#and my usual glow ofc

[elysianamethyst]

happy aarni day!!! (reference)

b&w under the cut

[st4rbwrry]

𝓢𝓤𝓖𝓐𝓡.       eren yeager.

‎𐦍 ₊˚♱ ෆ . . . 5.1k. fem!reader, set in 01’, country!eren + bluecollar!, housewife!reader, established relationship, domesticity, ovulation, oral ꒰ f + m. ꒱, kreaming + squirting, rough sex, nasty talk ofc, unprotected, daddy kink, spanking, pet names ꒰ sweetie, baby, mama ꒱, praise, hair pulling, check ins + aftercare, choking, breath + sensitivity + salvia play, minors aren’t allowed! reblogs + comments are greatly appreciated. <3

꒰ 𝑚𝑜𝑐ℎ𝑎’𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒 ꒱ . . . a lil sum i thought of randomly. this is related to the dangerously in love couple. <3 visual. visual. visual. wish i had a link for the exact position i have in my head, so here’s a small example. hopefully i explained them well. :<

part three. <3

ivory sunflowers are imprinted along the frilly apron that hugs your body cutely, the coquette lace floral dress with a baby pink ribbon to create a corset style underneath. the warm scent of strawberry pie baking in the matcha green vintage oven blooms your heart. dusting flour over the counter to roll and mush at the dough you’ve created for the chicken pot pies, one of eren’s favorite meals. the sun was fairly hot today, your eyes fixating on the two beautiful tawny cows roaming your farm, their mouths chewing at grass as the wind blows serenely.

you told eren to keep a close eye on them while he was outside, watching your husband stand halfway down the driveway with sweat dripping from his brow as he tinkers with the engine of his polished black 1968 ford f100. he’s been having troubles with it this past week, and constantly handling it became tedious. he expressed his anger a few times now, this truck being his first big purchase for himself and he was having issues only a year later.

his light blue levi jeans and classic wife-beater was streaked with grease, clinging to his muscular thighs as he crouches low, peering intently at the mechanical innards. every so often, he wipes his hands on a rag before reaching for another tool, his calloused fingers moving with practiced ease. the sun casts a glow on the definition of his biceps as he lifts and maneuvers heavy parts. angelic brown strands held back by a black cap turned backwards.

you’ve been subconsciously humming along to the 70s and 80s rock tunes he has stationed on the radio. don’t dream it’s over currently on play. meanwhile, inside the cozy farmhouse kitchen, with the tantalizing aroma of food and your chocolate brown maltipoo who eren named honeybelle sleeps on her bed by the window — although this moment was romantic and peaceful to view, you weren’t too happy of a woman.

this was one of the few days he was off from work, and he’s been outside fixing his car since your eyes opened to an empty bedside. it’s nearing nighttime, and you’d spent half your day to your lonesome. shaving your body, doing your skincare routine and deep conditioning your handful of a curly head that’s currently pinned up away from your soft features. it’s felt like such a long time since the two of you enjoyed a full day together, let alone make love. your ovulation period not making this any easier on you, feeling like a wild animal in desperate heat. the only time you really interacted today was when you brought out a fat honey-turkey club sandwich, knowing he tends to forget to eat sometimes.

brushing the crust you created for the pot pie after layering them in crisscross patterns with butter, your mind wanders off, daydreaming as the sun begins to set and the sky blooms into color palettes of saffron and coral. the air outside turns warmer, and you study your husband once more, watching the ball in his throat shift as he chugs on a pitcher of water, droplets hitting his chest. his briefs are peaking out from his jeans, feet in his black timberlands per usual. his arms have veins streaming from the middle of his forearm to his big, dirty hands. silver wedding band on his right.

those slanted viridescent eyes of his catch your stare as he glares at you over the pitcher, swallowing and giving you a movie star smile with pearly whites. you smile faintly, returning the gesture. your heart pounds rapidly in your chest, shifting in your spot as you realize you’re biting your lips and almost riding the air. your blood is thrumming throughout your body, needing him to come inside right now.

the chicken pot pies are done in thirty minutes, each crust perfectly golden brown. and within that time, he’s still outside messing with his truck. you wanted to be understanding that he needed his truck in order to head to work tomorrow to further provide for you and the home as he does, but you can’t help that feeling of abandonment in your chest. you really didn’t want to cause an argument, but this was becoming irritating.

removing your apron, you slip on your outside shoes to head towards the garage where he resides, being faced with his broad back and gruff noises of agitation.

“baby.”

“yes, sweetie,” he replies quickly, groaning as he twists the wrench.

“dinner’s done. you’ve been out here all day. please come inside,” you pout, going to wrap your arms around his waist, laying your cheek on the column of his back.

eren removes his cap, scratching at his head before smoothing his hair back and placing it on again. “mhm, baby, i know. gimme like ‘nother hour, i just gotta connect the fuckin’ valve springs to the camshaft.“

“i thought it was just overheated?”

“yeah it was, the water pump wasn’t sending coolant through. the crankshaft wasn’t movin’, ‘n the radiator cap had too much pressure so the spring in the cap compressed ‘n flew over in the coolant reservoir. glad i ran to the auto shop beforehand.”

he’s saying a lot of shit you don’t understand if being frank. sighing, you let go of him, knowing he was real intricate with his truck so he definitely wasn’t going to be done in an hour. he stops what he’s doing to turn and face you, observing your expression.

“what i say about that, mama. huh?” eren sighs, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “don’t be givin’ me that face. i’m tryin’ my best right now. swear ima be in, i’ll make it forty-five instead.”

“that’s not the point,” you roll your eyes, crossing your arms. “fuck the dinner, i want you to be with me. you’ve been out here since eleven in the morning. not once have you come inside the house ‘n checked on me.”

his jaw clenches, your tone expected but not what he wanted to hear right now. “i ain’t tryna argue with you.”

“then don’t, help yourself to dinner.”

“꒰♡꒱.”

turning with clear attitude, you stroll back into the house, honeybelle barking softly as she follows you around. you feed someone in the house, pouring kibble into her beige bowl before patting her head and watching her scruff down the food. by this point you’d lost your appetite, huffing and puffing in your kitchen as you set the food back into the oven and made your way up the staircase.

to cool yourself down, you decide to run yourself a bath. twisting the gold faucet to fill the clawfoot tub with hot water, crouching on your knees to swish the water around to help form the bubbles. it was fully dark outside now, lighting aromatherapy candles and opening the double vintage windows that overlooked the farm you and eren spent years creating. stars in the sky and clouds camouflaging. undressing yourself, you grab a novel off of the shelf and submerge yourself into the tub, closing your eyes in bliss and leaning your head back against the spa pillow that elevates your neck.

eren manages to take approximately thirty minutes to finish up his project, starting up the truck and test driving it before he sighs in relief to see she’s back in shape. after parking it back into the garage, whistling at the cows to get them to follow him back into the barn after much needed playtime, he’s finally stepping into the house. honeybelle skips towards eren, sniffing at his ankle and wagging her tail. eren smiles, patting the top of her head.

“where’s your mommy, girl. huh?” he coed, scratching under her chin.

his eyes scope the dining area, finding the table set up just for the two with candles that were half burnt, blown out. the homemade sweet tea in a pitcher leaking with condensation, ice cubes melted. the pie you baked was set into a glass cake stand, and the pot pies are settled into the oven under the light. it was definitely clear you were upset with him, groaning and putting a hand on his head. he truly didn’t mean to take away this day from you, aware of how much you’ve missed him. hours at work are longer since the power plants needed more tending to from low employment.

just last week he had to go out of town and leave you for an entire three days to travel to another refinery. in that time you’d tend to your farm while also helping eren’s father with his. you knew what this lifestyle would mean for your relationship. things around the house including you will be secure, but having him come home exhausted to the point where you rarely spend as much time as you’d like with him was difficult. at most he had two days off a week, but a lot of times they’d call him in because someone else didn’t show up.

you’ve suggested countless of times that he should switch locations, but this one provided better benefits and he was close to a promotion that would also guarantee him extra off time. ‘it just takes time, baby.’ he’d constantly tell you. and you’re not one of those wives that complain about every single thing to make her husbands life harder, the two of you rarely even argue, but you do have your moments where you’re too stubborn.

the heavy thud of his boots sounds in the home as he heads up the stairs, softly calling your name to see where you reside. with his hand on his toned stomach under his shirt, he finds you rested in the tub, head turned away as you sleep comfortably. his tall frame leans against the doorframe, watching you with a pout on his face. you look angelic, cloud white bubbles flowing around your body, the jets in the tub keeping them in tact, slowly dissolving. the tankless water heater he installed a while back kept the water warm, making you comfortable enough to drift off to light slumber.

he makes his way closer to you, crouching before you to brush the tendrils of curls dangling in your face. your breath is light, lashes feathering against your cheekbones as he caresses your jaw with his thumb. he bends to pull the plug and drain the tub, not fond of you sleeping in water. you didn’t have it too high up, but people drown in tubs a lot more than you think.

you hum gently, eyes opening to see him looming over you, studying him in silence. sitting on his behind, he grabs a pedicure knife to clean under his nails, tattooed arm dangling into the tub and under the running faucet to remove the impurities.

“don’t like you fallin’ asleep in the tub, sweetie. you could drown. this isn’t your first time doin’ that,” his brows deepen, grabbing a nail brush and applying some of your cashmere and goat milk soap you currently smelt of with to scrub at his manicured fingernails.

you bring your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms over your knees. “sorry.”

eren scans your face, eyeing the beauty of your entirety. perfectly white painted toes and matching nails, dark, big curls framing your face, slowly falling from the claw clip on the back of your head. the fullness of your lips with the cupids bow curve of them. soft skin, pretty eyes . . you were all his. such a beautiful wife. so when you’re mad at him, it makes him feel like shit. the way you look at him is different as well. your eyes are dead almost, a scolding glare in them.

“this day was supposed to be for us, i know,” he breaks the silence. “old shit was being difficult, ‘n you know i gotta drive far, sweetie. gettin’ ‘n a crash isn’t somethin’ you’d want happenin’ to me, right baby?”

the frown on your face serves how you feel about that. “i’d lose my mind if something bad happened to you.”

“ ‘n i’m not tryna guilt trip you or anything like that. i understand how you feel. i miss you just as much. i think about you all fuckin’ day at work. but, as time passes, eventually i’ll be in a better position ‘n you can have me with you whenever you want. jus’ lemme handle shit, okay?”

his strong hands go to caress your ankle, the silver jewelry shining there, lifting your foot to kiss at the shape of it, eyes low and focusing on you, unable to help the heat that swims within your hips and core.

“i really just needed you so bad today,” the sound of your throat clamping up causes him to go alert. you bow your head, wanting to hide your face as the tears threaten to spill. “it’s so stupid. i spent all that time pampering myself and cooking for us — i just hated being alone, even if you were still here.”

“c’mon, baby. why you cryin’ ? none of that. i’m sorry, truly,” he’s rising up on his knees, kissing at yours.

“missed you touching me,” you whimper, sniffling and pouting. “missed your kisses. i miss you.”

ah, so that’s what it is. he doesn’t make any effort to hide the smirk on his face, scoffing lowly while dropping his head. you can be such a brat when you’re horny, and given it’s been about two weeks since he’s last fucked you, he now gets why you begged for him to be with you today. quality time was still needed, but he can tell by the way your body tenses and your lips part to release tiny gasps while he strokes the pads of his fingers across your hips . . that you’re ovulating.

“that’s all you needin’, mama? some touches?”

salvia trails down your throat as you swallow, thighs squeezing together out of reflex, throbbing from those damned eyes of his, nodding with hooded lids. “mm hmm. so bad.”

“mm, yeah?”

the butterflies in your stomach swarm as he brings his face closer to yours, his touches on your skin causes you to grind when his mouth suddenly connected with your throat, your jaw widening as you gasp and toss your head back, his mouth sloppily kissing at the right side of your body. lips moving from your collarbone, each sound coming from him emphasized as he sucks at your chest, pulling your areola into his mouth and trailing his tongue down the side of your stomach, down to your hip and the crease between your thigh and waist. every kiss and lick is rough, his groans exaggerated as you moan from every touch.

“ooo, fuck. oh my god,” your hips can’t stop moving, his tongue gliding back up before his fingers indent into your cheeks, turning your face to his so he could kiss you roughly, sliding his tongue on yours.

eren doesn’t kiss you for long, detaching your lips with a lewd slick, both of your lips pouty before he’s arching over the tub and guiding his mouth along the left side of your body, repeating his motion of sucking and licking you. your eyes gloss back, spreading your thighs further apart when he gets closer to your pussy, swallowing your bottom lip inward.

he cocks his head back to lewdly spit over your clit, the string of saliva and the vein on the side of his thick neck making your face heat up. your mouth hangs open as he takes his fingers and slowly spreads it over, grumbling, "want me all over you," before rubbing your clit in smooth circles, groaning at the weak noises you made.

you were so needy, every touch he gives you consuming, a lust and desire looming over you that only he could give you. your hips twitch and hike midair, and your positive you've made your lip bleed by how hard you bit into it, doe eyes hazily watching his face. brows furrowed as he tentatively paced his fingers, repositioning himself so he could tug you down flat in the tub, your knees pressed to your chest as he clutches onto the sides of the tub.

“hold ‘em there, be good.”

a squeal envelops eren’s ears once he cranes his neck and drops his mouth over the puffy nub, enclosing his lips to kiss at your folds. your pussy is soaked, dripping between your ass cheeks, inner thighs twitching while he licks you up. the cap on his head continues to hold his hair back, his biceps flexing from every noise you make, trying to keep his composure. he wanted to make you feel real good, you deserve it, and he’s missed you.

“b—babyyy,” a mix between a groan and a whimper flows from you, keeping your legs open and squeezing at your chest hard, slowly rocking your pussy on his face, voice shuddering from the feel of his light stubble on your soft skin.

eren spanks the back of your thigh, dragging his mouth to soothe the feel after with an open mouth followed with more of his tongue. he loved tasting you, clearly. melting on the velvet of his tongue like sugar. his chin is doused by your slickness as he buried his face deep, circling your clit in languid strokes, lower lip dropping to bring it back into his mouth. you’re never embarrassed by how loud you get, knowing you’ll be reprimanded if you do keep silent. so a pathetic, drawn out whine fills the space when he removes his mouth.

“feed it to me,” eren hisses, spanking the back of your thigh again, french kissing either side of your ass. the hungry aggression through his eyes tell you to listen, his body almost entirely inside of the tub to make sure he’s giving you what you need the right way. “c’mon, girl.”

the gruffness in his tone makes you squirm, like he’s just as pent up as you. easing your hips up, you hold your legs fully up so they’re past your ears, gripping on his arm for balance as you dip your hips so your pussy connects with his face, your face curling up as he spits and slurps, your body trembling.

“mmmahh,” you weakly moan, chest heaving and breath stuttering, his tongue occasionally dipping into your hole to taste that sweeter place, eren grunting and bouncing his head along with your movements, teeth every now and then biting at your inner thighs. “g-g’na—squirt, f-fuck, nnnngh.”

eren acts on instinct, reaching to grab the back of your neck as your body arches forward to hold you so you won’t hurt yourself, swallowing at your achy bud as you coat his throat in your juices, humming and savoring every ounce. the static of your legs as you sing out your moans makes his dick harder, straining in the confinements of his jeans.

he pulls away, your body flat within the tub as he stands and undoes the leather belt on his waist, ears perking up from the sound of his zipper and then awaits the weighty girth of his dick. blush pink tip and tan with a protruding vein trailing up the underside. you find energy to lift yourself up, clinging to the side of the tub like a mermaid on rocks. reaching for the back of his leg to pull him closer, eren’s brows lowered at the sight of your eyes setting into seductiveness.

your mouth opens instinctively, giving him those big brown irises that has his dick jump in your face. eren’s waist spasm backwards, fingers grasping the coils of your hair to stop you. “no, no. not now. y’know you’ll make me cum too quick.”

“y’know you can’t fuck me till i taste it,” you pout, evidently upset, keeping your lips parted as a need to have it. “just a taste, daddy. i want it.”

“fuckin’ hell,” eren clenches his jaw, pupils dilating, lowering his jeans and boxers to his thighs to inch his dick to your lips. “yeah, jus’ a lil taste, baby. gimme those pretty lips.”

eren moans when you waste no time intaking half of his dick, tongue licking at the underside and slurping him up, bobbing your head and letting him hit the back of your throat in nasty squelches. his head falls back then to the side as he squeezes his eyes shut, attractive neck showcasing, grunting and slowly thrusting into your throat.

“f-fuck, ꒰♡꒱. love this sweet fuckin’ mouth of yours. show me that throat, baby,” two hands go to clutch your neck, eren pulling his dick out, salvia dribbling down your bottom lip. you widen your mouth, angling your face up so he can see your tongue in it’s entirety, the tight ring in the hollow of your esophagus calling him.

“good girl, take this shit deep,” he whispers painfully, teeth clamped together in a hiss as he lays the heaviness of his dick on your flat tongue, pushing in till his pretty, leaky tip connects with the back of your throat, constricting around him. “a-ahh, yeahh.”

you let him use you as long as he anticipates, eyes drooping low, trying to focus on eye contact with your nose mushed to his happy trail, the scent of the day and his cologne seeped into his skin. you heave when he pulls back entirely, whining and riding the air. he’s so damn masculine it makes you so feminine and submissive.

“one more time, hold it,” bending his back slightly, he slides back into your mouth, gently holding your neck in place to thrust a few times more, deep melodies of grunts and hisses pouring as he furrows his brows and studies how you made his dick wet and shiny, balls slapping against your chin.

with your mouth stretched open, you take him in as deep as he likes, closing your eyes to shut off your brain so you don’t choke. eren holds you there, huffing out ‘ooh fuckin’ god, baby.’ before smoothing his hand on the side of your face after he withdraws his hips to let you breathe, his own chest knocking from holding his breath.

“love you,” eren reminds you as he peppers kisses all over your face and you smile, a continuous gesture he’d do every time to make you aware, especially when he’s too rough.

the trance you have on his dick is sickening, following it as he maneuvered around the bathroom, retrieving a towel he spread on the lower part of the tub before entering, not bothering to take off his boots. you giggle as he hovers above you, biting at your nail and shifting your body beneath him so he could slot in. the weight of his cock lays on your stomach, eren grinding to rub along your folds, coaxing your hidden clit to show. eren steadies his figure, knuckles turning white from him grasping either side of the tub and holding himself up by indenting his feet into the towel.

“i fuckin’ need you,” eren growls, biting at your neck before licking and shifting his hips to nudge the tip against your opening, easily sliding in slow.

the warmth fills your face again, abdomen pinching from pain and pleasure, pawing at his slightly dirty wifebeater and hiking it further up his chest you were desperate to touch. the silver chain around his neck sways in your face, squinting your eyes and dropping your jaw when he begins pounding into you with the need he expressed. the sluice of your pussy is loud, his balls slapping against the rounds of your ass while your thighs hit his pelvis.

“this what you needed, right? what you been whinin’ for?” eren grunts in your face, taking your lips in his for passionate kiss, moaning together.

“y-yesss, mmmph,” the pleasure swarming in your stomach feels foreign, whimpering from every stroke he gives you, clawing at his sides. it felt so fucking good, your eyes scrolling and your breath inordinate along with his. “dick feel so good, ‘ren.”

“mhm hmm,” his face curls up, leaving an open mouthed kiss on your cheek and behind your ear, his touches making your body burn. “i hear it, she’s creamy as fuck.”

and it was, peering down between where you two connect to see him covered in you, the sticky slaps making his eyes lose focus, rutting into you harder. so hard it makes you scream, that sweet spot being pressured and your tummy flutters.

“e—ren,” you can barely see him, whines and whimpers being your only way of communication. spreading yourself wider by holding yourself open with both hands, arching your chest into his face where he sloppily eats at your brown skin again.

“talk.”

“annngh,” your lips turn into a pout, face completely gone. every word and sound coming out brokenly. “f-feelin’ something. s’so fuckin’ deep in me. you fuck me so good. w’na cum on it.”

“mhm, cum on it. cum on your dick baby, make it creamier.”

it’s quiet at first when you cum, legs shaking almost violently as eren lets go of the tub and lays his entire weight onto you, tucking you fully underneath to angle his hips and dig his dick in deeper, rough and steady pivots making you reach for his hair to tug, knocking off his hat. his fingers grip your cheeks, big hand almost covering your whole face as he brings his forehead to yours, growling rough.

“yess. give. it. to. me. lemme hear it.”

“g-god, y-yessss, fuck. right there, right there. please don’t fuckin’ stop . . oh my god.”

a long, exasperated groan disperses, vibrating in your chest and in his ears, hiccups and gasps following as you clench and suck him tighter. he feels the throb from your orgasm, dick twitching inside of you, rolling his waist and keeping you close to let you ride it out and feel it longer.

“take your time, there we go. feel it all.”

it pulsates harder from hearing him, grasping his wrist and releasing what’s been caged within you; a cry. “oh . . my . . g-god. eren!”

it’s not that you’re hurt, it’s that you’re experiencing too much at once. overwhelming pleasure, your husband’s embrace, the way he speaks to you, fucks you, the love you have for him, how he loves you, and even the annoying rise of hormones from your ovulation. a cry bolts from you, body convulsing and your voice dying out, grinding mindlessly on his dick and kissing his lush lips.

“that’s it, it’s okay.”

eren’s kissing all over your face, soothing you and giving you time before he holds you close to his chest and turns himself around so he’s leaning up, resting his head back on the spa pillow and twisting you so your back is to his chest. he balances your weight, taking the initiative to sling your right arm over his shoulder, eren smoothing his palms up the back of your thighs before locking your knees to your chest with his forearms.

“you good, baby?” eren whispers, smooching your cheek again.

chewing at your lips, you nod. “uh huh.”

eren moans as your fingers thread through the brown coils of his hair, tugging and planting a kiss on the shell of his ear, jumping slightly from the way he patted your pussy with his dick, sinking back in deliciously slow. with your lips parting in sync, eren flattens his feet to fuck up inside of you, your walls spasming from how good it feels and the sensitivity.

collecting the tresses of his messy hair, you fist it harder which makes him fuck you harder. your tits bouncing on your chest you fondle at.

“watch us,” he says, placing both of his hands on either side of your head to force your head down to stare at how he fucked you, keeping your legs locked with his arms.

the sloppy collision of your stickiness coating his cock that plunges into you roughly, his heavy hits making the both of you whimper. eren begins to grow so weak from being in your pussy and the hard labor he’d done today, and you can tell by the slowness in his pace after a few minutes. he’s throbbing hard, knowing he’s close to cumming, wanting to making him feel it too. he also had to get up early and still eat dinner, so did you.

“ ‘ren,” slithering your head from his grasp, you guide them to sit at your waist, his fingers digging into your flesh as you tug at his hair again and nibble at your bottom lip.

moving your body further up, you arch your chest forward and implant your feet flat to the surface, snapping your ass down to fuck him instead. eren tightens his hold on you, jaw slacking and squeezing his eyes shut while placing his forehead on your shoulder. you gasp, bouncing on him and constantly groping at your chest, skin clapping louder.

“you g’na cum in me, baby?” you speak with a whiny tone, taunting him.

“y-yeah, baby. please. bounce on that shit harder,” eren sucks at your side again, retracting his hand to land a harsh spank under your thigh, dangerously close to your cunt. “fuck, you do it so good, ꒰♡꒱. do it so good.”

“mmmm,” you smile drunkenly. “this daddy’s pussy, right?”

eren whines, and you love when he gets this way, so horny he lets his guard down. makes sounds he wouldn’t usually make. his tongue on you again causes your hips to stutter, that pressure building back up, a shaky moan pressing out the harder you fuck yourself on him.

“it’s daddy’s pussy. oooh, shit baby. don’t stop, i’m g’na bust all in your p—ussy.”

