest.

In the chaos, Jen was nowhere to be seen. She had slipped away, taking shelter and ultimately fleeing the area as she heard multiple footsteps approaching.

Bucky tried to pull up his gun, but it was too late. An array of bullets rained down on them. He felt the searing pain of a few shots piercing his own flesh, but it was nothing compared to the sight of y/n’s body being riddled with bullets. She was hit in the shoulder, wrist, thighs, and other places Bucky couldn't even register.

Rage surged through Bucky like an inferno, obliterating any semblance of restraint. He moved with a deadly precision, his eyes blazing with fury as he unleashed a storm of bullets on the enemy. His movements were swift and unforgiving, every shot finding its mark with brutal accuracy. The enemy fell one by one, their bodies collapsing in lifeless heaps. The air was filled with the deafening sound of gunfire and the acrid smell of gunpowder, but Bucky's focus was unyielding.

Within moments, the room was cleared, the enemies wiped out in a flurry of rage-fueled vengeance.

The adrenaline ebbed away, leaving Bucky standing amidst the carnage, his chest heaving. He turned, and his eyes fell on y/n's crumpled form. The sight of her lying in a pool of her own blood shattered his rage, replacing it with a crushing wave of worry and panic.

"Hang in there. Please," Bucky hastily spoke, his voice trembling. He activated his com line, desperation seeping into his tone. "Guys, we need help. y/n... she's... she's been shot. We need to get out of here right now!" Panic coursed through him as he turned his attention back to y/n, frantically trying to stop the bleeding on her stomach. "y/n, doll…please" he pleaded, watching her hazy gaze. "Don't you dare give up on me now. Come on."

"babydoll, stay with me!" Bucky cried, his voice breaking as he cradled her in his arms. Blood soaked through her clothes, staining his hands. "Please, hang on, you can’t leave yet. I haven't told you... I haven't—" 

Her eyes fluttered open, her breathing shallow and ragged. "It's okay, Bucky," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the chaos. "It's okay. Don't cry." Her shaking hands struggled to move, and with great effort, she managed to cup Bucky's cheek. The gesture was weak but filled with tenderness. "It's okay," she repeated, her fingers trembling against his skin.

"Don't talk like that," Bucky choked out, his own tears mingling with the blood on his face. "You can't.. I haven't told you...please doll..." His voice wavered with the weight of unspoken words and unconfessed feelings. He hadn't told her how much he truly cared for her, how every moment spent away from her felt like an eternity. He hadn't begged for forgiveness for his coldness, his mistakes, and for letting Jen's poison taint his actions. The guilt gnawed at him, each heartbeat a reminder of the words he hadn't said, the emotions he hadn't expressed. 

He pressed her hand harder against his cheek, feeling the warmth of her touch anchoring him in the moment.Her hand weakly brushing against his cheek. "I know, sweetheart," she murmured. "I know."

Bucky's heart shattered as he clung to her, feeling her life slipping away. "No, no, no," he muttered desperately. "You can't leave me. Please, y/n. Please."

She smiled faintly, her eyes closing. "I'm here, Bucky. I'm right here."

With a final, shuddering breath, y/n’s consciousness slipped away. Bucky felt a surge of panic, but he knew he had to move. He lifted her limp body, cradling her against his chest as he ran towards the quinjet. Each step was agony, his own injuries slowing him down, but he didn't care. All that mattered was getting y/n to safety.

"Hang on, y/n," he whispered, his voice trembling. "Hang on. I won't let you go."

In the sterile environment of the medical bay, y/n lay unconscious, her body hooked up to various machines that monitored her vital signs. Bucky sat by her bedside, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen from crying. Every beep of the monitor seemed to echo through the silence, a haunting reminder of her fragile state. He held her hand, his thumb gently caressing her bandaged wrist.

Memories of their time together flooded Bucky's mind, each one a bittersweet reminder of the connection they shared. He remembered the laughter they had shared, the late-night conversations that stretched into the early hours of the morning. He remembered the gentle touch of her hand, the warmth of her smile that never failed to chase away the darkness.

But amidst the memories, there was also pain – the pain of their last conversation, the words left unsaid and the choices left unmade. Bucky's throat tightened as he recalled the day he had walked away from Jen, the air thick with tension and unspoken truths.

His voice was cold and final. "You almost got her killed, Jen," he had said, his eyes blazing with anger. "Stay away from us. Stay away from me."