“all in my pussy?” harder, faster, you pounce your ass down, knees hiking and reconnecting as you drop down completely, feeling your orgasm near and riding him by scooting your ass on him.

“all . . in it— fuck. good girl.”

weakness fills your bones, loosing your balance completely, eren bellowing out curses and grunts as he locks his hand around your neck to pull your back to him again, swiveling his hips with yours while you both ride out the wave. heaving on the side of your face after he lays his cheek on yours, warm cum leaking into you while you gush all over him in exchange.

eren softly kisses at your shoulder, embracing you in his hold and moaning from your walls clenching on him. you can’t even find the energy to speak, enduring the comforting silence and weak breathing. rubbing your arms and molding his face with yours, skin to skin a necessity for him. rocking you side by side, smiling into his forearm he used to lock against your neck, inhaling the coconut fragrance in your hair.

“we need a shower, and that chicken pie i worked hard to make for you.”

“and that strawberry pie,” eren chuckles within the crook of your neck. “i’ll eat it all just for you.”

“you better.”

© 𝒮𝒯𝟦𝑅𝐵𝒲𝑅𝑅𝒴! all rights reserved. please do not repost, steal, or modify my work simply because it is mine. stealing isn't cute. i'll ruin your life ♡

[trashytracktales]

teammate!lando x reader where they had a bet and she loses…so he makes her crawl to her, hump the pillow, rub her bare clit against his clothed crotch ALL WHILE HE RECORDS HER (with consent ofc)

Lights, Camera, Action! | LN⁴

🔹️ summary ──── It was supposed to be a joke, then it became everything.

🔹️ pairing ──── Lando Norris x fem teammate!reader

🔹️ rating ──── explicit

🔹️ warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, descriptive language, smut, nerdy!Lando, soft!dom Lando, recording (consensual), cushion humping, manhandling, orgasm from external stimulation, swearing, unprotected sex, mutual masturbation, overstimulation, playful teasing, camera kink??

🔹️ word count ──── 6.3k

🔹️ date ──── May 6, 2025

🔹️ a/n ──── How tf do I set my intention to go for PURE SMUT NO PLOT, yet still manage to write over 6k 😀 I don’t even know what’s this, nothing makes sense and we are living on a floating rock.

Hear me out, I usually only link the song, but then I remembered about this music video and I almost had an aneurysm because of how well it fits. I recommend watching it after reading though. Anyway, ENJOY!!

THE LAST RACE before the break fucked them both. Pretty hard. What was supposed to end with another 1-2 finish for the team turned into a disaster of strategy, pace, and pure bad luck.

Since getting back to Monaco, the fallout hasn’t left them alone. It’s pretty hard when everyone is talking about it; it can get lonely, too. Luckily for them, they’ve been texting back and forth for days, laced with sarcasm, blame, and just enough flirtation to keep the tension at its peak. However, neither of them said what they really wanted to say. But it was always there, between the lines as usual, and in the way her name popped up on his screen, making his stomach flip.

Every single time.

The bar is loud enough to blur that tension and even Lando, with his no-alcohol rule, is loose and laughing. They dance and talk about anything but racing, and for a while it feels like neither of them are carrying the weight of disappointment.

Friends come and go through their circle, a few fans spot them and ask for pictures — which they take, grinning too wide and standing too close for their own good. Somewhere between the fourth round of mocktails, a familiar song starts pulsing through the speakers, and that’s when she brings up the bet, half-laughing, stepping in front of him like she did back in the garage when she dared him.

“If I finish behind you, I owe you a private dance,” she said, confidence dripping from every word. She’d qualified ahead of Lando, and was so confident she can finish ahead of him, too. But since every race is unpredictable and full of unknowns, she ended up taking the checkered flag after him.

It was a joke, anyway. But she can’t say with all her heart that she hasn’t thought about it at least a few couple of times. Besides, it’s Lando who’s been constantly reminding her throughout the past few days and, even if it was in jest, the curiosity made her spend hours staring at the ceiling of her room, imagining different scenarios.

Now, it’s late when the door to his apartment clicks shut behind them with a clean, satisfying noise. Lando tosses his keys into the ceramic bowl on the console with more force than necessary, and while the keys clatter, one nearly skids off the edge, forcing him to reach for it instinctively. She doesn’t say anything, although she can’t help but finding amusing that the inanimate objects always decide to act up only when her teammate’s patience seems so fragile.

The sudden movement makes Lando whine in exasperation as she watches him kick off his shoes and drag a hand through his curls.

The place is quiet, as if reflecting their inner agitation, silently burning within. He’s not bothering turning on more than a lamp, but it’s enough to bathe the whole living room in a pale silver glow, making everything seem even more intimate than it should be.

As they step further into the apartment, the same silence hits them both, because it’s not just the sudden absence of noise, but the weight of it. They’ve never been this quiet around each other before. Usually, they’re the chaos in the garage, either laughing too loud or teasing mid-debriefs, always bringing the kind of energy that makes their engineers roll their eyes but secretly love it. Now though, it’s the first time neither of them knows what to say. Or how to act.

“Cute place,” she says, partly to break the silence, but mostly because it really is. Spacious, stylish, not super tidy, but very Lando in that sense.

“You know you don’t have to make small talk, right?” he laughs. “It was a stupid bet to begin with, since I was always going to finish ahead of you anyway.”

Her jaw drops slightly at the cockiness in his tone. This is the Lando she knows and, in other circumstances, she would find his confidence hot, but right now it only makes her want to knock that look off his face. Or sit on it just to shut him up. Either works.

“Always eager to finish first? Got it,” the playful jab lands right where she intended without too much effort; it’s a split-second flicker in his expression, the twitch of his jaw, and the way his arms tense.

That’s the spot, she thinks. That’s where it bruises his ego, not because it’s crude, but because it’s enough to sting. Which only makes her want to push harder.

Lando’s grin flattens a bit. “Well, someone’s gotta lead the way,” he replies casually, even though he caught her double meaning phrase.

“Right. Leading the way because you can’t pace yourself,” she fires back.

He chuckles. “Sounds like an excuse from someone who couldn’t keep up.”

They’re toe-to-toe now, all bite and smirk and so much tension. She’s half a second from throwing a cushion at him just to knock that pretty smile off when she glances past his shoulder and, without another word, she steps forward, fingers brushing lightly against Lando’s arm as she urges him to move out of her way, wandering farther into his apartment like she owns the place.

“Interesting,” she mumbles. “I saw you with the camera before,” the girl continues as Lando turns to follow her silhouette. “How about you film me while I dance? Give you some new material for land0.mov?”

Lando’s expression twitches barely, but she’s still able to notice it. That small flash of disbelief, quickly masked by a half-laugh, like he’s not sure if she’s joking or just testing him.

“No way, mate,” says Lando, but it’s already too late.

She nods slowly, letting the weight of her intention settle in the air they share. His boyish smirk fades into curiosity in an instant. It’s like watching him put a helmet on: composed, dialed in, serious in a way most people rarely get to see.

To give him more space to process, she veers toward the low shelf by his TV, crouching slightly. “Let’s see. Which one’s your favorite?” she asks nonchalantly, running her fingers along the row of cameras lined up like little trophies; old film bodies, modern DSLRs, and a few point-and-shoots with scratched lenses.

Lando stares at her like she suddenly grew two more heads in the meantime. “You play too much, you know that?”

“Yeah,” she shrugs, glancing at him over her shoulder. “Which one?” she repeats.

He blinks, opening his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out at first. After he rubs the bridge of his nose, Lando exhales slowly. “The, uh… the Leica. Second from the left. Black one,” he instructs. “I rarely use it, which makes it special, I guess.”

She lifts it delicately, turning it over in her hands. It’s heavier than she expected, sleek and cool against her skin. “Nice,” she grins. “Bet it makes everything look expensive.”

Lando hums in agreement, “Only shoots what’s directly in front of it. Look,” he says, getting so close to her that he’s now towering over her frame, while pointing at the camera. “Fixed lens, see? No lazy zooming, but the resolution is insane. The tricky part is that you have to move it yourself to get the shot you want,” he continues.

She looks up at him, noticing a slight shy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. And, just when she thought Lando couldn’t get any nerdier, she hears his voice again.

“It’s a twenty-eight millimeter lens. That’s not crazy wide,” he informs her. “If you stay in the middle, the background’s gonna fall off all soft and blurry. Makes it feel…” he trails off, clearing his throat. “Personal. It’s not even about perfect framing or whatever,” he rushes to add. “It just catches whatever’s there, no hiding.”

“Did you use it before?” she asks, curiosity pulling the words out of her mouth without having the time to think them through.

“I did,” he replies with a grin, giving her enough time to come up with her own scenarios before adding, “On my cars.”

She smiles, her eyes sparkling in the dim light of the room. “So. If I move, you have to follow, hm?”

Lando nods.

She sets the camera down gently, then leans against the wall beside the shelf with her arms crossed. She’s aware that what she’s suggesting it’s pure insanity, especially after what’s been happening between them lately.

“Okay,” she finally says, holding her hand toward him, palm open. “Can I see your phone for a sec?”

Lando frowns, trying to hide a curious smile. “Why?” he asks, sliding the phone from his pocket and unlocks it, handing it over with suspicion in his voice.

She only flashes him a smile back, thumbing through his apps until she finds the little Spotify icon. A few seconds later, the speakers come alive with a sultry bassline that wraps the room in a charged ambiance.

The teasing in her voice is easy to catch next time she asks, “You seriously have a sex playlist called sex playlist? Men are so predictable.”

He chuckles, “Yeah? What’s yours called?”

“I’ll send you the link,” she winks at him jokingly, but that still has an unexpected effect on Lando. Maybe because he’s starting to understand that his teammate is hardly ever joking, actually.

For a second that feels like a week, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches her, every muscle in his body taut like he’s holding himself back from something that’s about to come out anyway. It has to. Because everything has a limit, and theirs was crossed from the moment she entered his apartment.

With a quiet exhale, she presses herself lightly against the wall, then pushes off and crosses the living room in steady, cat-like steps, taking his hand in hers, fingers threading through his. Her touch is warm and somehow reassuring, her palm so small and silky against his. She guides Lando toward the couch with intent as if this isn’t his own home, nudging him gently until he sits.

She breaks away then, walks back across the room, and returns with the Leica in hand. “Turn it on,” she says simply, with enough clarity behind her words.

Lando stares at her, dumbfounded for a beat, before the corner of his mouth twitches upward in disbelief. “You’re insane.”

“I trust you to capture the best in me,” she admits.

He lets out a heavy breath, something between a laugh and a groan, and flips the switch at her insistence. The familiar click of the camera waking up is giving Lando chills, but when he glances up again, his hands still adjusting the ISO, she’s already pulling the shirt over her head, revealing a black bra and her toned shoulders dusted in the dim light.

She tilts her head. “Just make sure I look good, Lando.”

With that, she starts moving as slow as possible, every inch of revealed skin feeling like it’s offered, not given.

Lando’s hands are steady on the camera, but for some reason, breathing doesn’t feel automatic anymore, and he’s currently aware of every shaky breath he takes. His fingers work on instinct, dialing the aperture wider, letting in the glow of the cool lighting. His pulse is racing, heavy in his throat, because he can see everything through the lens, but is still not ready to look at her in the flesh.

For her, it’s easy to notice how focused he is, so she glances straight into the camera on purpose, with a spark of mischief in her gaze, like she knows exactly what she’s doing. To him. As a result, Lando’s knee starts bouncing, restless, his breathing too shallow to be subtle. He can’t remember the last time he felt so tightly wound, but it doesn’t even matter because what happens now will stay with him for a long time, and this is all he needs to remember from now on.

And then, it gets worse.

He stares at her while she’s arching slightly as she undoes her bra clasp, letting it slide off her shoulders and onto the floor without breaking eye contact with the camera. At that, Lando looks away out of instinct — out of that last shred of decency clawing at him. But the camera stays trained on her, and when he lifts his gaze again, it’s like a dam breaks inside him. Violently. The hunger that flashes across his face is instant, and impossible to hide. He doesn’t even try, because what fool could ever take his eyes off her?

Lando adjusts himself without thinking, moving in sync with her teasing gestures as she peels her panties down her legs from under her skirt. He tells himself to stay focused and capture the sensuality of her body with the last fragment of professionalism that he possesses. But that’s a losing game when his own body is burning with need, and every subtle curve and line of her turns into a map that he’s desperate to explore as soon as possible.

His focus lingers on the swell of her breasts, her nipples tightening in the open air. It forces him to swallow hard, a deep ache growing both inside him and his pants, knowing how badly he wants to lean forward and suck them into his mouth, to feel the heat of her skin against his tongue.

The camera dips lower as she dances to the hypnotic rhythm of his music, and Lando keeps working with her, baring the elegant slope of her waist and the strong lines of her thighs. The way she stands there, so natural and confident, feels like a direct hit to his chest that he welcomes without hesitation or any intention of dodging. She’s pure femininity, and that throws him into a black hole made only of her, where the gravity is so strong that there’s no escape.

He’s so focused on her that he almost stops breathing in order to make sure he gets the perfect shot, every shot. That makes Lando’s hand tighten around the camera, his knuckles whitening from the pressure. But his body has a mind on its own, apparently, and his thighs flex like he’s one wrong move away from standing. From closing the distance between them. Against his will, though, he sits there, shivering with the effort to stay still.

“Come on, Norris,” she says, and her voice wakes him up from the trance her shapes put him in. “I’ve seen you take tighter corners at Spa with less hesitation.”

Even though he tries to, he can’t stop the throaty laugh that comes out of him. Only for a moment, Lando lowers the camera again, and lets himself, finally, finally, see her. And this time, he doesn’t look away. He watches her shamelessly, while reaching behind him to take a cushion that he ends up tossing onto the floor near his feet, nodding toward it.

“Go on, then. Show me how desperate you are.”

There is something about the way he says it that sends a thrill straight through her. She heard that Lando is direct when it comes to his wants and needs, but to feel it on her skin hits different. Her pulse suddenly stutters with excitement as she lowers herself in front of him, straddling the cushion, her body already anticipating the liberating feeling.

The moment her hips roll forward and her mouth falls open in surprise at the faint pleasure, Lando is right there, capturing every gasp, every twitch, and every sweet reaction like it’s the only thing that matters. His mind runs wild with all the places he aches to touch — his hand curled around her throat, palms squeezing her breasts, fingers digging into her hips to hold her still while he teases her until she begs.

The temptation claws at him, full throttle. But he forces himself to handle the camera like a pro, because more than anything, he wants her to see what he sees: how devastatingly beautiful she is like this, undone and bold. Through his own lens, she’s a vision, and giving her that full picture keeps him going.

From her perspective, noticing Lando’s determination sends a fresh wave of heat throughout her body, making her rock her hips a little harder, and that puts a tension in his shoulders. A type of need he didn’t feel before.

To stop herself from making more embarrassing sounds, she meets his gaze over the camera, mouth slightly open. “Is this good?” she asks, voice breathy and half-mocking, although there’s something real underneath. A dare. A plea.

Lando looks at her again, revealing a flushed face and his blown wide pupils. “Yeah, don’t stop,” he replies hoarsely.

Her thighs squeeze around the cushion from the moment she hears the first note in voice, the soft fabric teasing against her clit with every slow roll of her hips, pulling breathy sounds from her. Behind the camera, Lando tails closely as she grinds back and forth, his jaw clenching at the small sounds slipping past her lips.

“Shit, that’s hot. Are you always this needy?” he asks out of pure curiosity, but the question is mostly rhetorical; of course she is. Judging by the way her chest heaves and how she leans forward slightly to catch as much friction as possible, the answer is obvious.

She wants to push back against the power shift, but she’s too lost in the rhythmic movement of her body. And it’s not as if Lando’s wrong. Every gentle brush gets increasingly out of control, each desperate grind into the cushion sending small waves of pleasure straight to her nerves, making her fingers curl into the couch for balance. For the control she’s rapidly losing.

Her eyes flutter closed for a moment, mouth constantly parting as the pleasure spirals inside her like a coil wound too tight.

Lando’s fingers flex over the shutter release, but he’s barely present anymore. He’s completely absorbed by what is happening on the other side of his lens, and it’s her moan that pulls him out of it, just as the pressure builds. So he reaches out, his hand entering the frame like an unexpected guest. With ease, his fingers grab the edge of the cushion beneath her, and she pauses, blinking up at him, flushed and dazed, breathing heavily like she just stepped out of the car after a last-lap push. With one strong pull, he slides it out from under her, making her gasp in surprise, her body jolting at the sudden loss.

“Lando,” she exhales irritated.

She gets her hands onto his knees to steady herself, thighs still wobbly, but he’s not looking at her anymore. He’s too busy staring at the soaked fabric instead, darkened with heat and want and everything she didn’t say out loud.

“That good?” he asks, but the arrogance in his voice diminished, giving way to his sincere curiosity.

She shakes her head, looking up at him again. “Not faking it, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

The fact that she is as sincere in her statement, encourages Lando to take things to the next level, just to see how much he can push before it’s too much. He throws the cushion aside with a thud, his eyes lit up with need.

“Come here,” he orders in a gentle tone, patting his lap.

She’s stunned at his words initially, and the way they leave no room for teasing. But then she catches the way his tongue drags slowly across his bottom lip, leaving it wet and shining, and something inside her pushes her to get up. She realizes that there’s nothing she wouldn’t do if he asked.

With calculated steps, she climbs him patiently, her thighs spreading over him. They’ve been in each other’s personal space in the past, when they had to do silly challenges for McLaren to entertain the fans. Still, even though there’s a camera between them just like before, the air feels different, charged with desire, unknown, and heavy lust. Because this time, it’s just them.

When her body sinks onto his, the scabrous fabric of his jeans meets the soaked warmth between her legs, the weight making Lando groan silently, his little sound hitting her low in her stomach. His reaction encourages her to continue, shifting on top of him in order to find the best position, enough to grind against his bulge. It’s thick and hard beneath her, and the simple contact is already maddening. Yet not nearly enough, and the realization that he’s just as affected by this makes the coil in her stomach tighten further.

“Keep going,” he speaks again as he lifts her skirt up to her waist, going back to the camera and angling it to capture the way she moves against him, right where her skin meets the fabric of his pants.

Her palm comes around his bicep for suport, letting the instincts guide her further. The pressure she chased a moment ago is still there, but it’s different this time around. More intense.

Lando grunts, his free hand gripping her hip to show her the pattern to follow. She whimpers while that sweet ache comes back, her body trembling with need. In no time, she can move on her own, and because she’s such a fast learner, Lando points the camera closer, eager to capture the wetness soaking through.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he says. “You’re making such a mess,” he exhales, bringing his hand between her legs to feel it before he could even process his own action. His thumb finds her clit, rubbing it gently, keeping his eyes on her face the whole time, craving to catch every reaction.

She moans, one hand squeezing his arm harder as her body rocks forward, chasing the release that she hopes it’s not that far into the future, especially if his hips continue to twitch beneath her the way they do, so impatient and reliant on her.

Unfortunately, the time almost stops the moment their faces get close enough to kiss. She can feel the heat of his breath and the pull between them, and she’s sure he can feel it too. Her eyes flick to his mouth, and Lando’s eyes stay on her, but no one dares to close the small gap. Because somehow, that would be more intimate than all of this. Kissing would mean acknowledging what’s been burning between them for a while now. It would mean admitting this is real, and admitting will complicate everything in both their personal and professional lives.

And neither of them are ready to take that chance yet.

With that in mind, she doesn’t lean in. She just closes her eyes and grinds harder, her hips rolling against his hand and the hard line of his cock beneath her. The sensation amplifies fast, and Lando never stops working her with his thumb. Soon enough, her breath comes out in spasms and her thighs start to shake. Her pace intensifies, chasing the high that’s been teasing at the edges of her patience, feeling the mess she’s made slick against Lando’s pants with every desperate press on it. Still, his hand stays steady, rubbing perfectly against her clit, matching the rhythm of her hips like he knows exactly all the ways she wants — and craves — to be touched.

With Lando’s help, it doesn’t take long until her body finally seizes, hips jerking forward uncontrollably as pleasure crashes over her. He moves with her, a silent apology for stopping her earlier written into every precise touch, making sure this time she falls apart completely. Because of him.

Luckily, the camera captures everything: his hand on her, the wet spot she’s left on his pants, the way her skin flushes and seems to crave more with each passing second, and the way her thighs shake when the aftershocks hit. It catches the way she starts trembling, too, body overwhelmed, aching for something deeper, something only he can give her right now.

Only he gives her time to ride it out instead, feeling all the ways her walls flutter, hungry and empty, and the sound that tears from his throat is nothing but a helpless moan. The sensation alone, even without him inside her, is enough to make his head spin. It wrecks him completely, makes him ache with the violent need to know how it would feel to be buried deep inside her, to have her tight, needy pussy squeezing around him while she comes undone all over again. Because of him.

The girl barely registers the camera being placed in her hands until Lando nudges her chin. “Here. See for yourself.”

Except, she doesn’t want it. Not yet. By her own choice, she takes it gently from his hand, presses RECORD again and turns it around, placing it on the padded arm of the couch. Facing them. Remembering Lando’s voice earlier, casual and offhand when he said that the camera only captures what’s in front of it.

Her fingers move impatiently, drifting to the hem of his shirt, bunching it in her hands. “Since you let me finish first,” she rushes to explain.

With that, she pulls the shirt up, and he lifts his arms to help her, muscles tightening under skin slick with the faintest sheen of sweat. Once it’s off, she tosses it to the side, her eyes drinking him in. Lando is warm under her palms, his chest rising and falling with each heavy breath, and she senses the same tension in him that’s barely holding him together.

She studies his face while her hand drifts lower, trailing down the center of his stomach, pausing at the waistband of his jeans. Carefully, she slips her hand inside, where she finds him hot and so painfully hard that it makes her mouth water. Without any instructions, her fingers curl around his soft skin, and the sight alone makes his stomach flip. She starts to stroke him teasing, but before she can go quicker, Lando grabs her wrist, groaning low in his throat.

“Just a sec,” he pants, voice cracking slightly. His hands are already moving, guiding her hips back over his lap with a need that borders on desperation.

This time, there’s no fabric between them, and her soaked heat presses directly against his length, making them both shuddering at the contact; skin on skin and no more barriers, just the unfiltered reality of what they both want. His hands find home on her hips, big and heavy, his control hanging by a thread.

Agonizingly slow, her clit slides along his hardness, slick and warm, sending sharp jolts of pleasure from one body to another. He can barely contain himself at the way she finds it so easy to rock against him, faster when she feels how thirsty Lando gets in a matter of seconds. He’s leaking already, the head of his cock glistening, smearing against her folds as she moves.

Completely flushed and utterly drunk with pleasure, he shifts beneath her, his arms wrapping tight around her waist, pulling her closer, even though there’s no physical space left between them. But it’s useless. No matter how close they are, there is only one way that would truly satisfy his urge.

“Please,” he whispers next to the shell of her ear, desperate and breathless. “Can I slide in?”

She’s a lost cause by now, and her reply is reduced to a broken hum, while she sits up just enough to guide the thick head of his cock to her entrance. Lando’s patience snaps at her quick response, and he thrusts his hips up in one motion, his hands holding her hips and pulling her down onto him at the same time. The stretch is overwhelming and takes her by surprise, knocking the wind out of her and making her vision blur at the edges as she tries to take all of him.

They moan together, helpless, her hands landing on his chest as she laughs shakily. “You trying to break me in half or?”

“Didn’t think you’d be so tight,” he groans in a strained voice.

Lando tries his best to take it slow, but the way she welcomes him, so warm and perfect, nearly undoes him the moment he’s all in. A shudder runs down his spine as he grips her hips with more force, thinking maybe if he doesn’t hold her right, the world will actually end.

And it may, based on how her hands are sliding up, clawing at his shoulders with her nails digging in to anchor herself. Her breath shudders out in short bursts as she does, her body struggling to adjust, to take everything he has to offer. All of him.

To test the waters, she starts circling her hips, hoping she’ll find the angle that makes her breath hitch, and when she does, it’s like lightning strikes between them. He’s impossibly deep, touching places inside her she didn’t even know could feel this good. Her pussy hugs him so tightly that Lando has to grit his teeth to shut himself up. Then she tilts her hips forward just slightly with every grind, rocking her clit perfectly against his pelvis while he’s buried inside her.

The effect she was looking for is instant, and she hears Lando choking on another moan, finally, “Fuck, yeah. Right there,” his fingers dig into her skin, hunger battling in his wide eyes. “Do that again, it feels so fucking good.”

“Shit, Lando,” she breaths out. “So deep, I can feel you everywhere.”

She pulls him in again and again, until he is practically whining beneath her. Seeing Lando so lost inside her makes her losing the rhythm, her breathing turning ragged, thighs ready to give up as exhaustion and pleasure blur into one. It’s messy and greedy on both sides, and when she finally collapses against his chest, she sobs out a cry, her voice cracking with it.

“Need you,” she exhales. “I can’t hold it anymore.”

Lando doesn’t waste a breath. One sharp, hungry movement and he’s planting his feet against the floor for leverage, thrusting up into her with everything he’s got. She gasps at the same time he groans deep in his chest, the sound vibrating between them as he finally takes her the way they’ve both needed.

Her mouth goes dry.

His jaw tightens.

Their breath grows heavier, shared in the tight, sweaty space. Her body tenses, then squeezes around him with such perfect pressure it leaves him breathless. A high-pitched moan spills from her, unexpected and honest, and she slaps a hand over her mouth, biting at it in order to shut herself up.

Gently, Lando catches her wrist, holding it firm. “If you’re gonna bite something,” he tilts his head, offering his shoulder, “Be a good girl and bite me instead.”

Her breathing is too fast and her mind runs at the speed of an F1 car. She can’t think straight and, for a moment, she just stays there, her forehead brushing the curve of his shoulder as she tries to catch herself from falling in too deep. Then slowly, like she’s giving in to something bigger than her, she places a kiss on his skin. Her lips press gently on it, trailing along the line of his neck to the dip of his collarbone. It’s the closest thing she’ll ever give him. The closest thing to letting herself feel for him.

He’s still warm, salty with sweat, and soft under her lips. And he smells so good, like skin and heat and something clean that clings to her nose and settles in her chest like smoke.

It drugs her.

The way his scent mixes with the feel of his breath against her temple, the way his pulse flutters beneath her lips — she has to stop. It’s too much, too close, too real.

“Think we should bet every race weekend, what do you say?” asks Lando, his pace quickening, hands guiding her up and down his cock like it’s the only thing that keeps him sane. “Would die to have you like this all the time, hm?”

“Mhm,” she grinds down until his name is all she can say. “Fuck. I’m so close.”

“Yeah, baby. I feel you.”

Her voice breaks off into a moan right when she’s about to speak again, to tell him not to go there and call her that. But Lando rolls his hips, pushing deeper, filling her inch by inch until there’s no space left, which shuts her up in an instant. They fuck in a rhythm that shouldn’t work, all sweat-slicked skin and shaky breaths. The air fills up with obscene sounds of them, their bodies colliding with enough force to make her whimper and moan his name all over again, each time he thrusts.

To help himself, he spreads her wider, holding her open for him, watching the way he disappears inside her, utterly wrecked by the sight. “Taking me so fucking well,” he says between thrusts, dragging his mouth over her jaw. “Look.”

She whines while looking down at where they’re joined. Lando moves his gaze on her expression with a grin on his face, so proud when he feels every spasm in her body; it’s a total mess. Her slick is all over him, coating his cock, his thighs, soaking through the waistband of his jeans that are still shoved only halfway down his hips. Each time they meet, there’s a wet sound echoing between them, sticky and warm, ricocheting against the walls in Lando’s living room like a drumbeat pulling them closer to the edge.

“You like how wrecked you’ve got me?”

She nods frantically, squeezing him so tight it makes Lando see stars. At that, he reaches up, brushing the strands of hair from her face, tucking them behind her ears with his long fingers. His hand stays there a moment, continuing to slide lower, fingertips skimming her jaw, then wrapping gently around her throat, enough to feel her pulse. To hold her in place.

In a matter of seconds, their eyes lock again. Her chest heaves and her eyes shine, but not just from pleasure. It’s because she wants to tell him that this isn’t what she expected. It’s much, much more, and it will leave a deep mark, no matter which path they’ll choose to take tomorrow morning.

His hands move hungrily, down from her neck to her chest, cupping her breasts, thumbs brushing over her nipples. He holds them carefully, wanting to memorize the shape, the weight, and the way they fill his palms, to make sure he won’t forget a single detail about her body.

“Lan,” she warns.

Lando hums, “Mhm. Right there with you, beautiful,” he assures her.

Her breathing is jagged, the rhythm of their hips desperate, chasing the edge that’s been teasing them since the moment she sank down onto him. Every motion drives him deeper, sends wave after wave crashing through her, because she’s right there for quite a while now.

“Hi there,” Lando’s voice brings her back. His hand comes up to cradle the back of her head, gently pulling her to see her face. “Look at me, I want to see you. Let me see you.”

Her body tenses, and just for a split second the frantic rhythm stutters, then finds its pace again as the orgasm rips through her with a blinding force. She keeps her eyes on his the whole time, riding it out with her hands burried in the curls at the back of his head. His hips jerk beneath her as he throbs inside her, overwhelmed by the way she fights to keep him in. It drives him crazy, and he moans loudly, trying to pull out, but her thighs close tighter around him.

“Inside,” she rushes to say, unable to form sentences longer than one word.

Lando’s jaw clenches so hard he feels like his teeth might snap from the force, every muscle in his body pulled tight and shivering. He holds on by a thread for half a second longer, but then her body flutters around him again, and with a loud, guttural gasp, he lets go, spilling inside her in thick pulses that only make her hold him tighter. His hands shake where they clutch at her hips, trying to pull her down even harder, like he can’t bear even a sliver of distance between them right in this moment.

None of them knows how much time passes like that, but neither of them moves again. She’s stays slumped against his chest, her face buried in the crook of his neck, while his arms stay locked around her waist, as if letting go might break whatever just happened between them.

Lando presses his cheek on the top of her head, his heart hammering so hard he’s sure she can feel it. But it’s fine, because he can feel hers, too.

His hands drift up and down her back in aimless strokes and, while she starts to come back to herself, she notices the music still playing softly around them, the same sultry beat from earlier floating through the air.

Her brows pinch together in confusion before realization hits. “How the fuck did you time your playlist so perfectly?”

Lando lets out a breathless laugh, “Talent.”

She snorts, dropping her head back onto his shoulder with a groan. “Goodness gracious, it is so hard tolerate you.”

“Liar,” he says, “You wanna kiss me so bad.”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes, but the way her cheeks heat up gives her away immediately. Lando laughs under his breath again, cocky and so annoyingly right. She opens her mouth to fire back, to tell him that no, she definitely doesn’t want to kiss his smug ass, but then her eyes catch the little red light blinking from across the couch.

The camera. Still recording.

She nudges him softly, grinning against the flush in her cheeks, and points at it. “Smile and wave, Norris,” she whispers, and Lando immediately flashes the most ridiculous smirk at the lens, making her laugh for real this time.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

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© trashy track tales, 2025

[kookiestarlight]

Lines of fate: 01 | jjk

➵ pairing: tattooist!jungkook x f. reader

➵ genre: apocalypse au, exes to lovers (?) dad!jungkook, survival, angst, smut

➵ summary: the last thing Jungkook ever imagined was an outbreak that turned the dead into the living. But even more unexpected is seeing you—an ex he’s known nothing about in the past four years—with a small child who bears a striking resemblance to himself. As Jungkook grapples with the shock and the city spirals into chaos, the two of you are thrust back together, forced to confront unresolved feelings, long-buried truths, and the horrors of the deadly virus taking over.

➵ word count: 11.9k

➵ warnings: swearing (jk says fuck way too much), graphic depictions of violence and death, blood and gore, seizures, virus and zombies ofc, brief mentions of alcohol consumption.

➵ series masterlist

➵ a/n: it’s finally here!! <3 sorry this was postponed way longer than expected, all I can say is: life :,) anyway!! posting my writing again after years on hiatus definitely feels nerve wracking lol. this idea has been in my wips for literally years so I’m so excited to finally be sharing it with you all!! I would greatly appreciate your feedback and thoughts as it is something quite different from anything I usually write (it’s definitely been a kick in the ass) it’ll also really help me stay motivated to continue writing it. thank you for all the hype and excitement you showed for this fic before it was even released cause like hello?? that’s crazy to me😭 thanks for always showing my stories love and support🫶🏻 I’ve taken inspiration from all the zombie movies and videogames I’ve ever seen and played over the years (thanks dad). I should also mention, I had a very thorough plot for this planned out and it kinda went to shit in the process of writing so we’re kind of going off vibes only and 20% of the plot I had originally planned so yeah, bare with me🤪 I also want to say, updates on this will most likely be slow, but I will try my best to get them out as fast I can for you🙏 now that that’s over, I hope you enjoy this series as much as I am enjoying writing it!! this chapter is just the very beginning <33

The autumn sun filters through the large window with an amber glow as you take a slow sip of your coffee, the warm bitterness spreading in your chest as you attempt to chase some kind of comfort. But the loud hum of the city just outside and the muffled chatter of the bustling cafe are very much a grounding reminder of where you are — and where you really wish you weren't.

Your gaze travels down to your daughter sitting on the booth beside you, her little legs swinging off the seat contentedly as she picks away at her blueberry muffin. Completely oblivious to your ongoing little inner torment. Her big eyes flicker up to meet yours, brimming with glee. Brushing a crumb off her cheek, you force a little smile for her. 

Like a dull sting under your skin, you feel how little teeth of guilt gnaw away at you, not only because it’s been almost impossible to offer her a genuine smile in the past two days since you stepped foot in this dammed place, but because you simply wish you could share the same excitement as she does, and perhaps…feel more positive about this whole situation. For her.

But all you’ve been able to feel is guilt.

An incessant amount of it. Guilt and fear. Slowly brewing up inside you like some sort of poison that has had you feeling a little sick to your stomach.

”You’re spiraling again.” Hoseok pulls you out of your absentminded state, studying you over the rim of his half finished iced americano.

You blink. You often tend to forget how well he’s capable of reading you. Though you suppose that’s a skill acquired with nearly twenty years of friendship, and an unavoidable consequence of growing up constantly together, practically like siblings. 

Hoseok has been the only constant in your life for as long as you can remember, like a brother to you — conjoined at the hip as his mother always used to joke. It all began when you moved next door. With your parents always working late and often times far away from home, Hoseok's home slowly became your second one — the place you spent most of your childhood and adolescence and formed some of your fondest memories. A place where you were never alone.

You do suppose it’s no surprise the years and the unbreakable bond you’ve formed have given you exceptional abilities to know when something is off with just a simple glance. But it's never less surprising.

The corners of your mouth tug upwards into a tiny smile at his words, brows pinched in a pathetic attempt to hide your truth. “I am not.”

“You are. You’re thinking too much,” he stirs the ice in his drink with the straw, eyes flicking up to meet yours again. “Which if I may remind you, is one of your fatal flaws.”

You scoff, only slightly offended as you watch him take a slow sip. Pushing your sunglasses further up your head as you lean back. “Thinking too much is not my fatal flaw.” 

He’s may very likely be right about that, but of course, you’d never actually admit it.

Hoseok snorts, clearly unconvinced. His voice just above a whisper when he murmurs, “Right. Sorry. It’s definitely lying.”

Before you can argue, he leans forward to accept some crumbs of muffin Jieun is so eagerly offering him. The sight tugs at something deep in your chest, watching his expression soften to mush as he thanks her with that brightest, tender smile he only ever uses for her before he brings his attention back to you. 

“If it weren’t your fatal flaw, you’d actually be enjoying that overpriced coffee and oh—, maybe being reunited with your best friend again. I haven’t even seen you in like three months.” He shakes his head in utter disappointment, sitting back with a dramatic sigh.

“Hobi, I am so thrilled to be reunited with you, truly.” You roll your eyes ever so slightly and place a hand on your heart rather sarcastically as you say it, but deep down you hope he knows you’re only half joking. No one has done for you more than what hoseok has in the time you’ve known him.

You suppose all the change has got you in a rather sentimental state. But you bury it away. Hoseok deserves a nice time out with a friend for once too. He’s seen enough of your tears.

“Yeah?” he leans in, studying you with mock concern. Though not falling for it even a bit. "That's your thrilled face? You sure about that?” You almost laugh in response, but then, he shifts, looking more serious than just seconds ago. “You know,” he pauses, crossing his arms over his chest. “For someone who finally landed a nice new job and has everything working out, you don’t look all that thrilled to me, actually. That’s all.”

You press your lips together and glance down at your coffee, suddenly the truth a little too hard to face. You should be happy. He’s right. Because things really are starting to look up for you again. Everything you’ve spent the last few months wishing for has finally become a reality. And yet, you can’t shake the fact that there’s a deep buried sense of dread that seems to be getting in the way of that, a familiar fear that's been present for years, but only intensified since you stepped foot in Seoul again. 

Hoseok follows your gaze, watching you carefully, then nudges your foot under the table gently. “Come on.” He murmurs softly, eyebrows raised gently. “What is it?”

You suppose your real fatal flaw is your emotions showing up as flashy neon subtitles over your head apparently, or the fact you are simply terrible at hiding them, because Hoseok doesn't budge. He sees right through your little facade — always has. And as much as you know he is a great listener and that he genuinely cares to hear it all, always ready to give you a helping hand in any way he possibly can, you just don’t want to sound ungrateful. Not when anyone else in your position would be feeling over the moon right now.

Besides, you’ve never liked burdening him, or anyone for that matter. Never wanted to add more weight to the heavy things he already carries himself. He deals with so much of that at work already. So many problems significantly worse than your own worries. So you simply shake your head, putting on a small smile once again in hopes to appease him.

“I’m alright, Hobi. It's just…strange. Being back here. Overwhelming, I guess,” you admit, though only to half of the truth. “It’s so calm on the island. I suppose I got used to it. Everything here is just so intense. But that's all.” You cross your arms on the table as you gaze out at the busy streets. Hoping you don't sound as pathetic as you feel. Though in truth, this whole things isn't just strange. It’s all actually fucking terrifying.

In many ways it seemed like nothing here had changed since the day you left four years ago. The cityscape is as bustling as you remember – a stark contrast to the quietude and stillness of Jeju, where you had been building your new life up until now. People in suits rush back and forth and push into each other with no care, everything is always shadowed by a maze of buildings that don't seem to have an end. Cars weave through traffic like they want to crash into each other, and neon signs and billboards still flicker blindingly even in the daytime. 

The fact that everything remains the same, terrifies you. The rush, the stress, the chaos. That constant hustle and bustle that seems suffocating. It wasn't the reason why you left. but it was certainly a factor that made your life here something you wanted to escape from. It feels like stepping back into the life you thought you’d left behind for good. Like stepping onto a moving treadmill, when you no longer know how to run. Not sure if you’ll ever find your place here again.

Hobi hums in understanding, and the warmth in the familiarity of his smile helps lessen the knot that's been forming in your stomach all morning. And though you've only let out a tiny portion of what's on your mind, you already feel like you can breathe with more ease.

Sometimes, it’s not so bad that he can see right through you. Because you also tend to forget he’s the only one that truly gets you, understands you when even you struggle to understand yourself, and has never once been one to judge you, no matter how small or ridiculous it may be.

“Yeah, I get it. It can be overwhelming.” He nods slowly, letting the words settle. “But if I were you, I’d be damn proud of myself.” His expression is calm and his words full of sincerity as he speaks. “You did what you had to do, and now you’re doing it again. Making more big changes. Really tough decisions, and I know that’s not easy.” He pauses. “But you've always made it after all. This time won't be different. Besides, think about this, we’re close to each other now. I’ll be here for anything you guys need, you know that.”

Your heart softens at his comforting words, and the reassurance feels like it melts some of the tension off your shoulders. And for just a split second you feel that roar of confidence, thinking about everything you've accomplished, but it's not lasting, and deflates with the weight of your heavier thoughts.

You want to believe what he says — you really do. For your daughter's sake. Because this is finally your chance to start over and build something better. To give Jieun the life she deserves, something stable, a chance to thrive in a place full of new opportunities. 

A fresh start. 

After all, isn't that all you've ever been chasing?

You don’t want to allow your fears and the past to come in the way of that. But it's never so simple. At least, definitely not here — definitely not for you.

Because the truth is, being in Seoul again feels like roaming a haunted city. Tainted and plagued by shadows from the past, by who you used to be, and everything and everyone you left behind all those years ago when you ran and didn’t dare to look back. Being here now, you can’t shake the feeling — the apprehension and fear that everything you once left behind is lurking around the corner, ready to jump out and haunt you, making everything you've finally built up crumble to pieces once again. This place just gives you an indescribable feeling of…dread. Eeriness even. Enough for it to linger gut deep with a painful sense of discomfort that hasn’t eased since the day you arrived. As if you can never truly let your guard down.

But after all, it was an opportunity you couldn’t pass up, even if it meant returning to the city you swore you’d never step foot in again. The offer came at just the right moment, a lifeline after months of uncertainty and dead-ends. After losing your job, and endless nights crying yourself to sleep with the heavy burden of becoming a failure of a mother and not knowing how to make ends meet. You practically cried with joy the morning you finally got the call, and ignored the pit that formed in your stomach when you heard where it required you to move to. It had felt like you were about to reach the peak of a mountain, only to drop all the way back down to the bottom. But it was a steady paycheck, and a chance to finally give Jieun some stability. It wasn’t glamorous or grand — a position in a small marketing firm. But it was enough to rebuild. The breakthrough you so badly needed to start over and secure a future for your little girl. 

How could you possibly turn it down?

That was your biggest and only goal in life.

There was nothing you wouldn’t do for her. So you knew in that very instant you had to take it. Even if it meant returning to the place that broke you beyond repair. So you packed up your life and now, here you are. Back where you never thought you’d be. So far from the tranquility of the home you had made for yourself in a secluded tiny seaside town four years ago. Where you were happy. Where you didn't live in constant fear.

“I know this is what I need right now,” you speak softly, more to yourself than anything. You reach out, gently brushing your fingers through Jieun's baby soft hair, watching as she focuses intently on her muffin, completely unaware of the heaviness of the conversation. “I just don’t want to mess anything up…the job, you know, our new life here. I want to get this right. I don’t want anything, getting in the way of that.” You swallow thickly, fingers tightening around the mug of coffee in front of you, and Hoseok knows exactly what you mean by that. You hesitate, letting out a quiet breath before speaking again. “I know there's so many opportunities for us here but…I was happy in Jeju. Jieun was happy.”

Hoseok nods, slow and understanding. “I know you were. A city like this takes some adapting to, you know that.” He reaches out and gives your arm a gentle squeeze, “but give it time. You’ll settle right back in.” He says warmly, reassuring. You return a tiny smile, more genuine this time.

“Seriously though. Change is good. New home, new job, meeting new people…maybe even someone special…” he adds.

You scoff, eyes widening, only half incredulous at how fast he swerved the topic there. So typical of him. 

“Yeah no, thanks. You can stop it right there.” You shake your head.

“What?” Hobi leans back in his chair, crossing his arms as he waggles his eyebrows, a tiny smirk pulling at the corner of his lips, completely unbothered despite your clear opposition. “I'm just saying,” he adds in, raising his hands in mock innocence, though he feels like your glare could actually kill him. “You’re young. You’re no longer in that tiny ass town full of old drunk married cheating men. Everyone deserves a little fun. It wouldn't kill you to-”

“Hobi,” you sigh, cringing internally at the memories of disastrous dates you told him all about over the phone. You throw a pointed look in his direction, but Hoseok just chuckles. “I’m done with all that. Seriously.”

“Come on,” he presses.

“No. No way. I told you.” You interject, tone firm, not even allowing space for the idea. “I’m a single mother, Hobi. That’s been off the cards for years. I have different priorities now.” You straighten in your seat, making a point to scoop Jieun's hair back and out of her drink. These are your priorities now.

Hoseok raises a brow, watching you carefully, but there's no judgment in his expression now — just silent understanding. He leans back in his chair again, smile dying down, tapping his fingers absently against his iced americano before his gaze drifts over to your little girl. His expression softens, fondness flowing in his eyes.

“I know,” he says after a moment, his tone a tad more gentle. “But I’m just saying…you’re allowed to let yourself be happy again, you know. You deserve that.”

Something uncomfortable twists in your insides. Happy. What a simple word, but what a complex thing. 

You lift your eyes to meet his, the sincerity in his gaze cutting right through. You could argue, explain that you don't agree, that romance is a door locked for good. Not only out of fear, but out of necessity. It’s no longer just about you. You don’t have the luxury of reckless choices or fleeting little flings like you did before.

There's simply to much buried history to let anyone new into your life.

And deep down, you don't believe you deserve it. But you don’t voice any of that. There's no need to explain. Hoseok knows your history better than anyone, the pain etched deep into you, the one you carry like a scar beneath your skin. He knows Jieun's father plays a big role in that, even though you don’t dare to mention him and haven’t in years. He knows his existence and every memory he’s involved in is something you merely refuse to acknowledge. And though Hoseok wants nothing more than for you to thrive, he knows better than to press on the matter. 

Still, he hesitates before speaking quietly. “I’ve been here four years, and I’ve never seen him again.”

He says it gently, in hopes the information is comforting to you, to maybe put you at ease, but instead it feels like a small jab between your ribs. You stiffen, for just a second. You feel your heart begin to race a tiny bit faster. And you wonder when the mention of him will stop having this goddamn effect on you.

Hoseok notices, and regret quickly flickers across his face. He realizes he might have overstepped, treading on thin ice that he fears may slowly be cracking beneath him.

But it doesn't. You take a deep breath, and you simply nod. It’s okay. You know you can’t avoid it forever. Besides, who’s to say he even still lives here? The thought should be reassuring, bring you some sort of peace, be relieving. But it isn’t. Because the thought of ever seeing him again makes your palms sweat, and your chest a little tight.

“Yeah.” You say quietly. “You’re right. Who knows.”

You don't mention how many late nights you've stayed up, haunted with thoughts like if ever did make it out of here. If he ever made it to the states and accomplished all those things he wanted. If he's perhaps settled down and started a family or if he's stuck right where he used to be, how he used to be. You don't mention that sometimes, you mind even attacks you with the intrusive thought of if he’s even still alive.

You don't dare mention any of it.

Hoseok exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. I just-” He pauses, voice lowering as he checks Jieun to make sure she's not listening, not that she would know or understand, but you appreciate that he does. “I know we’re not meant to talk about him–“

You push past it, giving a small dismissive shake of the head. Instead, you plaster on a small practiced smile, turning to glance down at the little girl beside you as well. It isn't something easy to avoid. But for the past four years, somehow, you’ve managed it. 

“Anyway. I am happy,” you say, voice softer now, steering the conversation elsewhere. “I get all the love I need from my little lovebug right here, don’t I?”

The little lovebug in question remains completely unaware of the heaviness of the conversation. Instead, her wide eyes are fixated on something outside, her eyes big and small fingers suddenly clutching your sleeve.

“Mommy, look!” She gasps, tugging desperately for your attention, she calls you again, tearing you away from your conversation. “The birdy!”

You follow her gaze, a small black bird just on the other side of the glass, and the simplicity of her joy softens you, eases the heaviness for a second. It really doesn't take much to amuse a child, and you’re glad to see at least someone enjoying her time here so far. “I see, baby.”

You smile with her, that is until, just a moment later, you notice… the small bird is no longer pecking at crumbs on the pavement. It’s… acting rather strangely. Its head twitches sharply to the side, body jerking with twitchy erratic movements as it flaps it’s wings like crazy, then suddenly, it freezes, before twitchting again.