Jen's eyes had flashed with anger, her words cutting like knives as she lashed out in frustration. "And what, you think you'll find someone better than me?" she had spat, her voice dripping with venom. "Good luck with that, Bucky. You'll never find anyone who would put up with your baggage."

But Bucky had remained resolute, his decision fueled by a sense of longing and regret that threatened to consume him whole. "Maybe not," he had admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I'd rather be alone than with someone who doesn't truly care about me."

Now, as Bucky sat by y/n’s bedside, the weight of his decision bore down on him like a crushing weight. Tears welled in his eyes as he reached out to gently brush a strand of hair away from her face, his fingers trembling with emotion.

"I'm so sorry, babydoll," he whispered, his voice thick with unshed tears. "I never meant for any of this to happen. So, please, wake up. I need you."

But y/n remained unconscious, her breathing shallow and weak as she lay before him. And as Bucky watched over her, his heart heavy with worry and regret, he vowed to do whatever it took to bring her back to him, to keep her safe from harm for all eternity.

For in that moment, Bucky realized that he couldn't bear to lose her – not now, not ever. She was his rock, his anchor in a world of uncertainty and pain. And as he held her hand tightly in his own, he prayed with all his heart that she would find her way back to him, to the love and light that had always guided them through the darkness.

The soft hum of machines filled the air as y/n stirred awake, her senses slowly coming back to her. She blinked, disoriented at first, until her gaze fell upon Bucky, who was sleeping soundly in the chair beside her bed. His hands were clasped tightly around hers, his face peaceful in slumber, but she couldn't help but notice the tear stains on his cheeks, the dark circles under his eyes, the worry lines etched into his forehead.

"How long has it been since?" she wondered to herself, her heart aching at the sight of Bucky's exhausted form. She carefully sat up, trying not to disturb him as she lovingly examined his sleeping face. She couldn't help but smile as she gently ran her fingers through his hair, the soft strands slipping through her fingertips.

Bucky groaned as his sleep was interrupted, muttering something about Sam needs to leave him be; before he abruptly sat up, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Hi there," y/n greeted softly, her eyes sparkling with affection as she watched Bucky's reaction.

For a moment, Bucky seemed unable to comprehend that she was finally awake. His eyes widened in disbelief, his mouth slightly agape. But then the realization hit him, and he threw himself at her, wrapping her in a tight embrace as if she were the most precious thing in the world .Despite the pain that shot through her body, she managed to let out a soft chuckle, returning his embrace with equal fervor. The warmth of his embrace chased away the lingering chill of unconsciousness, and for a moment, everything felt right.

"y/n..." Bucky breathed into her neck, his voice trembling with emotion. She hummed in response, her heart swelling for him. "Hmmm?"

Not wanting to let go of her, Bucky called her name once again, his voice wavering with uncertainty. "y/n-..." She paused, her lips curving into a tender smile as she whispered in his ear, "Yes, Bucky?"

Bucky tightened his grip, his breath hitching in his throat as he buried his face in her shoulder. y/n gently rubbed his back, her touch soothing and comforting as she reassured him, "I'm here, sweetheart." The scent of her hair, the feel of her warmth against him—it all felt overwhelming. Emotions churned inside him like a tempest. Relief, guilt, love, and fear battled for dominance, leaving him raw and exposed.

She gently rubbed his back, her touch soothing and comforting as she reassured him, "Bucky, I'm not going anywhere.

Bucky's mind raced, images of the past few weeks flashing before his eyes. He remembered the coldness with which he'd treated her, the cruel words that had slipped from his lips, fueled by Jen's poison. He thought of the sleepless nights, the nightmares that had gripped him, and the aching void he'd felt every time he saw y/n’s hurt expression.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, his voice muffled against her shoulder. "For everything. For not believing you. For pushing you away."

Reluctantly, she pulled away, but not before wiping the tears from Bucky's cheeks and fighting the urge to place a tender kiss on his forehead. As she looked into his eyes, she could see the depth of his love and the pain he had endured for her sake. And in that moment, she knew that she had found her home in his arms. Bucky took her hands in his own, his eyes closed as he pressed a kiss to her wounded wrists. "This will never happen again. Ever," he vowed, his voice filled with determination.

Moved by his words, y/n felt her heart flutter with emotion. She realized in that moment that she could never stay angry at him, no matter what had transpired between them. She understood now that they were both at fault, both victims of circumstance and misunderstanding.