Your brows furrow, unable to take your eyes off it. What the hell? Something about it sends a strange chill through you, suddenly understanding what had Jieun so surprised.

“Oh, I think that poor bird might have gone a little coo coo.” Hoseok turns his head to take a look himself, and you both exchange a puzzled glance, to which Hobi just shrugs with a mildly disgusted expression.

“What, you know I hate birds.” he whispers, shrugging like someone just walked over his grave, and you swat his arm and shush him, suppressing a laugh. You wouldn't want your sweet animal loving daughter hearing that. 

“Isn't that so weird. I’ve never seen one do that before.” You say, and hoseok tilts his head, staring at it with a mildly grossed out frown. “Probably has some kind of parasite or something. Not sure.”

“It’s gonna die?” she looks up at hobi, her little face full of worry. You wrap your arms around her, pulling her in closer.

“Not necessarily, bub. I’m sure it’ll be okay,” Hobi answers, trying to be tactful, however, Jieun doesn’t look convinced, but she nods sadly and resumes eating spoonfuls of her hot chocolate that's long gone cold. 

“Yeah, it’ll be fine baby.” You kiss the top of her head, as you glance out the window once again, only to see it’s no longer there. 

“So odd.” You shake your head, taking another sip of your coffee, and Hoseok nods and lets out a low hum, taking another sip himself.

“So, what’s the plan for the rest of the day? Are you actually gonna start unpacking, or are you going to let those suitcases rot in your living room for another week?” He taunts.

You chuckle. “I’ll unpack eventually. This little girl and I have a long list of errands left to do today.”

“Uh-huh.” He gives you an unconvinced look, then looks at Jieun with a dramatic pout, cooing. “My poor little monkey. Prisoner to moms to do list. I remember that feeling.”

She giggles, and you speak up. “Shhh, she loves errands with mommy, don't you-”

Suddenly, a loud crash sound from the back of the café, startling you all.

The sharp clatter of metal rings out and you hear a young worker gasp, emerging hastily from behind the counter as the previous muffle of conversation begins to die down. Heads immediately start turning towards the scene unfolding before them. 

“What the hell?” you murmur as you hastily turn around yourself, pulse spiked from the jump.

Near the back of the cafe, a chair is knocked to the ground, a mans body hunched over on the floor, shaking and convulsing with an unnatural force that seems to take over him completely. The man sitting beside him instantly scrambles to the floor next to him, shaking his shoulders in a failed attempt to break him out of whatever is happening as he calls out for help in a trembling voice, panicked.

“Oh my god, Hobi-” You gasp and your stomach twists as you take in what is occurring, grip instinctively tightening around your daughter's hand, turning her away from the scene. One of the members of staff pulls out her phone, announcing that she will call an ambulance right away, the man on the floor now surrounded by two other workers that instantly made their way over to him.

Hoseok takes just a few seconds to register what’s going on. “Shit.” He mutters, “A seizure.”

Instantly, he’s up on his feet, leaving you and Jieun behind and rushes over to help, but before he can reach the man on the floor, a young worker steps in front of him, his hands raised. 

“An ambulance is on the way!” he blurts out, eyes darting between the unconscious man and the crowd gathering around him, Hoseok noticing his eyes full of panic. “Please, just give him space.”

“It's alright. I’m a nurse,” Hoseok urges, trying to step around him. “Please, let me-”

This time, there’s no resistance — only relief in the young man's panicked eyes as he steps aside, allowing Hoseok through to where the man is convulsing on the floor.

Jesus christ. On his one day off. He thinks internally.

Without hesitation, Hoseok drops to one knee. “Don’t hold him down,” he instructs the mans friend beside him as he proceeds to unbutton the first few buttons of the man's shirt to facilitate his breathing. He presses his fingers to his wrist as best as he can, taking a pulse. He attempts to roll him on his side, but he seizes with too much force, limbs jerking far too erratically for him to do so. 

“Has he ever had seizures before? Is he epileptic?” Hoseok asks without tearing his eyes away from the man.

The man's friend just shakes his head. “No…no- he was fine right before.”

“Ambulance is just two minutes away,” the barista yells, phone still pressed to her ear. Hoseok nods but keeps his focus on the young man. Face contorted in concertation as he's checking his pulse once again before tilting his head to ensure he’s breathing properly.

You sit speechless few tables away, watching the scene unfold, your heart erratic in your chest. But feeling so much relief Hoseok was here. Jieun's small hand holds yours tightly, grip strong. She shifts in her seat, trying to peek over the booth to the commotion, but you gently pull her in beside you. Pulling her close, you brush a soothing hand over her hair.

“It’s okay, baby,” your whisper. “That man wasn’t feeling very well. But uncle hobi is helping him. Isn’t that so good? He’s really good at helping people remember. It's okay.”

Jien nods slowly, though her brows are still drawn together in concern. She doesn’t fully understand, but she doesn’t doubt your word, or her uncle's abilities.

Across the large space, Hoseok presses his lips into a thin line, his eyes watching carefully as the man's convulsions finally begin to slow, the violent jerking finally seeming to ease up. But just as the worst seems to have passed…Hoseok stiffens. 

There’s a concerning, deep purplish hue creeping up the man’s neckline, peeking through the gap of his unbuttoned white shirt. Dark veins snaking against his pale skin, spreading like ink through thin cracks. Hoseok swallows hard, alarm bells ringing at the back of his mind. 

That…that doesn’t look right. His medical knowledge kicks in, a thousand possibilities racing through his mind, digging for the most fitting answer. Is it cyanosis? an undiagnosed vascular disease? Possibly an infected wound? blunt trauma?

His mind dashing for answers in an instant, but before he can take a better look and unbutton his shirt completely, after what feels like a lifetime, the piercing wail of sirens cuts right through his thoughts, and just moments after, paramedics burst into the café, pushing past the gathered crowd near the Hoseok and the patient on the floor. Hoseok quickly regains focus, stepping back to allow them to take over. 

“He had a seizure. Approximately a minute long. His breathing is stable but—“ He hesitates for a second, then presses on, giving them a brief diagnosis and rundown. “I think he may have another underlying condition. Possible hypoxia.”

The paramedic beside him nods, wasting no time as they swiftly load him onto a stretcher. He stands back, his jaw tight, fingertips tingling with the urge to do more, watching as they wheel him out through the entrance. The murmurs of the coffee shop begin to start up again, confused and concerned looks turning left and right, but Hoseok can’t shake all the questions in his mind. 

He just hopes the guy turns out to be okay. The same way it goes with every patient he sees. You have to do your part and let go. That's how it works. but this time, he's left with a weird feeling bubbling inside.

After a few minutes, Hoseok turns back to your table. The moment his eyes meet yours, you’re already standing and asking, “God, is everything okay? He’s okay, right?”

“It’s alright,” Hoseok reassures you, though his tone is softer than usual. “They've got it under control.”

His gaze flickers toward Jieun, who’s still clinging to you, her small face twisted in worry as she glances between the two of you. She tugs your sleeve, her voice barely above a whisper. “Mommy…what happened to the man?”

“The ambulance people will take care of him and take him to the hospital so they can help him.” You say gently. She blinks up at you, then glances toward Hoseok, as if waiting for confirmation.

Hoseok lips form a small smile, crouching slightly to be at her eye level. “Your mom is right,” he says carefully, patting her head. “Sometimes when people don’t feel well they need a little help. That’s what doctors and nurses are for Jieun. It’s okay.”

Jieun watches him for a moment, and gives him a slow understanding nod. He then straightens and exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Let’s get out of here,” he murmurs, his gaze flicking back toward the road in front of the entrance where the ambulance is now setting off.

You nod, now feeling a weight of unease in the crowded space. It would probably be best to give them space to handle the situation, and to get some fresh air after that. So you retrieve Jieun's little pink puffer vest from off hobis chair and gently help her arms into, zipping it up snuggly to keep her warm from the afternoon chill, before taking her hand in yours.

As the three of you finally step outside, you're grateful for the crisp autumn air that lifts some of the heaviness off you. God, that was stressful. The distant sounds of the city hum around you, and life moves as if nothing happened.

“God, I hope that guy is okay.” You say quietly only for Hoseok to hear, taking your daughter's hand as you let out a slow breath. “First that weird bird and then that poor guy.”

Hoseok hums in agreement and gives a small reassuring nod, pushing his concerns aside. But you know how hard it is for him to switch off. How even when the emergency is over, his mind replays it again and again, analysing— wondering if he could have done more, if he could’ve done better. Even when he deals with stuff like this everyday, it’s never been easy.

“Jesus Christ. What's that saying, bad things always come in two’s? Three’s? ” He chuckles, letting out a huff. “I told you, there’s never an uneventful day out here.” Hobi shakes his head, forcing a smile to lift the mood. But his body still buzzes with tension. Then, in one swift movement, he scoops Jieun up, swinging her into his arms. “Now, time for ice cream?”

Jieun giggles loudly, kicking her feet excitedly at his words, all her earlier worries forgotten. “Yes!”

“Hobi, she just had a hot chocolate. Do you even have space for ice cream, Jieun?” You say, trying to sound stern, but the sight of them giggling together pulls a real smile out of you. And something inside already tells you you’re going to give in.

“She’s with uncle hobi now, there’s no rules.” He sing songs, walking ahead of you with your daughter in arms, all smiles as she squeals at his gentle tickling. The spitting image of joy if you ever saw it.

And for just a moment, you try to push away the nagging feeling that’s been pressing at the back of your mind. 

Because maybe, just maybe, this time, everything will be just fine after all.

Jungkook steadies his hand, a quiet hiss of pain getting lost in the low thrumming of the tattoo gun that fills the quiet studio, lulling him into that comforting sense of calm he knows so well. It’s a fairly big piece, he’s been here hunched over for hours now, that familiar dull ache creeping up his back, but he barely registers it. Because all that matters is the art taking form beneath his touch. 

Here, in these moments, it's when the feels most himself. Distracted, at peace, In control. Something he’s never found that easy outside of these four walls.

Every stroke, every line falls exactly where he intends it to. In a way, the rest of the world seems to fade away — no worries, just ink and skin, art coming to life. And it grants him a satisfaction nothing else can quite offer. And if there’s one thing Jungkook prides himself on, it’s his work and dedication. He built this place with steady hands and relentless effort, and he knows damn well he’s good at what he does. Confidence hasn't always been second nature to him, but time and experience have definitely sharpened him.

He leans back slightly to take in the work before him, his disheveled strands of dark hair falling over his eyes as he uses a paper towel to wipe up some excess ink from the client's forearm before glancing up. “How are we holding up?”

The young guy shifts in the chair, letting out a breathy chuckle. “Let’s just say I felt that last bit there.”

Jungkook nods, noting the slight sheen of sweat on the guy's forehead. He’s just glad he’s not a squirmer. That shit makes his job so much harder than it needs to be. 

His own body is the canvas of plenty tattoos. All colours, shapes and sizes. He's more than numb to the pain now. But he gets it.

“You’re doing really well. I won’t torture you much longer. We’re almost done with the worst part.” Pressing the pedal again, he feels the familiar vibration travel up his arm, he tongues with his lip piercing, a habit that signals his concentration. His hair is dusting over his eyes as he continues with the last bits of shading and does the final touch ups of all the smaller details. Another forty five minutes pass, broken by lighthearted conversation here and there. Though Jungkook never used to be one for making conversation before, he has long mastered the art of letting his mouth wander while his hands and precision remain steady and focused.

“Alright, and we’re done,” he wipes down the fresh ink one last time before setting the tattoo gun aside, letting out a silent exhale as he wheels back, peeling off his black gloves to grab the aftercare instruction sheet, ready to spew his usual little lecture he knows most people don’t even pay much attention to.

“Sit up slowly.” Jungkook instructs.

When the guy finally stands, he marvels at his tattoo in the mirror. Jungkook feels a flicker of pride swell in his chest. No matter how many times he does this, seeing the completed, polished work and his client's expressions of amazement never gets old. “Looks sick man. Better than I imagined.” He beams, twisting his arm under the light, his smile spreading all across his face.

“Good choice with the design.” Jungkook replies with a faint smile tugging at his lips. He then places the protective film, gives him a quick rundown of the aftercare and hands him the sheet. “Take care of it. Follow the aftercare instructions and it’ll heal nicely. And you know, any issues just come by or give me a call and I’ll check it out.”

“Will do. Thanks man, it’s perfect.”

As the last client of the day slips out with a final wave and he hears the bell over at the entrance ding, Jungkook finally feels the exhaustion set in — the kind that only comes after hours of steady concentrated work. Fuck, he really does need to work on his posture. He stretches his back, then cracks his knuckles, stretching his toned, inked arms over his head. But despite the tiredness, he feels no rush no rush to get back to his empty apartment.

He never does.

Instead, he takes his time wiping down his station, tidying all his clutter and ink in the methodical and organized way only he understands — something Yoongi always grumbles about when borrowing his space. But this is his sanctuary. He makes the rules. And yoongi may complain, but he accepts it.

When he's done cleaning up, Jungkook emerges into the entrance area of the studio, rubbing the back of his neck and ruffling his hair at the nape.

Yoongi stretches in his chair behind the front counter, arms lifting above his head as he lets out as wide yawn, smacking his lips as his eyes land on the younger. “Christ, I thought you were dead in there,” he says deadpan, watching as Jungkook attempts to roll out the tension coiled in his shoulders, stifling a yawn himself. “Or are you? I genuinely can't tell.”

“Very funny.” Jungkook mutters, slumping onto the leather couch with an over dramatic sigh, throwing the back of his arm over his eyes as he lets his body sink into the plush cushion. It’s moments like this he’s really fucking glad they invested in a good sofa. He wants it to swallow him.

“Sure you can survive the schedule tomorrow? We’re fucking packed.” He says.

Jungkook’s brows knit together as his eyes dart over to Yoongi, eyeing the printed schedule in front of him as he rubs his jaw. “What? You think I can't handle it?”

Yoongi shakes his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He coughs into his fist, a rough dry sound that echoes through the quietness of the now empty studio. “I know you think you’re some kind of machine,” he gives the younger a pointed look, “but let me just remind you that you are, in fact, very much not.”

Jungkook's lips quirk. “Woah, woah. I’ll be fine. Unlike someone who sounds like they've caught the plague.” Lifting his arms from his eyes just enough to peer at Yoongi, he swings his arm as if to push him away. “Stay away from me with that. I can’t afford a day off anytime soon.”

Yoongi scoffs, waving a dismissive hand as he coughs into his fist again. “Relax, it's just the dust. Or if you’re lucky enough I've caught that shit going around. Won't be on your case anymore for at least two weeks. That's if I survive.”

The sound is muffled by his arm as Jungkook lets out a tired chuckle, but his eyes remain closed. “Now you’re just trying to get out of work tomorrow, hyung. I know your little tricks.”

“If anyone should be trying to get our work, it should be you. Admit your running on fumes.” Yoongi drops the piece of paper to the desk and crosses his arms, looking right across to Jungkook, his eyes squinting lightly.

Jungkook feels his heavy gaze, but he's not in the mood to face one of Yoongis lectures right now. He can’t exactly argue that. Because he knows Yoongi is not entirely wrong. 

He's working six days a week, morning till night, barely stopping to take a breath. Hell, it would've been the entire seven days of the week if Yoongi hadn’t raised hell the day he suggested it. Jungkook had tried to reason with him, insisting that Yoongi would still get his days off as usual, that he’d open up the studio alone on weekends and get everything sorted for the week ahead. But it was never about that, and he knew it.

Jungkook has always had a knack for picking up self-destructive tendencies. A slow brewing kind of self destruction, pushing himself way past his limits, working himself down to the bone until he can barely function. And Yoongi simply wasn't going to stand back and watch it happen all over again right in front of his eyes.

Most days, he only eats because it’s Yoongi who shoves food his way, whether he wants it or not.  Prepping meals and stashing them away in their mini fridge in the back room where Jungkook can find them, labeled with a little note in his unmistakable messy handwriting that reads “eat.”

Because behind his serious facade, Yoongi had always tried his best to care for him. 

From countless nights of dragging his black out drunk body home back in college, and many times after college as well. To picking him up from the streets at 4 am after he got into a nasty fight, bruised and bleeding and sobbing his heart out alone on an empty sidewalk. Yoongi didn’t question it back then, didn't hesitate. He never does. He just helped quietly with no second thought, allowing him to sit with his silent sobs on the car ride home. He had always been there, offering him a home when he had nowhere else to go, offering everything he had if it helped Jungkook from drowning.

It was Yoongi that had seen the potential in him and had patiently guided him to finally see it for himself, helping him build this studio from nothing — helping him build every piece of furniture, putting up every shelf, painting every wall, making sure Jungkook finally had something to call his. 

And now, despite all the hardships, he’s come further than they both could have imagined.

Yet deep down, Yoongi knows no amount of help can stop Jungkook from being who he is, not when he has it so deeply rooted in himself to self sabotage in every way he possibly can. It's simply how he’s wired. Yoongi has long accepted that some things are simply beyond his reach, and that Jungkook won’t ever fully change. And he may never admit it out loud, but somewhere in his heart, as the eldest, he’s always felt an unspoken weight of responsibility for Jungkook. That's why he tries relentlessly to guide him towards better choices.

Even though Jungkook has matured and come a long way from his troubled past and the reckless kid he used to be, he’s far from eradicating his bad habits entirely. He knows he’s working himself down to the bone. He knows it's not healthy. Unrealistic for him to sustain in the long run. But he doesn’t like himself when he’s unoccupied. 

He doesn't like the quiet.

Because when there’s silence, there’s space for his mind to make noise.

So that’s what he does. He works, works until he can exhaust himself to the point of passing out, too drained to even feel. It means no thoughts can haunt him when his head hits the pillow. And he’s okay with that.

Besides, he loves his job. That's a fact. The only thing he’s passionate about. All he’s ever found himself to be good at. He doesn’t need anything or anyone else. 

Or at least, that’s what he tells himself.

“Fumes are still fuel,” Jungkook shoots back. He reaches behind his head to grab an old vintage manga off the small side table, flipping through the pages without really reading.

Yoongi studies him for a moment, his sharp gaze softening just a fraction. He shifts in his seat, resting his elbows on the counter, zeroing in on him as if he were ready to throw out a serious scolding, like he did back when he was a kid. But his next words are nothing but gentle. “You know, if you wanna keep up with that schedule, you’re gonna need sleep. I can close up if you wanna head out first.”

Jungkooks expression falters — just a flicker. But he covers it with an exaggerated groan. It does get on his nerves ever so slightly, just slightly. What is it with everyone always underestimating him? Treating him like he's not capable of making his own decisions. But his tongue toys with his lip ring as he continues flicking through the pages, feigning nonchalance. “I’m good. I wanna sketch out a few new designs first. Got some ideas ratting around.”

Yoongi squints at him, clearly unconvinced. “You do know that old couch isn't a substitute for a bed, right? and you could just…do that at home.”

Jungkook tosses the comic aside as he shrugs, already bored of the conversation, his inked fingers drumming relentlessly against the worn red leather. “I focus better here.” Is his simple answer, but before Yoongi can speak, a loud siren cuts through their conversation, blaring jarringly as it flashes by across the street. Almost instantly another follows, and then another.

Instinctively, both of their heads turn towards the window, though it only gives view to a small glimpse of the larger front street, most of their view blocked by the building across from them, all they can see is the bright lights flashing as they rush past.

“The hell’s that about,” Yoongi mutters, straightening in his chair.

Jungkook furrows his brows, pushing himself up on his elbows to get a better look outside. But from what he can see, everything seems normal enough — cars passing by, people going about their night and a few students heading home from late study sessions. Nothing in particular out of the ordinary.

The studio is located on a fairly quiet smaller side street, on the outskirts of the city, just a little further from the booming heart of Seoul. It’s never as busy or chaotic here, much quieter.

“Accident, maybe?” Jungkook guesses, a tired breath slipping past his lips. It’s still Seoul after all. When is it ever completely quiet? 

Yoongi hums in agreement, but as if on cue, another set of sirens blares through the streets, overlapping with others as the noise grows, this time it’s police cars too, wailing violently and urgently before fading into the distance as they speed away. Jungkook glances at Yoongi, who meets his gaze with an equally puzzled expression.

“Must be pretty bad.” Jungkook says.

Yoongi just pulls out his phone to check the time and sighs. “Well, whatever it is, I'm not sticking around to find out.” He pushes himself to his feet, patting his back pocket to pull out his dented pack of cigarettes before reaching for his jacket draped over the back of the chair.

A slight sense of uneasiness crawls up Jungkook's spine. That was about four ambulances and three police cars if not more. That’s….that’s a lot. But he soon brushes it off. “I’ll check the news later.” He mumbles, letting his heavy body drop back against the soft cushion, with no energy or intention to move.

Yoongi tugs his jacket on, tossing him a small glance. “Well, if you’re gonna stay here, at least don’t fall asleep on that damn couch again. You drool, and it’s gross.”

Jungkook chuckles, though it's half hearted. “I won’t ruin your sacred couch, hyung. Don't you worry.”

“Good.” Yoongi deadpans, heading toward the door. He flips the neon sign to closed before turning back to Jungkook once more, his tired features softening just a touch. “Don't stay too late. Tomorrow is fucking packed and you’ll regret it when youre half dead in the morning. And don’t forget about that girl you booked in at 9.”

He presses his eyes shut for a moment, letting out a breath. The girl needed some touch ups to her tattoo but had a busy schedule and no time to visit any other day or at ay other time. So Jungkook did the favour, and offered to book her in before opening time. But fuck. He really does need to stop bending his schedule for people.

He knows he’s going to regret it.

Jungkook just waves a dismissive hand, already getting comfy on the couch. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll leave soon.”

Yoongi doesn't believe him, but he doesn't argue, just pulls out a cigarette from the pack and raises his hands in surrender before he pulls open the door. “Alright. See you tomorrow.”

Jungkook hums in acknowledgement. “Rest up, Hyung.”

The studio fades to dead silence once the door closes. Though sirens still echo faintly in the background.

Stretched out on the couch, Jungkook stares at the ceiling a little longer than necessary. His limbs feel heavy, exhaustion pressing down on him heavily. He wants to work on those sketches, he wants to push his limits a little further. But his body seems to know what's best for him. And within minutes, he’s passed out.

When Jungkook’s eyes crack open, it’s to the gentle sound of rain pattering against the windows. But it’s not rain the noise that woke him. Distant voices shout over one another, and the erratic wailing of car alarms and sirens blast in a near distance, sounding like he’s still stuck between consciousness and a dream. Jungkook blinks, then suddenly, screeching tires follow into a loud crash, something heavy and metal hitting the pavement. His heart spikes, and his body jerks up instantly before his mind can register what the hell is going on. The sudden movement makes him lightheaded, blinking as he tries to shake the disorientation fogging his mind.

Shit. How long had he been out?

He curses under his breath, his head throbbing. Did someone just fucking crash their car outside? In his dazed state his fingers fumble for his phone in the front pocket of his jeans. He squints, the bright screen glaring back at him painfully in the darkness of the studio.

11:48 PM.

The first thought that comes to mind is drunk people causing a ruckus. It certainly wouldn't be unusual for Friday night. But then… he stops to listen. Are they breaking in? then his mind steers more towards the possibility of some petty street fight, or some idiots causing trouble. It’s the only conclusion his sleepy can come to.

But then, he hears it. 

Raw, panicked, screams erupting from the streets outside. It sounds close. Really close.

What the fuck? 

Jungkook feels a sickening pit form in his stomach.

Because that's definitely not the drunken shouts of a fight, not the sound of some petty fight or a car accident. It’s the kind of scream that crawls under your skin. And Jungkook knows the sounds of panic when he hears it. He feels his heart beating in his chest now, fast and strong. Something isn’t right. Before his mind can think  further, he pushes off the couch and yanks his leather jacket from the armrest, pulling it on in a swift motion, feeling a little dizzy as the room slowly begins to spin from getting up so fast. 

Behind the front counter he crouches, reaching for his motorcycle helmet. But his grip isn't steady, his palms suddenly feel a bit sweaty. The air in the room slightly suffocating.

His mind scrambles as he finally strides for the door, all he knows something is telling him he needs to get out. He’s ready to leave and check on what's happening outside, but just as his fingers brush the cold metal door handle—

A loud bang crashes into the large front window of the studio.

The impact rattles the entire front window, the glass shuddering violently as something smacks right into it with bone crushing force, causing large cracks to expand from the center like a spiderweb, blooming outwards across the glass. The helmet drops to the ground with a loud thud and Jungkook stumbles back in the darknesses, almost crashing back into the front counter as his breath gets stuck in his throat.

Jungkook freezes. His entire body completely paralyzed as he watches a thick, dark gush of red begin to trail down the ruins of the window. His eyes slowly follow it upwards and then…then he sees it.

A face, wedged between the shards of glass.

Jungkook sees the face of a man...except, it can't be. The skin is unnaturally pale, sickly white, dark veins bulging beneath the surface, tiny pieces of glass wedged everywhere into its flesh. Blood coats its entire mouth, dripping to the floor beneath — but it's the eyes… They send a shot of terror right down Jungkook's spine. 

They’re clouded and gray, almost white and eerily vacant, yet somehow, they’re locked right onto him.

Jungkook feels like he can’t take a breath, his chest tight as his eyes grow with complete shock and confusion.

Then, it moves.

Its head twitches in a slow agonized form before it seems to fully register Jungkook's figure standing right across. It cocks his head towards him completely with a grotesque sound of craking and lunges forward, slamming its hands against the glass with inhuman strength. Giving it all his power to break inside. It lets out another groan, a guttural broken sound as it reveals a row of blood stained teeth, the deep red liquid dripping from its mouth.

Jungkook swallows hard. If he moves will it move too? Will it...chase him? He feels like no oxygen is reaching his lungs, or his brain, his mind struggling to even process what he is seeing. That…that can't be real. It can’t be human. All he can do is watch as his heartbeat pounds like a hammer in his chest, louder than the sirens and screams growing outside, louder than the animalistic banging against the window.

That…thing is trying to kill him. It’s going to kill him.

It doesn’t stop. It claws at the glass, smearing the blood, desperate, mindless — growing more violent as it seems to realise its stuck. But the glass creaks more with each hit, trembling under the pressure of each movement, and Jungkook realizes it might not hold up much longer. He has no time.

Move.

He has to move.

Like a spring snapping, his body finally kicks into action. He stumbles backwards, feeling glass beneath his shoes as he tries to hold in a breath, his eyes fixed on the creature as he tries to back away with steady steps. After a beat, he sprints towards the back of the studio, running as his body pushes through the beaded curtain into the back room. 

His hands fumble frantically in his pocket — keys, keys, keys — but his hands are trembling too much to grip them. Fuck.

Jungkooks mind races with a thousand questions colliding all at once. But none of them make sense. None of them are even remotely rational.

That thing. It wasn’t human. Then what the hell was it?

Another jarring bang echoes in the studio, followed by a loud screech. But Jungkook doesn’t look up. He doesn’t have time. His only thought is to get out of here. Fast. He needs to get away from whatever the fuck that is. He needs to get to his motorcycle. He needs to get the police.

His fingers finally curl around cold metal. The keys. With a sharp inhale, he yanks opens the heavy back door leading into the tiny side alley and slams it shut behind him as he rushes out.

It’s dim, lit only by a flickering street lamp near the end, casting eerie shadows across the brick walls. The air is cool and damp, the smell of rain fresh on the damp asphalt and the sound of sirens and shouting voices in the distance become even clearer than before. But Jungkook can't see the one thing he’s looking for. His gaze darts around frantically and he feels a dreadful realization claw at his throat. 

His motorcycle is gone. The spot where it’s always parked is empty. 

Jungkook panics, his hands coming to his hair. Fuck, fuck, fuck. As he looks around helplessly, his breath only grows more erratic. He finds no other option but to run, so he runs to the end of the alleyway, running right towards the screams and tumult, and when he reaches the end, the scene unfolding before him almost kicks him to his feet.

The once quiet street had turned into a horrifying scene. People mindlessly running away from something. But what his eyes land on almost immediately is on a young woman in the middle of street, clutching her neck with both hands, her body swaying as she chokes out for help before she drops to her knees, her body shaking. Jungkook watches in horror as someone else runs right past her, coming from the same direction, white button up shirt soaked in something dark as his features display a kind of terror he’d never witnessed before. Across the street, an older man is pulling down the storefront gates as he locks himself inside, letting two kids in high school uniforms scream and kick as they beg to be let in, screaming and crying.

“What the fuck...” the words escape involuntarily in a quiet mumble to himself, his hands coming to his head.

Jungkook blinks repeatedly, completely aghast. But he doesn’t think— just moves, bolting down the street. His thick leather boots slam against the wet pavements as he runs, his dark hair blows in the air, his skin covered in a layer of sweat as he weaves past a fallen trash can and then a body, his breath ragged as he tries not to slip on the broken glass. The rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins too strong to even feel his body protesting.

Rounding a corner, he nearly collides into another person, but his hands instinctively come up to push them away, almost knocking them to the ground. He doesn’t have a space in his mind to think about it or time to dwell on it. His body acting on autopilot. The more he runs, the more people seem to be running in the opposite direction. Away from something. His legs burn as he sprints faster, but coming off onto the main street of Jongno, he comes to a halt as he takes in the state of the streets, pupils blown as something terrible dawns on his expression.

The city is in shambles.

Everything.

Chaos.

Cars sit abandoned in the middle of the road, their doors flung open, some have crashed into street lamps and traffic signs, into each other at intersections, even buildings, the smoke clouding up into the dark sky. Blending with the red and blue of wailing sirens. People are everywhere. Hundreds of people are running in all different directions — some screaming, some covered in blood, some sobbing and some seemingly unmoving on the ground. Pushing and tripping against each other, running, but most don’t even know what they’re running from, simply following the crowd. 

How many more of those rabid people were there? How far had this spread? 

He wants so badly to be wrong, but something deep inside him tells him this is something big.

He stills for an instant, trying to orientate himself. He scans the street hurriedly for the best route to avoid getting stuck in a crush, to avoid more of those things…but all he sees is the panicked chaos spreading by the second. 

Jungkook feels like he’s outside of his body, like this is a dream, a nightmare he’ll wake up from any second now. He closed his eyes for a second and inwardly prays for it to be just a bad dream. But the air is thick with the acrid scent of smoke and blood, and the pounding in his chest is too real. The world around him still screams, set aflame.

This can’t be real.

This…this can’t be happening.

Just a few meters away from him two figures wrestle on the ground — except one of them isn’t fighting back anymore, and the other is hunched over them, their head buried in the victim’s throat. Jungkook staggers back, his stomach lurching at the gut wrenching sounds of someone being mauled alive, bile burning the back of his throat when he watches infected pulls back, large chunks of flesh dangling from its bloody mouth, dripping crimson.

The truth slams into him, but his mind is till fighting to accept it.

People are killing people. Eating people. Except…they're not people. They’re monsters.

Jungkook scans the crowd for an escape route, desperate. After a moment, he catches sight of the least crowded street, it's right on the way to his place. He takes a sharp breath and runs, runs non stop down a dozen blocks. But as he navigates the frantic roads, he spots something as he runs past a small street. Stopping him in his tracks. He notices a tiny figure huddled up alone at the beginning of an alleyway, wearing bright pink, shoulders trembling and hands pressed over her ears as she sobs violently. 

A child, no older than three or four if Jungkook had to guess. He halts, heart pounding as he registers her small frightened face, streaked with tears. 

He should keep running, he knows he should. His body is urging him to just keep moving, his insides shaking with adrenaline. That’s not his responsibility. He hasn’t stopped for anyone. But the burning images of what he’s just witnessed flash fresh in his mind. And something deeper roots him in place. Something inside him twists, snaps almost, an unfamiliar instinct that overrides his own confusion and fear.

Ah, fuck it. 

Before his mind can catch up with what he’s doing, he rushes into the alley, approaching the child cautiously with slow steps as he gets closer. He crouches down to her level, looking over his shoulder nervously. “Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay,” his voice is gentle but hurried as he searches her face. “Where are your parents? Are you lost?”

The small girl just looks up at him with large, wet eyes and a trembling pout, her hands balled into tiny fists. She doesn’t answer, just stares, whimpering and hiccuping softly, like she’s been warned to not talk to strangers — especially not ones clothed head to toe in black, covered in tattoos and piercings like himself. He glances around, hoping to see someone rushing towards them, any sign of this child's parents so he can just hand her over and run, but there’s nothing, just the crowd at the end of the alley pushing past in frantic waves and yelling, no one stopping to even look in their direction. 

He has to do something.

“Do you…where did you see your parents last-” a loud metal bang echoes in the distance, making Jungkook and the child flinch, a heavy breath escaping him. Fuck, his mind races as he realizes she’s truly alone. The girl just sobs more and he curses under his breath, eyes pressed shut as his mind scrambles for what to do.

He can’t just leave her alone in whatever the hell this is. But what the hell is he supposed to do?

“Uh, alright,” he coughs, throat dry, and speaks softly but hurriedly, trying to mask his unease as he reaches out his hand. “Come with me. It’s not safe here. I’ll… I'll help you find your parents.”

He���ll take her home, get her out of danger and call the police. That’s what he should do. 

It’s the right thing to do.

Okay. 

He hopes she knows he’s only trying to help. God, his pulse races every second he’s standing here still. They need to move. Now. She just stares at him, uncertain, then slowly reaches out with her tiny fingers, clasping his much larger hand with a surprising grip. She must see past his intimidating exterior, or be so terrified that she’ll take up any offer of being reunited with her parents, either way, her innocence makes Jungkook's heart sting a little. He can't just leave a child out here, he has to help her before something terrible happens to her or she falls into the wrong hands. He doesn't know what the hell to do, all he knows is they have to run, run right now and get away from this, and-

Suddenly, a piercing, desperate voice breaks through the havoc of noise, loud enough to catch Jungkook's attention.

“Jieun!” 

The sound makes his entire body lock up, his heart jumping in his chest as he turns toward the voice. 

Running towards him, just feet away, eyes filled with worry and tears, he sees you.

Jungkook feels the blood drain from his face. 

For a split moment, the world seems to fall silent. The noise, the screams and chaos, the sirens — all of it blurs into a distant hum in the back of his mind. He feels like the air is knocked straight from his lungs as he slowly takes in your face, a slightly more matured version of a face he once knew every inch of, a face he’d buried away along with every memory he’d tried so hard everyday to annihilate ever since you disappeared from his life. A face he could never forget, not even after four painful years.

It can’t be.

No, no, no-

But it’s real, because there you are. Lunging forward and arms out reaching for the little girl beside him with thick tears of relief flooding from your eyes. The child lets go of Jungkook's hand instantly and her tiny feet pat across the concrete as she launches herself into your embrace, leaving him behind to watch, frozen and stone cold like a statue. 

“Mommy!” She cries.

Jungkook feels his stomach drop. He thinks he's going to throw up.

He must’ve heard that incorrectly.

Mommy? That child is…

He feels like he can’t move, blood cold as he watches you crumble to your knees, gathering the little girl into your arms with a grip that looks suffocating, as if she might disappear into thin air again. Your whole frame trembles as you hold her close, relief pouring from you in loud, choked sobs, your fingers getting tangled in her wet hair as you comb though it desperately.

That’s.. your child?

“Jieun, oh my god, baby. You’re here, you’re okay,” your voice cracks with all the pain your body just underwent, whispering against her temple. “Are you hurt? You’re not hurt are you, baby?”

The last thing you remember is being in the convenience store when the chaos began. When you walked out you had no choice but to run into the crowd. How Jieun was holding your hand and in the blink of an eye, her hand slipped from yours. You turned back, screaming her name, but she was gone, just another small figure lost in the stampede of a city falling apart.

By the time you fought your way out of the crowd, Jieun was nowhere in sight. Your heart is still hammering loudly between your ribs, mind stuck on the past horrifying minutes since she disappeared from your side.

But as you finally look up… all your relief shifts, eyes darkening with shocking realisation that mirrors the expression in the man standing just feet away when you. Heart hammering in your chest as if it recognized him before your eyes do.

You blink once, twice to make sure your eyes aren’t deceiving you. Completely distraught.

If Jungkook thought he was stuck in a bad dream before, he’s certain now this is all a cruel, sick and twisted nightmare. He feels his stomach churn. The weight of clashing emotions and utter disbelief thrown over him. So many questions he can’t yet voice crashing into him like a bucket of ice cold water, making his blood run cold.

This has to be some kind of sick joke. 

All of it. 

“Jungkook?” Your voice trembles, barely a whisper, as if the sound of his name out loud might shatter you to pieces.

He’s standing in front of you, drenched from the rain, his wet dark hair hanging messily in his face — so much longer than it used to be. He has new piercings on his face, and his features have definitely matured. He looks…different, yet somehow exactly how you remember him. His big dark eyes lock onto yours, and for a moment, you feel your world stop. 

“Y/n?” His voice cracks slightly, like he’s just been punched in the gut. “Wh…what are you doing here?” but there’s no anger in his voice, just confusion, and perhaps, a hint of something painful. His words hang heavy between you, getting lost in the sounds of the burning city beyond this tiny street, and you feel a paralysing weight on your chest. Your mind reeling beyond comprehension.

You open your mouth to speak, ready to say something, anything. But you feel like you’ve forgotten how to form words. So you close it again, no words come out. His eyes flicker from your face to the little girl clutching your side, and you feel a pit sinking in your stomach. God, please no.

This can’t be happening — not here, not now. 

Not like this.

You want to bolt, to run and not look back like you always do. You wish the earth would just swallow you entirely. But all you can do is stand there, your heart pounding faster in your chest, mouth dry.

You try to step around him, desperate to move forward, to escape this horror. But before you know it, his hand catches your arm. He grips you gently, but with a force that indicates he won’t let you slip away again. His touch almost makes you fall to your knees.

“Come with me.” 

Your body stiffens at his words, and you swat your arm loose of his grip. You lift Jieun into your arms instinctively, fingers curling around her small body as if the mere act of holding her can shield you from everything. From him, from all the pain, from all of this living nightmare.

“No,” you say, the word coming out broken, like your breath is caught. “I can’t go with you. I need- I need to get hobi-” 

“My apartment isn’t far,” he cuts in, not giving you space to say more. “We need to get off the streets.’’

You hesitate, watching his gaze scurry between you both again. Everything in you is telling you to just run, to put as much distance as you can between yourself and Jungkook. Willing this conversation to die before it can even begin. Before he can start asking questions you’re not ready to answer. Before you have to face things you’ve already buried deep. Before it’s too late.

You need to leave. But Jieun is shaking, clutching onto you for dear life as she whimpers against your chest, and the sounds of screams still ringing in your ears. And there’s infected everywhere. You’re stuck in the middle of a warzone, and you have no idea what to do, no idea where to go.

All you know is you need to get Jieun out of this. Away from danger.

“Have you not seen what the fuck is going on? People have gone fucking insane!” His tone grows harsher now, trying to knock some sense into you. “We need to move.”

A gut wrenching scream echoes from somewhere beyond the alley, closer than before this time. Too close. 

Jungkook swears under his breath, running a hand through his hair, torn between a storm of brewing emotions and the immediate danger closing in. His jaw tightens as he looks behind him then back to you. “Y/n, we need to go. Now.”

You shake your head violently, and you can feel hushed tears burning behind your eyes. You can’t breathe, can’t think clearly. All you can feel is Jieun trembling in your arms.

“Please-” his voice drops, raw and desperate. Almost a plea.

And don’t know when or why it happens, but the next thing you know, your feet are moving. You’re running with everything you have left in you.

Somehow, the world is ending, and you’re allowing yourself to be guided by Jungkook down streets devoured by chaos, heading to the only safe place around you. 

His home.

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[cryoculus]

— RETROGRADE ⟢

you’re a fugitive with forbidden magic in your blood, hunted by the masked killer known as the flame reaver. but when a chase ends with a fall that leaves his memory shattered, you’re left to deal with what’s left behind—a clueless man with the bluest eyes you've ever seen.

★ featuring; phainon x f!reader

★ word count; 18.6k words

★ tags; alternate universe, bounty hunter phainon, enemies to lovers, amnesia, slow burn, survivor's guilt, angst, implied/referenced past abuse, yandere/obsessive undertones, blood and violence, SMUT

★ warnings (PLS READ!); homicidal ideation (not acted upon ofc), potentially bad depictions of post-traumatic stress disorder and dissociative identity disorder, phainon gives himself self-inflicted wounds to keep himself sane (nothing graphic, but it's there!!), stalking, actual fight scenes w actual injuries??

★ notes; not for the first time, i unfortunately had to add another part to this series bc i am incompetent and unable to wrap up my stories in their initially intended chapter counts </3 but some friends have reassured that it is a-okay, so here we are :3c the lore dump in this part is probably a little jarring so just a heads up on that too and #sorry in advance SKAJDSKGHDFGKJ i hope you enjoy! (also this wasn't proofread bc i'm to sleepy to do it, so if yew spot any errors pls be a dear and lemme know!)

READ ON AO3

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE

★ SMUT TAGS; outdoor sex (he eats you out like a starved animal by a river bank lol), oral (f receiving), vaginal fingering, overstimulation, service top phainon (he just wants to be so SO good for you!)

The palace gardens were always brightest in summer.

Chrysanthemums tangled along the walls, honeysuckle spilling sweet over every path, the air heavy with the warmth of sunlit stone. Somewhere beyond the lattice arches, soft music stirred with the usual acoustics of the grand halls. But here, beneath the willow trees, the world felt just a bit smaller than it really was.

You remember how the silks your family wore seemed to glow beneath the shade—robes embroidered with glimmering vines, sashes knotted with jade pins, hair bound in ribbons the color of crushed rose petals. A picnic spread was laid out upon the blankets: sugared plums, sweet almond cakes, delicate pastries wrapped in lotus leaves. Porcelain teacups clinked softly against saucers, all painted with the sigil of your house—the Verdant Thread, coiled like ivy around a silver spindle.

Your siblings and cousins sat with perfect poise, as they were taught. You, less so.

“Sit up straight,” your eldest brother, Ilarion chided, flicking your wrist with a sharp glance. His hair was already pinned high in the style of the court, and his posture was impeccable even at sixteen years old. 

You stuck your tongue out when he wasn’t looking, too enamored with the warm honeyed cakes to care. Besides, the others weren’t much better—your younger siblings and cousins were too busy bickering over whose Threads shone brightest to mind their manners.

The Threads wove through the air like gossamer ribbons, faint and shimmering—some silver, some copper, some as pale as frost. You watched, fascinated as ever, as one of your cousins flaunted his magic with practiced ease. He wove patterns into the leaves, coaxing blooms to curl open in their palms, binding silk knots tighter with just a flick of his fingers. It was beautiful, but always tinged with pride.

Prestige, honor, and legacy.

Those were the words ingrained into every child of the Verdant Thread. Magic was your birthright, a gift from the gods. You were raised to believe you belonged above the rest—set apart, destined to lead.

...But you always believed it should mean more than that.

You’d been threading little blossoms into chains by yourself, watching a tiny moth flicker along your fingertip, when the accident happened.

A soft cry rang in your ears—sharp enough to pierce the air. One of the palace maids, a young woman barely older than yourself, had stumbled on the uneven stones while serving tea. Porcelain crashed to the ground in shards, the beautiful set ruined, and her hands were scraped and bleeding from the fall.

Silence fell beneath the willows.

Some of your siblings and cousins were quick to scoff, eyes gleaming with that quiet cruelty children of noble blood learn too young.

“Ugh. So clumsy. I wanted my tea now.”

“She’ll be dismissed for that.”

“Should’ve been more careful. That tea set was worth more than her life.”

At that point, you should have gotten used to their behavior. But still, you couldn’t bear it.

Before anyone could stop you, you scrambled from your seat and rushed to the maid’s side, ignoring the horrified gasps as your silk sleeves dragged through dirt and spilled tea. Her palms trembled beneath yours, slick with blood, and her face was pale as she tried to stammer out apologies through her tears.

“It’s all right,” you murmured with a small smile. “Don’t cry. It’ll be better soon.”

You called the Thread to your fingertips—as delicate and green as fresh shoots—and wove it through the torn skin, binding flesh back together with careful patience. It wasn’t perfect; your touch was still clumsy back then, your magic uneven and too gentle for swift mending.

But it worked.

A quiet hush spread over the gardens.

“You always act so foolishly,” Ilarion’s voice cut through it, sharp as a whip. “Why waste the Thread on a servant? She’s not worth the cost.”

You flinched, but kept your hands steady as you finished your weaving, refusing to let the maid recoil from you.

Before your brother could speak again, a warm laugh interrupted.

“How small-minded you are,” one of your older cousins, Aglaea simpered, her voice as bright as sunlight on water.

She’d been lounging at the edge of the gathering until now, her golden hair spilling like silk over her shoulders, her hands idle in her lap. But now she rose—every movement graceful, her presence commanding without effort.

You watched, wide-eyed, as her Threads shimmered to life—brilliant gold, dazzling against the soft green of the garden. With a single sweep of her fingers, she gathered the broken shards of porcelain and began weaving them together, mending every fracture with seams of shining magic. When she finished, the tea set looked whole again. Yet along every line where it had once broken, a glimmer of gold remained, glowing faintly like veins of sunlight trapped in glass.

“Cousin Ilarion,” Aglaea said, the golden Threads still glimmering at her fingertips as she gently set the mended set back onto the tray. “The beauty of our magic doesn’t lie in what’s flawless.”

She didn’t need to look to find you. Her eyes—pale and clouded, untouched by light since birth—remained half-lowered, serene as ever. But her Threads moved through the air with quiet certainty, trailing toward you like sunlit ribbons drawn by instinct. When her face tilted toward you, her gaze felt as steady as any sighted stare—guided not by vision, but by the magic she wielded with effortless grace. 

“And the Verdant Thread isn’t meant to serve pride alone,” she added. “It exists to help. To weave life back where it’s been broken. No matter who holds it.”

You’d never forgotten those words.

That day, Aglaea had sat beside you, her golden Threads dancing softly between her fingers, and braided your green ribbons with hers in a quiet show of solidarity. She didn’t have to say anything more. For someone born under a branch family, her magic had always shone brighter than anyone else’s.

But it wasn’t just her power that had drawn you close. It was the way she used it.

Kindly. Boldly. Unapologetically.

And when you think of her now—of the garden, of that fleeting summer—you wonder, not for the first time, what she would say if she saw you now. If she would still take your hands in hers, still braid your Threads together, knowing everything you’ve done.

Knowing everything you’ve become.

The morning after you slipped from Merrow’s workshop, you were already crossing the eastern ridge, far beyond Serrek’s Reach. By the time the sun set again, you’d put the entirety of Vherisport behind you—its salt-heavy winds, its sprawling streets, its lantern-lit alleys where you’d once walked with him at your side.

It isn’t just distance you sought, though the more you could place between yourself and Phainon, the better. It was survival—a practical choice, as much as anything else.

You’d lingered near the ocean too long already.

Even in the quietest moments, when the waves lulled you to sleep, the sea had never belonged to you. It gave comfort in small ways—cool air, soft tides—but it didn’t answer you. The Verdant Thread could weave through rock and soil, through the roots of the forested lands of Ashkarra, but it grew faint here by the coast, where the trees thinned and the earth was still restless from old volcanic scars.

You’d felt it in your bones: brittle and strained, fraying at the edges.

But here and now, you can finally breathe again.