With a surge of courage, she reached out and pulled Bucky into a kiss. Her lips met his in a slow, passionate embrace, pouring all of her love and forgiveness into the tender gesture. It was a moment of connection, of healing, of reaffirming their bond despite the trials they had faced.

The taste of Bucky's lips was like a soothing salve to her soul; it was intoxicating. It felt as if the world had fallen away, leaving only the two of them entwined in each other's arms. When they finally broke apart, Bucky whispered those three words that y/n had longed to hear, "I love you."

Her heart soared with joy, and she couldn't help but tease him, "Took you long enough." her teasing words met with a cheeky grin from Bucky.  "I love you too, Bucky" she blinked slowly. As he whispered softly under his breath, "Come here," he pulled her back into the kiss, their lips meeting in a tender embrace that spoke volumes of their unspoken love. And in that moment, amidst the chaos and uncertainty of their world, they found solace in each other's arms, knowing that together, they could weather any storm.

Read my other works here: Masterlist

A/N: I just needed to let this out lmao. It's been stuck in my head for several weeks. Thank you for spending your time reading this crap... honestly. Love you so much 🤍

[yaksha-lover]

Malleus believes for a long time that one day he’ll be the last of his family. Once his grandmother passes away, he’ll be a Draconia truly and finally alone in the world.

The house of Draconia has ruled Briar Valley for thousands and thousands of years. Every part of the castle he’s grown up in tells the stories of his ancestors. The portraits that line the halls paint a powerful line of dragon fae.

Sometimes Malleus would catch his grandmother staring at the latest family portrait. The ones that came before it are certainly much more full of life: parents and children, brothers and sisters, cousins and grandparents.

The latest one had been painted a few years ago, his grandmother had insisted on it. In the throne room, he sat together with her. The emptiness of it was striking against the portrait from a couple generations ago, the coldness contrasting with the liveliness his family used to have.

The portrait just before his own is of his parents. He’s heard stories about them from Lilia and from his grandmother, but it’s difficult for him to really imagine them. He wonders if they’d be proud of him, someone feared but not loved, while they were both.

His grandmother has tried to keep some of their traditions alive. He wonders if she’s losing hope that no one will love him enough to continue this legacy.

It was for her sake that Malleus learned the ancient fae language that only his grandmother still speaks. The two of them are able to converse, but he knows it’s only a matter of time before there is no one left in the world who will be able to understand him.

It catches him off guard one day when you request him to teach you some words in this language. This was when he hadn’t known you long, before he could have anticipated the role you would play in his life. It was the first surprise, but certainly not the last.

When you kissed him for the first time during a meeting with the gargoyle studies club, he’d been thankful, for once, that you two were the only members.

Your latest surprise was your request to visit Briar Valley. He’d assume you’d, understandably, be quite intimidated to visit his castle. That perhaps he’d have to persuade you to stay with him over the holidays. Even Lilia had be surprised, although he recovered quickly enough to tease you. You refused to shy away, gushing to his guardian about your excitement to visit his homeland.

He’ll never forget the look on his grandmother’s face when you greeted her in her native language. She was surprised at first, looking back and forth between the two of you, before hugging you as soon as you stood up from your bow. She’d ignored your words of ‘Mrs. Draconia’ and pleaded with you to call her Maleficia.

It turned out, he was not the only dragon fae you were able to charm. Over the winter break, you’d become closer to his grandmother than he could’ve imagined. It seemed she admired your fearless and evident care for him. He wondered for a moment if you were the grandchild she’d always wanted.

Before he can think too long, you are quick to pull him into the dining hall, where his grandmother already sits at the table. She teaches you about all of the traditional Briar Valley cuisine being served, and you rave about it’s deliciousness. When you notice his quietness, you grab his hand under the table and squeeze, quickly drawing him into the conversation.

“You are awfully curious about these dishes, my dear,” his grandmother teases you. “Do you plan on returning to Briar Valley after this?”

“Of course! I’ll have to know all about these dishes if we’re going to make them for our children!”

His grandmother laughs for the first time in forever, while you and him both flush. It seems even you were embarrassed over this statement, but it makes him smile.

“Then I will teach you, my love. Our children will not be subject to Lilia’s cooking.”

That night, Malleus dares to hope that he will not be the last of his kind.