You found refuge in the woodland borders of the province of Erythmere, beyond the highlands where few dared linger. It was a dense, quiet place where the trees grew thick and ancient, untouched by cities or roads. The hills sloped down into hidden glades and clear rivers, and the canopy stretched high enough to blot out the sun in places, weaving green shadows over the forest floor.

It wasn’t home, but it was close enough.

The Thread stirs easily beneath your fingertips again, soft and plentiful in the undergrowth, its magic twining through the roots like old friends. Food isn’t a worry here; you know how to find what you needed—berries, nuts, wild greens, and the occasional clutch of eggs from the birds nesting high above. You plan to lie low. Probably a few days, and no more than a week. Just enough to gather your strength, wait out the ache, and decide where to run next. 

By the time night falls, you’ve done everything you can to keep yourself steady.

Your hands have been busy since dusk—mending the fraying seams of your cloak, gathering herbs along the riverbank, coaxing warmth from a modest fire hidden beneath a hollowed ridge of stone. The forest has been kind enough to offer its quiet bounty; your belly is full, your limbs no longer trembling from travel.

There’s nothing left to be done.

And yet, as darkness drapes itself thick over the canopy and the woods begin to hum with their nocturnal chorus, a familiar dread curls beneath your ribs. 

Sleep takes you slowly at first, dragging you down with the sluggish pull of exhaustion. You try to resist, as you always do, lingering at the edges of wakefulness with your senses still half-attuned to the forest’s pulse. But your body knows better. The Thread weaves through the earth beneath you, soft and abundant, and it tempts you into its quiet lull.

It’s easy to forget, in moments like this, how dangerous dreams can be.

The Thread guards you in many ways. It softens the rough edges of sleep, shields you from lingering too long in places you shouldn’t tread. Most nights, it leaves your mind untouched—empty, quiet, as it should be. But when your defenses slip and the old wounds rise, you dream.

You always have.

The garden walls loom taller than you remember, their edges crumbling into flame. Somewhere beyond them, voices scream—a sound that has never dulled with time. Overhead, the sky darkens in shades of violet and ash. The marble beneath your feet melts like wax, the halls collapsing in waves of heat and smoke. And in the heart of it all, a shadow moves—silent, merciless, and wreathed in black flames. You’ve run from him a hundred times in this dream, and still he finds you.

But tonight, the nightmare falters.

The fire dies away before it can reach you, pillars of smoke give way to something colder—like frost in the air after snowfall.

His shadow remains, but it doesn’t burn.

It stands in the distance, bathed in moonlight and not in flames, its edges softened by a strange, quiet glow. He is no longer the faceless horror of your memory. No longer a weapon tearing through the world without mercy. Instead, he waits—watching you with eyes that do not gleam with fire, but with something far more dangerous.

Endless pools of summer blue.

You know those eyes. You’ve seen them watch you from across a rundown workshop, softened by lamplight and sleep-heavy laughter. You’ve seen them crinkle at the corners when he smiled, warm and unguarded, as if nothing ever stained his hands. Even here, where the Thread cannot reach, you see him again.

Snow-white hair, pale against the darkness. A face half-lit by something too gentle to be fire, his features calm and quiet as he watches you with a patience that makes your chest ache.

This is not the Reaver you’ve spent your life fearing.

This is Phainon.

The man you left behind.

As the dream deepens, pulling you into its grasp, you find yourself at a complete standstill—unable to run, unwilling to wake—as he reaches toward you. Not with ichor-black flames or blades sharper than the night, but with hands that have carried laughing wharf children. The same hands that never let you go as you danced beneath a sea of lanterns. 

You can’t stop him.

Even in dreams, you’re powerless against the warmth that lingers in his touch. The gentleness he was never meant to possess. The safety he was never meant to offer you.

But no matter how tightly you cling to it, the dream slips through your grasp.

It always does.

You wake with a sharp breath. The air bites at your skin, thick with the damp scent of moss and earth. You’re tangled in the rough weave of your cloak as your magic stirs beneath your skin. It mends what it can—smooths your pulse, calms your ragged nerves, pulls your thoughts back into place, strand by careful strand.

The Thread can heal all sorts of wounds. It can shield you from cold and hunger, from sickness and pain. 

But it can never quite heal a broken heart.

You press a hand to your chest, fingers curling over your ribs as though you might be able to claw him out from under your skin. It’s just a dream, you tell yourself, over and over, but the memory of his hands lingers anyway. 

And worse still—

You miss it.

Somewhere deep in northern Ashkarra, where frost laces the branches like spun glass and the air smells of pine and old smoke, a lone hunter is on the prowl. 

Cipher hums softly, bootsteps light against the frostbitten earth as she follows the winding trail deeper into the forest. In this unfamiliar highwood, the only beacon she deigns to follow are the flame-scorched trees that litter the forest path. Despite the signs of carnage, her breath ghosts out in little clouds, vanishing into the dusk air, but she doesn’t mind the cold much.

She’s worked colder jobs, nastier jobs, ones that paid twice as well and half as much fun.

Still, this one had her curiosity.

It wasn’t every day the empire called for hunters like her—those with no banners, no loyalties, no cause but coin. When it did, it meant something had gone sideways. Badly. And according to the fat little steward who’d pressed the sealed letter into her hand, something had.

The Flame Reaver was missing.

Cipher let the name roll through her thoughts, tasting the weight of it like an old wine gone sour.

The Reaver. The Butcher of Ashkarra. The Black Flame of the Empire. Every tavern and trading post this side of the continent knew the stories—of the man cloaked in smoke and death, wielding black fire that burned through flesh and stone alike. His Ember Ledger was the stuff of nightmares, a death sentence scrawled in neat imperial ink. If your name found its way onto that page, it was as good as carved on your tomb.

But now? He’d vanished.

Cipher grins to herself, slipping past a fallen tree slick with frost, hands tucked lazily into the folds of her cloak.

How careless, she mused. For a hound to slip from its leash.

She’s followed his trail for weeks now, moving from village to village, each more forgettable than the last. Most folks didn’t know a thing, too busy pretending their lives weren’t stitched together by fear. But the last one—some little dust-bucket of a town too small for a name—had offered her a morsel worth chasing.

A foreign woman, they said, passing through during a heavy snowfall some months back. Alone, with a face no one remembered clearly, wrapped in silks far too fine for these parts. She’d kept to herself—only lingered for a drink or two before slipping into the highwood under the cover of night.

She never returned.

Cipher has to chuckle at that part. What a funny coincidence. The Reaver had been spotted near the very same woods days before the storm hit.

So here she was, tracing footsteps already long gone, wandering the highwood with no one but the trees to keep her company. Ordinarily, she’d never risk venturing into unfamiliar territory.  But there’s something strangely compelling about this job—so much so that the lone hunter finds herself drifting into uncharted lands, curiosity outweighing caution.

It doesn’t take long for her to find it. 

The edge of the cliff catches her eye first—likely an outcropping covered in centuries old moss. Snow still clings to the branches above, but the line of trees with singed, blackened bark ends here, as if something fierce had burned its way to this very spot and vanished. One look over the sharp drop, and she can see a ravine that looks lost to time.

Without thinking twice, Cipher moves with the surefooted ease of someone long accustomed to bad footing and worse falls. Her boots find narrow ledges, soft patches of earth, and she slips through the descent like smoke curling down a chimney. The moment she finds solid ground, she crouches low, fingers skimming along the forest floor where the frost had been disturbed, too deliberate for animal tracks, too old to be recent.

And there, half-buried beneath a drift of snow, she sees it.

The Reaver’s mask.

It stares up at her from the snow-laden earth—the deep obsidian splintered clean through the middle in two pieces, a thick layer frost coating its surface. Beside it lay his twin blades, wicked things forged for a single purpose. The hilts are scorched black, dull from disuse, but Cipher has heard enough stories to recognize them on sight.

She lets out a low whistle, plucking the mask from the snow and turning it over in her gloved hands.

“Well, well,” the hunter chuckles, amused despite herself. “Looks like the mutt really did bite it.”

Her grin widens, sharp and wolfish.

Or maybe not.

Because for all the blood the Reaver spilled in his time, there isn’t a drop of it here. No corpse, or scorch marks, or any sign of struggle, save for the broken tools left behind.

“A foreign woman,” Cipher murmurs, lips curling around the words like a secret. “And a monster who vanished without a trace. That’s quite the pairing.”

Then the bounty hunter rises, slipping the broken mask into her satchel, and dusted off her gloves with practiced ease. Without another word, she turns and vanishes into the trees—whistling a low, playful tune that echoes throughout the cold, lonely ravine all the while.

The next days are a blur of roads and whispers.

Taverns, gambling dens, crooked trading posts hidden behind respectable storefronts—Cipher worked through them all with the same lazy grin, the same glinting coins tossed across counters, the same knack for loosening tongues. She didn't ask directly about the Reaver. All she had to do was drop the right bait—stories of burned villages, black flames, cloaked figures moving through the northern provinces.

And people talked.

Oh, they talked plenty.

“I heard he’s not even human,” one merchant muttered over a cup of rotgut wine. “They say the Reaver was an angel once. Cast down from the heavens, wings burned off for disobeying the gods. Now he hunts mages to atone for his sins.”

Cipher only smiled into her drink, filing the nonsense away.

In another town, deeper into the Crosspine route, she heard a different tale.

“He’s a ghost,” an old fisherman croaked, too many teeth missing to speak clearly. “He died years ago. What walks now is just a curse given shape. Black fire can’t come from a man, no matter what stories they tell you.”

Still, no mention of the foreign woman. That tidbit remained scarce, buried under superstition and fear.

But Cipher was nothing if not patient.

By the time she reached the outskirts of Crosspine, nestled along a busy trade road, she’s heard every version of the Reaver’s birth but the truth. Which was exactly why she paid a visit to Bartholos.

The bastard looks worse than usual tonight—skin the color of old wax, fingers stained with ink and pipe ash, his greasy hair tied back with a strip of twine. He always meets her in places like this: a sunken little cellar beneath a bakery, thick with the scent of stale bread and mold.

Cipher tosses a coin onto the table, watching it spin.

“I’m looking for a story,” she says, propping her boots up beside his ledger. “One worth the price.”

Bartholos squints at her, beady eyes gleaming. “You always are. Good for you, this one’s quite a dear.”

“But is it worth every coin in my pocket?”

That makes him snort before leaning forward, cracked hands steepled beneath his chin.

“They’re saying strange things in Crosspine,” Bartholos rasps. “Word has it, a woman not from Ashkarra slipped through here with a tall man at her side. Strange pair, one that kept quiet. Some folks said the man didn’t speak much, but he always tailed the woman like a stray given scraps for the first time in weeks.”

Cipher’s grin sharpens.

“And where did this charming couple wander off to?”

“Vherisport.” He chuckles, low and rotten. “They didn’t stay long here in Crosspine, from what I hear. Folks said the woman looked like she had ghosts on her heels.”

“Funny,” she says. “Seems everywhere I go, there’s a ghost or two.”

Bartholos’s grin widens, showing too many yellowed teeth. “Oh, you’ll like this one even more. You’re not the only one sniffing after old secrets. There’s been mutterings in the right places. About the Reaver himself.”

“Do tell,” she drawls, already thumbing another coin.

Bartholos licks his lips, greedy as ever.

“He’s not some angel, or a ghost, or a curse,” he whispers. “They say he’s the Emperor’s bastard son. Born with a mage’s taint in his blood. It didn’t matter how high his father’s blood ran—once the court magisters sniffed him out, they dragged him to the deepest vaults below Ashkarra’s walls.”

His grin grows feral with each word.

“They turned him into a weapon. Tore the magic out of him, twisted it with iron and blood. Gave him a name, a mask, and a ledger to fill. Burned away everything else.”

Cipher’s fingers drum against the table, slow and thoughtful.

“Now that’s a story,” she muses.

“You’ll find none better,” Bartholos croons, his tone oily with pride.

“Good,” she says sweetly, flicking the coin toward him. He catches it with a satisfied grunt.

Too bad for him, it was counterfeit.

Cipher stands, slipping the Reaver’s mask deeper into her satchel, her boots already pointed toward the next road.

“Vherisport, then,” she murmurs. “Looks like I’ll be chasing ghosts after all.”

But Bartholos isn’t finished.

Just as Cipher was about to turn on her heels, he slides something across the table—thin fingers lingering just long enough to make a show of it. A book. Slim, bound in dark leather, edges lined in iron claspwork. No title. No markings. Only the scent of old ash and something more sinister.

Cipher pauses.

“…You’re joking,” she says flatly, arching a brow.

Bartholos’s grin splits wider, delighted by her reaction.

“Not at all, darling. This is the Ember Ledger. The real one.”

Her amusement cools, just slightly. She’s heard of it, of course. Who hasn’t? Every tavern south of Ashkarra whispered of the Ember Ledger—the deathlist written in flame, the last rites of anyone unlucky enough to draw the Reaver’s notice. But no one ever said it existed. Cipher always assumed it was just a scare story. A myth wrapped in bureaucratic flair.

But here it was. 

“You must’ve crawled through the devil’s bedchamber for this,” she mutters, sliding her gloved hand over the leather. 

Bartholos only chuckles, proud as a crow. “Turns out even devils have debts,” he rasps. “And I’ve got a taste for collecting.”

Cipher flips it open, careful but quick.

The script inside is brutal. Names scrawled in tight, curling lines—not ink, but something darker, etched into the page itself. Like each one was burned into it. The first few are familiar enough—war mages, dissenters, enemies of the empire. But the further she turns, the stranger the scribbles become.

Faces she doesn’t recognize. Towns that were wiped clean off any existing map.

But then, her eyes catch on a certain name, just barely glowing against the page. Her breath hitches, slipping sharp between her teeth. The words scrawled beneath it aren’t titles. They read like death sentences, each one heavier than the last.

The Last Princess of Virelya. Master of the Verdant Thread. Highborn fugitive. Marked for extermination.

Cipher lets out a low whistle.

“Well, well,” she murmurs, tracing the glowing letters with the tip of her glove. “A foreign flower tangled in the Empire’s weeds.”

So that’s who you are.

“Quite the bounty you’ve led me to, Bartholos,” the hunter muses aloud, though her gaze stays locked on the page. “And here I thought I was just hunting after a runaway dog.”

Bartholos laughs, hoarse and wheezing. “Oh, you still are, darling. You just didn’t realize that he might just be in quite... unique company.”

Cipher’s fingers linger over the Ledger for a moment longer, committing every word to memory. Then she shuts it with a soft snap and pushes it back across the table. “Keep it,” she tells him lazily, already readjusting her gloves. “You’ve earned yourself a target painted on your back just for touching it.”

Bartholos’s grin doesn’t waver. “I always do.”

Cipher straightens once more, tucking her satchel tighter over her shoulder. She couldn’t stop the quiet thrill curling through her ribs—sharp, bright, and dangerous.

The Reaver.

The lost princess.

A bastard son turned blade, and a girl born with roots deep enough to strangle kings.

Now that is a story worth chasing.

“Off to Vherisport,” she says again, more to herself than anyone else.

Her grin lingers, cutting clean through the dark. Without another word, Cipher flicks two more coins onto the table—real, glittering silver this time—and strolls out, boots tapping a jaunty rhythm as she vanishes into the streets once more.

Bartholos just laughs, watching her go.

“Good luck, darling,” he rasps to the empty room, fingers brushing the Ember Ledger’s spine.

“You’re going to need it.”

The morning creeps in slow, curling through the cracks in the shutters and pooling pale gold across the floorboards. The workshop smells like cooling embers and old cedar, quiet in a way that feels… wrong.

Phainon wakes to the hush.

It’s a rest day—he knows that much. You always let him sleep in on rest days, especially after nights like last night. He’d been more than a little drunk, warm with wine and festival cheer, letting himself get pulled along in your orbit through the crowds of the Moonlight Festival. You’d teased him for it. Kept calling him a soft thing, dragging him to dance under the lanterns until the streets blurred.

Usually, you’re still nearby in the mornings. Dozing nearby, never touching but always close enough to share each other’s warmth. Or you would already moving about inside the workshop, soft-footed and quiet, lighting the fire or boiling water for tea.

But now? Nothing.

The quilt beside him is empty.

Phainon stares at the ceiling for a moment, slow to shake off the lingering haze of sleep and drink. His head aches, but the pulse in his chest is worse.

He pushes upright, sluggish, his limbs heavy from too much wine and too little rest. His hands drag down his face, and his eyes drift toward your usual corner by the stove. No kettle. No bundle of your things. Even your cloak is missing from its hook, making him frown.

You wouldn’t just leave without a word. Not on a morning like this.

But then it hits him, sharp as a blade between the ribs.

He remembers you laughing as you walked him home, steadying him when he nearly tripped over his own feet. He remembers the soft lamplight inside the workshop, the way you gently pushed him toward his side of the quilt, muttering something about not peeking as you both changed out of your festival clothes.

He remembers your hands, undoing the fastenings of your dress. The delicate rustle of fabric falling to the floor.

And then—

The scars.

Twisting across your back in pale, silvery streaks, like something melted into your skin long ago. Wounds that spoke of fire and cruelty, hidden beneath layers of silk until they were laid bare beneath his half-lidded gaze. He didn’t meant to ask, but the words had slipped out anyway, thick with wine and something deeper, something jagged.

“Who did that to you?”

He expected you to shy away. To lie. To tell him it wasn’t worth knowing about.

But you just looked at him as though you’d been waiting for him to remember.

"You did."

Phainon’s mouth goes dry at the memory, hands curling into the sheets. He remembers the way your voice sounded—steady but small, like every word weighed more than you could bear. How you didn’t flinch when he swayed closer, didn’t scream or shove him away, just watched him with that same quiet, distant gaze.

His breath catches, rough and uneven.

You said he did that.

And you looked at him like you weren’t surprised.

Phainon’s pulse drums in his ears as he stares at the empty space where you should be. The quiet stretches too long until the cold finally forces him to move. He throws off the thin blanket, standing too fast, bare feet hitting the cold floorboards. The workshop groans under his weight as he crosses to the door, gaze flicking toward the wardrobe where the beautiful dress he got for you peeks from the small opening.

He mutters a curse under his breath and reaches for his cloak. His hands move on instinct—grabbing his boots, checking the hidden knife tucked under the worktable—but his thoughts stay fixed on you.

Where would you go?

You know every alley in this city better than he does. You know every shortcut, every street vendor, every quiet rooftop where you sometimes drag him to watch the ships come in from a higher vantage point. Though you never breathe a word about why, Phainon is well aware that you’ve been on the run for a while now. So if you don’t want to be found, he won’t find you.

But that doesn’t stop him from trying.

Because now, more than ever, he needs to know why his hands are stained with scars he doesn’t remember carving. And more than anything, he needs to know—

Why the hell it hurts so much to wake up without you here.

The stairs creak beneath him as he descends, the wood groaning in protest under his slow, uneven steps. Phainon grips the rail without thinking, steadying himself, though his hands still tremble faintly—not from cold, not from drink, but from something else entirely.

It’s faint, at first. Just a prickle at the base of his skull, but then it thickens.

Like smoke slipping through old cracks in the walls, curling unseen along the edges of the stairwell. It clings to him, cold and suffocating, weaving into his lungs until every breath feels too sharp, too heavy, like something else is breathing through him.

And all at once, the thought strikes.

Find her.

It’s not his voice, not that quiet, uncertain tone that fills his head in the small hours of the night. This one has weight in it. An old, aching cold that sinks its teeth into the marrow.

Find her.

Phainon stops mid-step, one hand locked white-knuckled around the railing, heart thundering under his ribs. The thought doesn’t come gently. It drives in, sharp and searing, as if it had always been there—coiled tight in some forgotten part of him, waiting for the right moment to rear its head.

Find her. Find her. Find her.

It hammers in his skull, louder with every pulse of his heartbeat. A command. A need.

His breath rasps out, and the walls of the stairwell seem to close in, shadows twisting long and thin around him. He tastes it now—the old, bitter tang of smoke and ash, curling thick at the back of his throat.

Phainon knows, with a bone-deep certainty that terrifies him, that he could do it. Could follow that pull, hunt you down through every winding alley and shadowed street in this city. He wouldn’t need to ask anyone. Wouldn’t need to knock on doors or barter for whispers. The knowing is in him. Buried deep within his soul as if he was born to snuff you out.

All he has to do is give in.

His chest burns, willing the thought to break apart—to crack and splinter like frost beneath the heel.

But it doesn’t.

F̴̤̋I̴̠͗N̴̙͠D̷̗͗ ̸͈̆H̵̱̆E̷̢̕R̷̡͂.̸̱̀ ̴̻͆F̸͙͘I̶̛̘Ṋ̴̂D̸̥͝ ̷͖̍H̸̪̆E̴̜̾R̸̳̍.̶͍͐ ̵͕͑F̶̢̏Ḭ̶̈N̴̠̽D̶͍͒ ̸̜̿H̴̥͘E̵̝̓R̸̳͘.̷͈̚ ̸̱̆

It claws through his veins now, burning cold and bright, distorting every breath until it feels like he’s drowning in it. The world hums with it, the stairwell trembling beneath its weight, everything sharp and unbearable.

You left because you know what he is. You left because he hurt you before.

And if he doesn’t stop himself, he’ll hurt you again.

Phainon shudders hard, wrenching his hand away from the rail as though it burned him. The pulse in his head throbs, but he forces his legs to move—down the last steps, out of the stairwell, out into the light. The morning air bites at his face, sharp and bracing, but it’s not enough to clear it.

He doesn’t know what’s worse: the thought of losing you, or the fear that some part of him doesn’t mind chasing.

Alderhine is the kind of town that forgets the world is always on the verge of ending.

Tucked into the lower crook of Erythmere, it’s a small, slanting place built from old stone and redwood, where moss grows thick between cobbles and laundry lines stretch like prayer flags between the houses. No one here cares about wars or vanished monsters or the shifting tides of court. They care about harvest. About boots that don’t leak. About whether the smokehouse will last another winter.

You arrive just past the first breath of dawn, and the first think you look for is the local apothecary.

It sits squat and crooked on the edge of Alderhine’s north road, its windows fogged from within by slow-boiling brews. You knock once before pushing open the door and stepping into the scent of smoke and crushed sage.

The woman who runs it—a woman named Dynahrra—is nothing like Mistress Elwyn. She is brusque, unsmiling, and unmoved by courtesy. But she studies you with the gaze of someone who’s seen many travelers and known exactly which ones are useful. You don’t flinch under her scrutiny. You simply offer your hands.

“I don’t take apprentices,” she says.

“I’m not looking for a future,” you answer.

That gets her attention.

“I’ve trained under a field apothecary. I know salves, teas, bone-setting, and tincture prep. If you need help for a few days, I’ll work quiet and cheap.”

Your offer is dressed in safe language: trained, fieldwork, salves. Even when you help with the poultices later—twisting your fingers just slightly, unseen beneath the cloth to speed the mending—no one sees it. Not even Dynahrra. You keep your wards laced beneath the skin. Never anything more.

You sleep in the cramped loft above the herb racks. It isn’t home, and it isn’t meant to be. You know better now than to search for softness in places you’ll only leave.

Even so, your illusions are tight. Every morning, you twine the Thread around your face, your voice, your scent. The wanted posters are getting more accurate these days. You can’t afford to make mistakes.

And every evening, when your hands are no longer needed, you walk down to the tavern.

It’s an old thing—built from cedar and reinforced with old war iron. There's a board by the door, pinned through with trade notices, marriage requests, lost animals. And near the bottom, curling and yellowed from weeks of rain, is your face.

The same portrait they always use: regal, still, hair braided with silver thorns. The name beneath it doesn’t sting anymore.

You run a hand over your illusion again. Just in case.

Inside, the tavern buzzes with the low thrum of conversation. You sip your mulled wine and listen. There’s nothing unusual tonight—just talk of thinning grain stores, a lost ox, the coming frost. Someone plays the fiddle by the hearth. Summer is ending. Autumn is nearly here.

Then a man—drunk, face flushed from too much apple brandy—slams his mug down and slurs, “Heard the Flame Reaver was sighted again. North of the cliffs, three days back.”

You freeze.

At first, no one reacts. Someone laughs. Another scoffs. But the man doesn’t stop.

“He targeted a whole family o’ mages, hiding out in some ridge village. All dead now for sure. The Reaver burned their warding trees and everything. Said they screamed like pigs as he turned them all into ash.”

He grins, yellow teeth flashing. “Serves ’em right. Damn magic-wielders. They can’t keep hiding forever.”

There’s a beat of silence before the barkeep mutters, “You’re drunk, Tannor. The Flame Reaver hasn’t been seen in months.”

You barely hear the rest.

Your wine is cold in your hands. Your knuckles are white around the rim. But your heart—it hammers, fast and sharp, pressing against your ribs like it might break through.

Phainon hasn’t remembered anything. Not since you first pulled him from the snow, bloodied and dazed from a concussion. Not once did he speak of the Reaver. Not once did he show a flicker of flame.

He brought you lunch at Mistress Elwyn’s everyday. Held your cloak when it slipped, listened to you ramble about your day by the docks, stayed by your side even when you recoiled. Phainon always smiled with those gentle, sea-glass eyes like he didn’t know what it meant to hurt you.

And now—

Now they say the Flame Reaver’s trail burns through the continent again.

You rise from your seat without a word, placing coins on the table before leaving the tavern without a single backward glance.

The wind outside is colder than before. You don’t rush your steps, but you walk faster than you mean to. And it frustrates you to no end because it’s the drunken slurs of an intoxicated man that made you this agitated. You tell yourself not to panic, but the image won’t leave you. Melted stone. Scorched roots. Ward-trees turned to cinders.

Your stomach turns because it isn’t impossible.

You’ve always known the stories were more than myth. The Flame Reaver wasn’t just a name passed down in frightened whispers—he was real. Flesh and blood and fire, a living nightmare carved into the bones of history. And no matter how gentle Phainon had become beneath your hands, no matter how soft his gaze or how careful his voice, that truth had never changed.

He is the Reaver. Or was, once. Before memory stripped him down to something kinder.

But even the gentlest minds can fracture. Even the deepest scars can split open when tugged by the right thread.

You left him...

You left him, and maybe that was enough.

Maybe you were the one thing anchoring him, tethering him to warmth and light, keeping the old hunger at bay without even realizing it. And when you disappeared, when the cold crept back into the hollow places he didn’t yet understand—

Your steps slow. A tightness curls in your chest, twisting sharp beneath your ribs. You press a hand to your cloak, fingers fisting in the worn fabric as though you could hold yourself together by force alone.

Because if the rumors are true—if he’s started killing again—

Then it means the Reaver never really left at all.

And worse, it means you may have been the one to wake him.

For the next few days, you stay quiet.

You tend the apothecary with steady hands and a face smoothed blank. You mix herbs for old joints, wrap splints for children who climb too high, crush willowbark for pain. Dynahrra doesn’t comment on your silence, only glances up once as you move through the shop like a ghost and says, “Don’t forget to eat.”

But you don’t waste the hours. Every morning, before the sun rises fully over Alderhine’s sloped rooftops, you let the Thread unspool.

You’ve never used it like this before.

Healing, you were trained for. Illusions, you learned out of necessity. But this? Spreading the magic like mist, letting it seep into wood grain, into whispers, into windows left ajar—this was Sylpha’s gift, not yours. You remember your late sister laughing when you complained about the difficulty, saying it was like catching bees in a sieve. You just have to know what not to listen to, silly.

But you don’t know how to silence it. So for three days, your mind is loud.

Children squabble over marbles. The baker curses his undercooked crust. A girl sings to her cat while shelling peas. The cobbler mutters about a sore hip that just won’t mend. Useless things. Irrelevant noise. You try to sift through it all, try to find meaning beneath the clamor.

And eventually, you do.

There’s talk of scorched pastureland two villages north. Livestock found dead with their shadows burned into the ground. Night fires too bright for torchlight. 

The Reaver is drawing ever closer.

You don’t sleep the night you decide.

There’s no ceremony to it. No final words, just the weight of your cloak on your shoulders and the soft click of your belt fastening. You leave your payment for Dynahrra in a folded scrap of cloth—more than what you owe. You don’t wake her up to say goodbye.

By the time the moon hangs high in the Alderhine sky, you’re already in the forest.

You pick the place carefully—deep enough that the town won’t see the light, but not so far that you’ll be trapped if it goes wrong. The path behind you is faint and winding, covered in leaves that muffle your steps, and ahead lies nothing but thickets and root-clung hollows and the kind of silence that always seems to arrive before something terrible.

You rest your back against a silver-barked tree and close your eyes.

Then you begin to call.

The Verdant Thread answers like a limb long starved of motion—sluggish and reluctant, dragging itself into wakefulness beneath your skin. It has never been this heavy before. All those days of eavesdropping, of threading it through Alderhine’s chimneys and shuttersills, left it worn and frayed at the edges. It feels like pulling wet wool through your lungs, a rasping tension that curls beneath your ribs.

But still, you push through it.

You press your hands into the mossy ground and exhale slow as the magic unspools from you, fanning outward like veins through the forest floor. It seeps into the loam and tangles around the roots of trees, rising in slow pulses from the underbrush, glowing faintly where it licks at stone and bone and bark. It’s not a whisper of magic, not some subtle thread hidden in soft illusions.

No. This is a scream.

You don’t try to mask it in wards or weave it gently into the soil. You let it pulse bright and wild and alive, a beacon unmistakable to the one beast in the world trained to hunt it down.

Let it be seen. Let it burn. Let it reach the eyes of the Reaver like a red flag raised over enemy soil. Because if he is out there—if those blackened fields were his doing, if the rumors of ash and mage-killing fire are true—then this is the surest way to draw him in.

A flare shot straight into the heart of the dark.

You need to know if the man you came to love is nothing more than a dream stitched over an old, festering truth. You need to see it for yourself. To face the fire and know whether it still wears his face.

(Blue-eyed Phainon, who tended shipyard nets, who brushed wind-knotted hair from your face with trembling fingers, who held your silence like it was precious and never asked for more—)

Because if he’s gone—if he never existed in the first place—then maybe it’s time you stopped running from ghosts.

So you wait.

The magic hums beneath you, alive and reaching, its call spilling out into the wild in steady, deliberate pulses. A heartbeat of green light and aching memory. A net cast for a monster who once walked like a man. You sit still beneath the trees, pulling your cloak closer to your trembling body. 

And somewhere, far off beyond the edge of what your ears can hear, something shifts.

The first sign is fire.

Not the crackle of hearthflame or the warmth of a wild ember. This fire arrives like a wound torn open across the sky—black and violet tongues licking up through the treetops, thick with rot and malice. It hisses as it consumes the canopy, bark blistering to ash in its wake. The forest floor begins to smoke. You barely manage a breath before the world around you ignites.

Then, he comes.

Not a man, not even a monster—just violence made form. The Flame Reaver tears through the underbrush like a storm given shape, masked and cloaked in familiar shadows, twin blades drawn like they were always meant for your blood. He crashes through tree limbs and soil alike, fire curling from his boots and seeping into the roots with a hunger that feels almost sentient. 

Your stomach twists with recognition. Or something like it.

You barely dodge as a jet of black flame arcs toward you, cleaving the trunk you crouched behind clean in two. Sap hisses as it boils. Bark peels away in sheets of blistered rot. You stumble back, heart roaring in your chest, and he’s already moving again. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t hesitate. The Flame Reaver descends without pause, as if you were always meant to be cut down.

But there’s no rhythm to his strikes—no pattern to exploit, only sheer brutality. You once knew the Flame Reaver as a mindless killer, but you’ve grown familiar with the shape of his violence. It was the only reason you’d survived him this long: he used to fight with precision, every movement measured, every strike calculated. But now he charges like something unshackled, all fury and force.

And those flames—

They’re wrong.

They coil too close, dragging something with them. Not just heat, but something you feel scraping across your skin, oily and intelligent. A rot you can’t name. This isn’t how he moved before. This isn’t the Reaver you’ve outrun. Not even the one who once left his mask behind and smiled like you were the only thing left worth being gentle for.

This feels like fighting a stranger wearing his skin.

You throw yourself behind a ridge of stone, gasping, heart hammering. There’s no time to think. The moment you peek out, he’s already turning toward you with blades raised, fire breathing from his shoulders.

So you draw the Thread—not to shield or to vanish.

You draw it to strike.

This is not your strength. The weave comes tangled, heavy, driven by instinct more than control. You remember Ilarion’s teachings, sharp-edged and impatient. He was the one who fought with it. You never did.

But even if it’s clumsy in your hands, the magic answers. Tendrils burst from your fingers, glowing with that unmistakable green-gold light, living magic summoned not with elegance, but desperation. It wraps around roots, lunges forward, lashes toward him like the forest itself might rise to hold him still.

And for a moment, you think it will work.

Until something in him answers.

Your breath stutters. The Reaver lifts his hand, and his own tendrils rise to meet yours. It’s a sick parody of the Verdant Thread—black vines veined with deep blood red. They don’t clash, they devour, and the moment the two threads touch, yours begins to curdle.

You scream.

It’s not just pain, it’s violation. The Thread is part of you—and now, something alien is inside it. Assimilating. Infecting. Turning your own blood into poison. You drop to your knees as the forest tilts sideways. Every tree, every sound, warps into something monstrous. Light spins behind your eyes as your head snaps back.

And then the visions begin.

Virelya burns again. You see it crumble beneath imperial fire, watch it sink into ash with your siblings’ voices still echoing from the desecrated halls of the palace. You see the long, hungry nights you’ve spent on the run. The blisters, the frost, the sound of your own breath shaking in the dark.

And then—worse than anything—you see him.

Phainon.

His smile. His hands. The way he always lied right next to you every night in Vherisport—always close, but somehow not close enough. The way his blue eyes glimmered beneath the lantern light as you danced together in the city square. Were those even his eyes? Were they ever?

In the midst of your delirium, the Reaver lifts his blades.

No time to run. No time to scream again. They gleam silver in the firelight, poised to pierce you through the heart—

But something grabs you first.

The world itself seems to tear. It folds in on you, violently and without warning, as if the forest were nothing more than a curtain yanked away. Light vanishes. Sound implodes. You fall through something that doesn’t feel like space, buffeted by wind that isn’t wind, until it spits you out again somewhere else entirely.

Your body slams into stone. Cold. Smooth. Unforgiving.

You curl instinctively, but your limbs won’t move beyond the bare twitch of your fingers. You’re trembling too hard to rise, breath shallow, ribs aching from the shock still threaded through your nerves. The Thread inside you stutters like a broken instrument, tangled with foreign rot.

Then, there are footsteps—soft against the stone, approaching with the quiet confidence of someone who expected to find you here. A voice follows. Not rushed or panicked, but steady in the way it cuts through the haze like a blade parting silk. “Her Threads have been tainted,” you hear a feminine voice say to someone you can’t see. “Get Hyacine. Now.”

“Yes, Lady Aglaea.”

...Aglaea?

The name is familiar. You know it is, but your mind is still bruised from the visions the Flame Reaver forced into your brain. You try to lift your head, to speak, but your throat closes up before you can get a word out. There’s a warmth at your temple, the brush of steady fingers telling you to take it easy. 

“You’re safe,” the voice murmurs again, closer now. “The corruption isn’t strong enough to hold. Trust the Thread. Let it guide you back.”

You don’t understand what she means. The words slip past you like water. But nonetheless, your magic responds faintly to her voice—warmed by it, soothed by some unspoken resonance. Weak though it is, it pulses within you like the beat of a distant drum, and you reach for it desperately.

That pulse leads you upward through the haze. Your lashes flutter. Color bleeds in, soft and strange. The ceiling above you isn’t forest canopy but curved stone, lit by light that doesn’t come from torches.

When you finally manage to lift your eyes, she’s there.

Golden hair curled in soft cascades across her shoulders. Eyes that see nothing and everything at the same time—

“Cousin... Aglaea?” you manage weakly. “You’re alive... What are you—!”

The words catch in your throat as pain floods through you, a deep, pulsing throb that radiates from the crown of your skull to the tips of your toes. Aglaea's expression twists with pity, but all she can do is cradle you gently in her lap. Her golden Threads can mend shattered objects, restore what’s broken in the world around her—but not people. Not the way yours can.

“Shhh,” Aglaea hushes. “You overexerted your Threads, but the healer will be here soon. You are safe now.”

Safe.

You want to believe her. To let your eyes drift shut, to let your body go slack against the soft fall of her robes, to tuck that word into the hollow of your chest and hold it like truth. But something deep in you resists. Because even as Aglaea’s golden Threads twine around your wounds like sun-warmed ivy, even as her presence steadies the air like a lullaby, your magic still recoils.

That corruption didn’t come from a beast. It wasn’t wild. It knew exactly what it was doing. And for one breathless moment—between the venom laced into your veins and the ghost of blue eyes crinkling in a smile—you knew the truth. Those bastard Threads he used... Repulsive as they might be, they were familiar. 

You are not safe.

Because whoever wore the Flame Reaver’s mask in that forest—

They know the shape of your magic.

The rain hasn’t let up since Cipher stepped through the gates of the port city.

It’s not a storm or a downpour. Just a slow, persistent drizzle that sinks into her bones, makes her boots heavy with grit. Vherisport gleams under it—pavement slick, signs bowed, lanterns blurred to halos. It’s the sort of rain that shuts windows and silences streets. Quiet and forgettable. Exactly how she likes it.

She’s been walking for days.

Down from the highlands, across brittle grasslands and through marsh-choked trails, her only company the echo of her own breath and the note she penned to the capital. She sent it ahead via hawk, scratched in her usual spare hand:

Mask and blades recovered. No body. No trace. Awaiting orders.

She doesn’t include what else she saw, and she certainly doesn’t write what she suspects. That the Flame Reaver hasn’t gone missing. He’s simply shed his skin.

The response is already waiting when she arrives.

She’s barely had time to duck under a crooked awning when a cloaked courier emerges from the mist, silent as the streets. No words exchanged—just a sealed scroll pressed into her hand, the wax stamped with the mark of the empire’s sigil. A raven with three eyes, always watching.

Cipher ducks into an alley to read what they’ve got for her.

No retrieval necessary. A replacement has been created. The original Reaver is now classified as a liability. Eliminate him. Failure will result in a... personal visit from the new Reaver himself.

Her brow creases. 

They don’t even pretend to mourn the loss. No concern for why their prized bloodhound slipped the leash—just cold efficiency. A new one is already in the field, more vicious, more obedient. Cipher is to clean up the mess and burn the old threads before they tangle with the new.

She reads the order again, slower this time. There’s no room for ambiguity. She is to kill the Flame Reaver.

That... wasn’t part of the deal.

She’s an assassin, sure. A decent one. She’s done her share of impossible things for coin and silence. But this? Taking down the empire’s own monster, the one forged in flame and imperial blood? The one they had to cage with magic and steel just to use him? It’s unthinkable. Laughable, even. 

She leans back against the alley wall, frowning up at the silver clouds bleeding over Vherisport’s rooftops.

Refuse, and the new Reaver kills her. Fight back, and it’s still her corpse on the pyre. Her fingers tighten around the scroll as she heaves an irritated sigh. It always leaves the worst taste in her mouth when she’s the one being swindled by some higher power. 

So that’s it. The empire’s done with that old mutt of theirs, and now, they expect her to finish the story. But Cipher has always been careful about what stories she finishes—and which ones she rewrites.

She rolls the scroll tight and tucks it into her coat, letting the rain soften the last of the wax seal. Paper and orders. Ink and threats. All of it washes the same under the rain. She doesn’t move right away. Just lingers in the narrow mouth of the alley, watching mist crawl along the gutters like it’s listening. The city exhales around her. Somewhere a bell tolls the hour, dull against the fog.

“They created a replacement,” she murmurs to herself. “Like how they created the first one...”

Never once has Cipher believed the Ashkarran Empire to be noble or just.

They’ve torched entire kingdoms for the mere sin of harboring magic, reduced cities to scorched earth because a child whispered to the wind. Infants with mageblood are beheaded before they ever learn to speak. There’s no mercy in it—only ritualized fear masquerading as order.

Cipher has never cared to learn the reason behind the empire’s war on magic. Doctrine, prophecy, paranoia—it doesn’t matter. But if the empire truly believes mages are monsters, then perhaps it’s time they looked inward. Because whatever they forged in the dark—whatever they call a “Reaver” now—isn’t something the outside world ever created.

It was theirs all along.

The hunter tugs her hood lower, mouth twitching into something between a scowl and a smile.

Let the empire think they’ve got their monster on a leash again. Let them think she’s afraid of what they’ve created. She’s walked beside worse things in silence. And if they think she’ll deliver their final blow just to keep her neck from the axe—

Well. Let them send their precious new Reaver after her.

She’s not planning to be where they expect her next.

Much like you, he leaves Vherisport without a word.

No notes. No farewells. Just the weight of your absence, a splinter beneath his skin, and the low, crawling instinct that tells him you’re still alive.

He follows it without question. It’s not a compass, not a trail—just a faint and feral pull. Like a scent cloying in his throat or a blade pressed behind his ribs. He doesn’t know if it’s an old memory or madness starting to simmer. All he knows is that it leads him east, away from the sea.

The voice in his head coils in his skull like smoke. It often gives him names for things he doesn’t want to name. Prey. Thread. Weakness.

He never asked what you called those tendrils of green light. The ones you used to ease burdens, to mend his wounds, to veil your face from sight. But the voice fills in the blanks he never thought to question. You wield the Verdant Thread. Magic that was meant to be extinguished.

But... why? 

Why does it need to be extinguished? 

The voice doesn’t let him ask questions for long. It lulls him back into that tempting melody of obsession, as it always does.

Kill her. Kill the last of the magic in her blood.

So he lets it guide him in a haze of bloodlust and something else. The empire is vast, but it doesn’t matter. When he closes his eyes, he sees you. Always you. Not as you looked the last night he lost you. No, worse—he sees you beneath him, lips red and bitten, body pliant from fear and betrayal alike.

The voice wants you dead. Wants to know what your magic would look like when he tears it from your spine. Wants to spill the Thread across the forest floor and watch the you writhe in agony. 

But that’s not what he wants.

(…Isn’t it?

He can’t tell anymore.)

Most days he follows the voice, lets it steer his boots west, then north again, chasing the ache in his bones like a bloodhound after something long dead. When he’s more lucid—more man than monster—he tries to shut it out and shake off the compulsion. He takes wrong turns. Drowns himself in drink. Sleeps through dusk to skip entire sunrises.

It doesn’t help.

The obsession only coils tighter the more he resists. When he tries not to picture you broken and bleeding beneath his blade, the hunger twists and reshapes itself into something else entirely. Some nights, he wakes sweat-stricken and breathless, cock hard and aching as the sheets clinging damp to his thighs. He bites into his own wrist just to anchor himself in a different kind of pain. Other times...

Other times, it gets the better of him.

The tavern owner's daughter smiles too long when she brings him ale. Her blouse slips low at the collar, her laughter soft and practiced. He doesn’t even ask her name. He just lets her lead him upstairs, fingers tangled in his cloak, eyes full of questions he doesn’t bother to answer.

He fucks her in silence.

Not gently, not cruelly either. Just... needily. The mattress groans with every thrust, her voice muffled in the crook of his arm. But in his mind, she’s someone else entirely.

She has your eyes.

She has your voice when she moans.

And when he comes, it isn’t her face he sees.

It’s yours.

Afterward, he’s sick to his stomach. He scrubs his skin raw in the basin, disgust rising like bile. He wants to rip the thought of you out of his head, tear you from the hollow of his chest. But even now, you cling to him— not with mercy, not with warmth, but with weight. A crushing gravity that drags him back into your orbit, no matter how far he tries to run.

He spits into the basin, wrists red where his own teeth left marks. Upstairs, the girl shifts in her sleep. He can’t remember her name, but he doesn’t care to.

Because the voice says nothing, and that’s what frightens him most.

You wake to the sound of birdsong.

Not the riotous kind—no morning chorus of gulls or wind-lashed sea-sounds like in Vherisport. This rings more like a handful of quiet melodies weaving through open windows, and the distant trickle of water that might be a stream. It smells of lavender and crushed herbs. Of wood polish and the faint metallic sting of old magic.

The room is small, but warm. Stone walls veiled in creeping vines, pale green light filtering through gauze-hung windows. You blink blearily at the ceiling—vaulted, smooth, etched faintly with constellations you don’t recognize.

You’re alive. Which surprises you more than it should.

“Don’t move yet.”

The voice is soft but clear, spoken from a seat just off to your right. You turn your head, slow and stiff, and find a girl sitting beside your bed—barely older than you, dressed in pale robes cinched at the waist with flowering threadwork. She wears her light pink hair in twin tails that bounce in adorable coils. Her eyes are bright and gentle in their severity.

“I mean it,” she says again, a faint smile tugging at her lips as she rises. “If you shift too fast, your Threads might snap out of alignment. And if that happens, I’ll have to stitch them back myself—and trust me, that’s not something you want to be awake for.”

You blink at her, your body still half-sunk in fog. You didn’t even know that magic can be stitched together. “Who…?”

“Hyacine,” she says, dipping into a small bow. “Head healer of Silvarum.”

That name. It catches in your ribs like a splinter of memory. You’ve never heard of it before, but somehow it feels familiar. As if someone whispered it into your dreams.

Hyacine smiles again, like she understands the look on your face. “Lady Aglaea named it herself. Means ‘silver woods’ in an old Virelyan tongue. She said it was the first color she saw when the Thread called her here and built a sanctuary where mages like us can live undetected by the empire.”

A sanctuary...? Silvarum?

So that’s where you are.

But you can’t even rack your brain for where exactly this place is. Your mouth is dry. Your limbs ache, and though the pain isn’t sharp, the exhaustion is so deep it feels carved into your bones. When you shift your legs beneath the blanket, they move. Stiff, but not shattered. Tender, but not broken.

“How long have I...?” you manage to croak.

“Three days,” Hyacine replies, checking something in a bowl beside the bed. She dips her fingers into a basin of pale blue water and flicks it toward a circle of thread-marked stone. “You were barely conscious when they brought you in. The corruption was already starting to poison the deeper weave of your magic. If you’d been any later…”

You close your eyes, a cold weight blooming behind your ribs. “I shouldn’t be alive.”

“No,” Hyacine agrees. “But you are. Thanks to her.” She gestures vaguely toward the figure lingering by the far door—Aglaea, you realize. “And your own Thread. You forced it to hold longer than I’ve ever seen. That’s the only reason we had anything left to repair.”

You swallow around the knot in your throat. Then, slowly, you let your magic stir.

The Verdant Thread rises reluctantly.

You feel it like a nest of tangled nerves—frayed and fragile, as though your veins themselves are full of bruises. Not gone, not destroyed, but… wounded. If the Thread could speak, it would be groaning. Hollow. Aching. Afraid. The feedback makes your stomach turn. You pull back with a small gasp, instinctively curling your fingers against your palm.

“I wouldn’t push it,” Hyacine says gently. “You’re stable now, but your magic is still recovering. Think of it like a forest after a wildfire—the roots are there, but it’ll be seasons before anything strong grows again.”

You sit in silence for a long while, breath shallow, limbs curled in the shape of someone trying to feel human again.

Hyacine doesn’t interrupt. She only tends to the small spells etched into the stone floor, humming beneath her breath like it might soothe the aching walls themselves. But then the soft shuffling of fabric draws her attention. She turns toward the doorway and gives a short nod.

“Lady Aglaea,” she says gently. “I’ll give you both some time.”

You lift your gaze just as Hyacine slips out, her robes whispering against the stone.

And there she is.

Aglaea.

Your eldest cousin, the first sign of family you’ve seen since the fall of Virelya. You thought they all perished in the Flame Reaver’s black flames. But now she’s standing in the light of this sanctuary she built with her own hands, pale gold hair falling down her shoulders, her unseeing eyes full of something deeper than sight.

She crosses the room before you can utter a word, and kneels beside your bed. Her hands hover for a second—as if she’s unsure—before she leans in and folds you into an embrace.

Someone who knew you, knows you, and still wraps you close like you’re something too precious to have nearly been lost.

“You’re alive,” she breathes, voice cracking.

You melt into her warmth, into the trembling relief that you didn’t want to name until now. The fabric of her robes smells faintly of roses and parchment. Her grip is careful—never too tight, always mindful of your wounds—but it’s real. The closest you’ve felt to home in a long time.

“So are you,” you whisper back, your throat thick with your own emotions.

Aglaea lets out a breath you don’t think she’s taken since Virelya fell. Her hand cradles the back of your head. Neither of you says more for a long, long moment.

The Threads between you hum faintly—blood-bound, kin-bound, frayed but unbroken.

Somehow, against all odds, you found each other again.

It takes another two days before your legs can carry you further than the length of the room. Even then, it’s slow going. But Aglaea is there each time you rise.

On the third morning, she finally leads you beyond the chamber.

Silvarum opens before you like something from a dream.

Hidden beneath a canopy of silverleaf trees, the village looks less like a settlement and more like something the Thread itself wove into place. Cottages shaped from living wood and veined stone, roofs that bloom with flowering moss. Bridges arc between tree-latticed platforms, where lanterns swing in the breeze and children chase after illusions like butterflies.

You feel the pulse of it immediately: the magic. It lives in everything here. In the paths that light when you step on them. In the wind-chimes that sing only when someone smiles. Even the wellsprings hum with old Virelyan runes, restored and rethreaded with care.

Aglaea stays at your side as she introduces you to the citizens of Silvarum—some born of other fallen kingdoms, others who fled before the empire could brand them heretics. There’s a quiet reverence to the way they look at her, and when she places a hand on your shoulder and names you her cousin, a shared hush settles. As if some long-lost thread in their own histories has just been woven back into place.

It’s strange, you think, how normal it all feels.

The days in Silvarum are marked not by bells or empire-mandated horns, but by birdsong, garden harvests, spell lessons in open courtyards. There are mages who tend to forests with whispered charms, who coax herbs to grow in woven baskets. Apprentices walk hand-in-hand with the elderly, trading stories and weaving little enchantments into their scarves.

And as you walk through it all, you can’t help but think—this isn’t so different from home.

From Virelya.

Before it was razed. Before the skies turned black and the streets burned and your siblings and cousins died screaming. Before the empire came like a plague and taught you what fear really was. Here, it feels like a fragment of that old world, safe and unburned. And yet...

You know peace like this never lasts.

Silvarum isn’t on any map of Ashkarra you’ve come across. The empire hasn’t cracked down on it yet, thanks to Aglaea’s threadwork—woven so densely into the land itself that it bends perception, cloaks the village from any who don’t know how to find it. But that little stunt she pulled to save you—ripping you out of subspace just before the Reaver’s blade struck—was dangerously loud. Magic that strong always leaves a wake.

The thought of him—the black cloak, the scorched ground, those vile threads—sours your stomach.

Aglaea notices the way your steps falter.

She doesn’t ask. She simply guides you to a quiet fountain ringed in moss and trailing ivy, its waters glowing faintly with spell-light. The two of you sit on its edge, and she waits. You’re grateful for that—for her silence, for her presence, for the steadying calm of someone who never pushes past what you’re ready to share.

Eventually, you speak.

“The past year… it’s been…” Your voice breaks before it can settle into shape. You try again. “The Flame Reaver hunted me across forests, valleys, ruins I don’t even have names for. Every time I thought I’d lost him, he found me again. I ran until I didn’t know which way was east anymore. I hid. I begged. I survived.”

Your hands curl tight in your lap. Your Threads whisper faintly at your fingertips, echoing the tremor you try to keep from your voice.

“I thought I was going to die more times than I can count. But I didn’t. Somehow, I always made it through. And even more times, I just wish I never did.”

Aglaea says nothing. Just rests a hand lightly atop yours.

What you don’t say is this: that somewhere along the way, the thing chasing you stopped feeling like a monster. That he had a name. That you were the one who gave it to him.

That there was a time you called him Phainon.

But those memories stay locked behind your teeth. It’s too soon. Too much. Too confusing.

And even now—even after what he did, what he became—you can’t shake the certainty coiled in your gut like instinct. You’ve been the Reaver’s prey long enough to know your predator. Every movement, every shadow, every breath in the wrong wind. You know the Flame Reaver better than you’ve ever wanted to.

And that thing—the one who struck at you in the forest, who wrapped your Threads in his own ichor-laced tendrils and made them scream—that wasn’t him.

You didn’t see his face. Didn’t need to.

Phainon might’ve worn that cloak, that mask, that name. But he was never that thing. You’re certain of it.

...And still, you hate how it sounds. How even in your own head, it feels like an excuse. Like you’re defending him. Like you’re trying to forgive something unforgivable.

You aren’t. You won’t. But truth doesn’t care what it sounds like.

Lost in thought, you almost miss it when Aglaea’s voice slips through the silence.

“What will you do now?”

You look up, startled, but she isn’t pressing. Just watching. Her blind eyes don’t search, but somehow they still see.

“I don’t know,” you murmur honestly. “I… don’t want to stay too long. If the Reaver’s still tracking me—if he follows me here—”

“He won’t find us,” Aglaea says, firm but gentle. “Not with you here.”

You blink. “What?”

She shifts to face you fully, taking your hands in hers. “The Verdant Thread runs in your blood too. You felt what it did—how the sanctuary answered when I pulled you through. That was you, not just me. With two Verdant casters bound to this land, I can strengthen the glamours around Silvarum tenfold.”

You hesitate. “But if it fails—”

“It won’t.” Her voice is soft, but steady. “Not unless we let it.”

You glance around the village: the children weaving light into their toys, the apprentices reciting spells to the rhythm of laughter, the elderly woman teaching a group of teens how to distill potions from enchanted herbs. It’s quiet. Whole. Real.

Safe.

You swallow hard, the words catching in your throat. “You want me to stay?”

“I want you to stop running.” Aglaea brushes your hair gently behind your ear. “You don’t have to be a ghost anymore. You don’t have to wake up every day waiting to die. Let this be your home.”

The idea sounds impossible.

But even so...

You’ve never belonged anywhere since Virelya fell. Never stayed long enough to put down roots. But now, looking at Silvarum, it hits you like a slow, aching realization. Maybe there are places in the world where you can belong. Even if just for a little while.

You draw in a breath, then let it out.

“Alright,” you whisper.

Aglaea’s smile blooms like a sunrise.

“Then welcome home.”

The moment he steps over the threshold into Alderhine, he knows.

The scent of your magic hits him like tidal wave—old and green and threaded with something soft, something yours. It coils through the stones and wood and moss, winds through open shutters and climbs the ivy-strangled chimneys. It drips from flower boxes and herb stalls and laundry lines. It laces the air itself.

She’s close. She’s close. She’s close.

The voice in his head won’t stop. It’s louder now, frantic, crawling over his thoughts in spirals. He can’t tell if it’s memory or instinct anymore—if it’s his own voice screaming or someone else entirely—but it doesn’t matter. The words ring through his skull like a siren song.

He follows the scent.

He stumbles through the town like a fevered animal, sleeves torn, boots caked in dried mud, his pale hair tangled and sweat-drenched. His cloak is long gone. His mask—shattered. His eyes burn like open wounds, too wide, too bright, darting over every corner like a starved hound trying to sniff out the last trace of blood.

He barrels through alleyways, checks windows, presses his hands to glass. He crashes into a fruit stall, nearly knocks over a baker’s basket. A child yelps when he whirls too fast at the sound of laughter—he grabs the edge of a table and stares, shaking, but it’s not her.

Where is she?

She’s here she’s here she’s here

Ŵ̷̡͎̺̣͔̝͇̖̻̓̀͒͐̏̆̌̊̓Ḩ̷̳̖̹̩̥͎̞̜͔̈̒̏Ȩ̵̡̜̻͎̗̖̌R̷̼̯̥̠̗̐̈̉́̊̅̉̀̏͒Ė̸̡̹̼̺̈́̒̄̒̽̈̑́͘ ̵̠̫͙͙̫̱̝͖̰̳̈́Ȉ̴̛̝͙̺͂̆̅̚͠͠͝͝Ş̶̤͎͓͌̋ ̸̣̯͕̙͔͍̳̦͐͌̀̄͂̄́͘S̵̨̭̞͙͔͚̹͈̭̉̌͗͌͛̒̎H̴̦͖̝̲̐͛E̵̖̲͇͕͙̝͎̠͈͚̓̑͒ͅ.̵͕͖̳̯̂̈́̃̍̕͘͝

To his annoyance, he doesn’t find you right away.

The town hums with your presence, but it never reveals you in the flesh. Your magic curls like smoke beneath every surface—so thick, so cloying, it coats the back of his throat, sticks to his skin like fever-sweat. 

So he lingers.

Because Alderhine’s streets smell like you. Even its silence sounds like you. And though the voice claws through his skull, hissing she’s here she’s here she’s here, the town keeps you just beyond reach. 

By day, he walks the streets like a ghost too stubborn to fade. Locals start whispering. The baker crosses herself. Children flinch when his shadow stretches too long down the cobbled alleys. He doesn’t care. He only watches. Smells. Listens. By night, he returns to the woods.

Not just any woods—the Silverwood. A quiet sprawl of moon-pale trees just beyond Alderhine’s edge, where the air grows thick with damp moss and forgotten magic. The moment he first stepped beneath its boughs, he knew. You had been here. Weeks ago, maybe more. But time doesn’t matter. Not to him. Not when the earth still drinks in your presence, and the bark still bears the touch of your fingers. Every inch of the forest sings with it.

Verdant. Bright. You.

He walks in silence. Reverent. Obsessed. Stalking between silver trunks like a beast wearing man-shaped skin. He touches leaves where your magic lingers, presses his fingers to roots you once coaxed into shape. Sometimes he crouches low just to breathe it in from the dirt. It fills his lungs. Smothers his thoughts. Warps them.

She was here. She was here. She was here—

And then.

On the fifth day.

He sees you.

It’s late afternoon when it happens, the sun casting honey-colored bars through the trees. He steps through the same worn trail he’s taken every evening since he arrived. Same ritual. Same hunt. The voice is quieter today, almost content. But then he rounds the bend, and everything stops.

You’re standing in a clearing.

You, draped in soft linen and woven threads, sunlight tangled in your hair, head tilted in laughter as you’re surrounded by children. One tugs at your hand. Another leans into your side. You’re smiling. You’re glowing.

He stops breathing.

The forest is too still. His heartbeat pounds in his skull like war drums. He grips the bark of the nearest tree with a grip too tight, too tense, too violent.

He sees the way the children reach for you.

And he sees red.

They’re too close. They’re touching you. Their sticky little hands cling to what’s his, to what he nearly died for. What he bled for. What he searched for until his bones broke and his mind frayed and the only thing left in him was the certainty that you were his.

He could kill them.

He could do it in a blink. And then you’d be alone. You’d see how he would burn the world into ashes just to find you. You’d—

You’d hate him.

The thought slams into him like a bolt of thunder. Like ice water down a flame.

You would hate him... No. Nonononono—

He can’t have that.

So he stops. Stops himself from stepping forward. Stops his fingers from twitching toward a blade he hasn’t needed in weeks. He just watches. Breath shallow. Muscles coiled. The voice in his head goes deathly still. He waits beneath the shadows, half-hidden by the silver trees.

Watches you laugh. Watches you live. Watches you forget him.

His nails dig into the bark until blood wells beneath the beds.

And still, he does not move.

He just waits.

Because soon enough you’ll be alone again.

And when that moment comes, he’ll be ready.

It’s been two weeks since you agreed to stay in Silvarum.

Life inside the sanctuary is nothing like the fugitive’s existence you’ve grown used to. There’s no need to look over your shoulder every few seconds. No sharp silence between heartbeats. No trembling fingers pressed to illusion spells while your lungs threaten to collapse.

Here, magic is not something to be hunted. I’s woven into every stone, every breath, every soft-spoken greeting. It threads through the trees, the wind, the very fabric of the sanctuary—and for once, you’re not just surviving within it. You’re living.

Despite your newcomer status, you’re respected. Word of your magic spread quickly—your skill with the Verdant Thread, your aptitude for mending and strengthening the ancient wards and glamour holding Aglaea’s illusion together. You’re no mere guest in this place. You’re part of the weave now. A guardian of the veil.

But the safety this place offers doesn’t silence the dreams.

He still finds you there.

A man with white hair and too-blue eyes. He sits alone at the edge of the docks in Vherisport, watching the sunset bleed gold into the sea. You always wake before he turns around. Before he speaks your name.

Phainon haunts you. Not like a monster, but a memory too raw to touch.

He doesn’t belong here—not in this place of warmth and softness and shared meals under moonlight. He belongs to another world entirely. A world of ash and blade and bloodied footsteps behind you in the dark. You tell yourself he’s part of the past.

But part of you still wonders if he’s out there. If he’s searching for you.

So, when the children beg you to take them berry-picking in the Silverwood beyond the sanctuary, you say yes. Not just to distract them, but to distract yourself.

The Silverwood is still technically safe. The sanctuary’s protective threads stretch deep into its roots, and some of the older mages often walk to Alderhine when supplies run low. You tell the mothers it’ll be fine. You’ll keep them close. You’ll watch their magic. You won’t stray too far.

The first few hours are uneventful.

Your little band of children plays among themselves. They run and laugh and shape sunlight into glowing motes that hover above their heads like fireflies. You hover at the edge of the clearing, your skirts gathered in one hand, a woven basket in the other. You kneel to gather herbs between patches of wild berries, listening to their joy with half a smile.

It’s peaceful.

Until it isn’t.

The shift is subtle at first—just a strange hum of static in the air that makes the hairs at the back of your neck stand. Like something exhaled into the clearing from far off. You pause, one hand frozen above a cluster of low-slung vines. Your heart skips not with excitement, but dread.

You feel it looming somewhere out of sight.

Not a bear. Not a lost traveler. Something else.

Something that once wore a black cloak and a cracked obsidian mask. Something that burns everything it touches. Something you thought you already escaped when Aglaea pulled you into the sanctuary. You straighten slowly, eyes scanning the trees with razor-sharp focus. The Silverwood is bathed in sunset gold, shadows long and deep between the trunks.

But somewhere out there, something is staring back.

Your fingers twitch against the basket’s handle. You don’t say anything aloud. You don’t want to frighten the children. Instead, you reach inward. Into the Thread.

Aglaea, you whisper across the weave.

The response is immediate. Her magic brushes yours like a hand to the shoulder. What’s wrong?

There’s something out here.

Silence. Then: You need to come back. Now.

No, you send back, quickly. I’ll handle it. Just open a path. Get the children out.

You’re not strong enough to fight anything. You’re barely recovered.

I won’t fight. I only need to see.

The pause stretches. You can feel her reluctance like friction in the spell. But eventually, Aglaea yields. A pulse echoes through the Thread, and somewhere deep in the clearing, a shimmer of light begins to open behind the berry thicket—a passage. A hidden door that only magic can see.

You round up the children with a calm voice and a steady smile. You lie. You say it’s getting late. That you’ll gather the rest of the herbs and they’ll go ahead without you, just for a little while. The youngest clings to your skirt, clearly hesitant. You smooth her hair back and murmur, “It’s alright, sweetheart. I’ll be back before supper.”

Once they’ve gone—once the shimmer closes like a dream—your smile drops.

And you turn back to the trees.

The presence hasn’t moved. It still waits. Still watches.

And as you step deeper into the woods, you already know. The way your skin prickles, and your breath catches. The way your magic curls inward, like a living thing remembering all the pain you’ve had to suffer—

It’s him.

The Flame Reaver is here.

You don’t flinch. You refuse to.

The forest air grows colder the deeper you step, as though the Silverwood itself is holding its breath. Shadows ripple between the trunks, and your magic coils tight beneath your skin, preparing to strike. You reach for it. Let it slither through your limbs, thread itself into your pulse. Whoever’s watching—whatever returned to finish the job—it’s not going to take you down quietly.

“So,” you murmur, turning toward the darkness. “You came back.”

The woods give no answer.

“Poor form, really,” you continue, voice sharper now, slicing through the silence like a blade. “You had your chance to kill me weeks ago. Left a trail of burnt bodies and poisoned threads in your wake, and for what?”

Your hands glow faintly, brimming with light-veiled vines. You lift your chin. “To fail?”

Still, no answer.Only the weight of breathless tension.

You narrow your eyes at the shape slinking just beyond the clearing. “And that imitation of the Thread? Pathetic. Did you really think you could twist something alive into something that ugly and call it magic?”

Something shifts. You feel it. A ripple in the air. The sudden prickle of heat against your skin.

And then—he steps into the light, and your heart stops.

It’s him.

But it isn’t.

The man who emerges from the treeline is a wraith in the shape of someone you once loved. Pale hair tangled and snarled. Boots half-falling apart. His tunic torn at the sleeves, dried blood crusted along his collarbones. His eyes—gods, his eyes—once the clear blue of sunlit waters, are now too bright, too wild. Like they've been polished to glass from within. They shimmer with something feral. Something sick.

He looks like Phainon.

But the man before you isn’t Phainon.

Not the one who danced with you that summer, hand pressed to your lower back, blue eyes soft beneath the moonlight. Not the one who touched you like you were something fragile.

This one carries a knife.

He lunges without warning.

You barely sidestep the first blow—blade hissing past your ear, catching only the ribbon tied to your braid. You counter with a flick of your wrist, vines bursting from the dirt to seize his ankle, but he slips free too easily. He’s fast. Too fast. His limbs move like he’s being puppeteered from beneath the skin—mechanical, precise, brutal.

But familiar.

You’ve fought this rhythm before.

Even half-mad, half-starved, he fights like the Reaver. The same momentum, the same angles. You know the weight behind his swings, the stutter in his breath before he pivots low. You know him.

And he is not the one who tried to kill you weeks ago.

You hate how much relief that brings.

Still, relief doesn’t matter when you’re barely staying alive.

His knife slices through your sleeve, grazes your forearm. You grit your teeth and snarl a quiet curse, dancing back just out of reach. You have to get through to him. You need to know what’s wrong with him. Why he’s like this.

Your fingers twitch. A flare of borrowed magic threads between your eyes—a trick Aglaea and Hyacine taught you. You let your gaze blur just enough to see beneath his surface. Past the rage, the tension, the speed. And right there, the Thread lets you see it.

His brain is alight. Burning like a lantern soaked in oil. The energy is dissonant, jagged, and wrong—like a storm with no eye. No focus. His whole body is lit up like a war beacon, but his mind? A chorus of fractured voices all screaming the same name.

Yours.

“Stop,” you breathe, ducking another slash. “Stop—please. What happened to you?”

He laughs.

And it is not the laugh you remember.

It’s a rasping, breathless thing. Cracked and crooked at the edges. He pants through it like it’s physically painful to hold in the words spilling from his tongue.

“I found you. I found you,” he croons. “I looked everywhere. Through cities, through bones, through fire. And you were here, hiding, laughing with children—”

His voice breaks into a sneer. “Did they make you forget me? Did they make you soft?”

Your chest tightens. “Phainon—!”

Something inside him snaps.

“You said it!” He shrieks forward again, eyes wild. “Say it again!”

The blade comes down hard and you barely manage to catch his wrist. His strength nearly overwhelms you. His breath is hot against your cheek. Too close. Too fast. You twist your hips and drop, momentum dragging him off balance just enough for your elbow to crack into his ribs. His knife tumbles free. You catch it without hesitation, and drive the sharp edge into his side.

Blood splatters your skirts.

Phainon chokes on his own breath—his whole body jerking—before he stills. For a moment, he just stands there, looking down at the wound like he doesn’t understand it. Like he’s forgotten what pain feels like. Then he staggers back two steps and drops to his knees.

The silence is deafening.

You stand there, chest heaving, blood soaking your fingers. The knife clatters from your grip. The forest holds its breath.

And then—

“…your voice,” he whispers.

It’s hoarse. Quiet. So much softer than before. “You said my name.”

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

Because he’s not looking at you like a beast anymore. He’s looking at you like a man on the edge of waking from a nightmare. Blue eyes flickering with something fragile. Something breaking.

“I—” He blinks hard. His lips tremble as he swallows. “Where are we? What…what did I…”

He reaches for you with a bloodied hand, and you flinch. Not because you’re afraid, but because the man before you is breaking apart. Piece by piece, unraveling at the seams, and you have no idea how to keep him from falling off the deep end.

His fingers hover midair, trembling, suspended in the space between you. He looks at your face, then your hands—shaking, stained with his blood—and then, finally, at the gash along your shoulder. The one he left there. The fabric is torn clean through. Crimson soaks through the weave like spilled ink.

His breath hitches.

He blinks once, twice—then recoils like he’s been burned.

“I…” he breathes, stumbling back. “No. No—no—”

You move to steady him, but he jerks away too fast, dragging a hand through his hair like he’s trying to claw out whatever poison is spreading through his head.

“I hurt you.” His voice is wrecked, and so full of horror it knocks the wind right out of your lungs. “I hurt you again—”

Phainon’s knees drag into the earth as he collapses, hands fisting into the moss. His breath turns ragged, harsh, nearly unrecognizable. He looks up at you through a haze of tears—eyes glassy, desperate, gutted.

“I didn’t want to,” he chokes. “I swear—I didn’t—something’s wrong with me. I can’t think, I can’t sleep, there’s this voice—it keeps telling me to kill you but I don’t want that, I don’t want that—”

“Phainon—”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he sobs. “I just wanted to see you, to tell you I was still me—I tried—”

You lunge forward and pull him into your arms before he can finish.

He stiffens at first—frozen with guilt and confusion—but you wrap your arms tighter around him, clutching his shoulders like a lifeline. You bury your face against his bloodied neck, your body trembling, your breath catching on the ragged sob you’ve been holding in for weeks.

And then his arms curl around you, tight. Desperate. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

“Y-you’re here,” you whisper, voice cracking, “You’re still here...”

You don’t care that your dress is ruined. Don’t care that his blood has soaked into the fabric or that your shoulder still burns or that the Silverwood is cold and watching. All that matters is this.

His weight in your arms. His breath against your skin. The tremble in his voice when he murmurs, “I missed you,” like a confession. Like a sin. “I missed you so much.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, letting the tears slip past your cheeks.

The two of you kneel there in the heart of the forest, clinging to each other beneath the pale silver trees—two broken pieces trying to remember how they ever fit together. And just as the first stars bloom above the canopy, the moon rises in silence, casting its light across the mossy clearing.

You don’t know what happens next.

But for now, he’s here.

Still your Phainon.

You work in silence.

The clearing is still. The moonlight pools at your feet like spilled silver, bathing everything in a soft, reverent glow. Phainon rests with his head in your lap, eyes closed, body curled against your side like a wounded animal finally allowed to sleep. His breath comes slow now. Steady. The tension that once kept him taut and dangerous has bled out of his limbs.

You lay one hand over his side—just above where the knife went in—and exhale through your nose.

Your magic answers the call.

The Verdant Thread glows faintly beneath your palm, curling through him like strands of golden silk, winding through skin and sinew, coaxing the torn muscle to knit itself whole. The effort draws a tight ache from your temples—residue from the poison still lingering in your veins—but you grit your teeth and keep going. When the wound seals, you move to your own arm next, humming low under your breath, drawing the last of your strength to close the gash along your shoulder.

When you’re done, the forest exhales around you.

No blood. No broken skin. Only the crusted stains on your clothes and the dark exhaustion dragging at your spine.

Carefully, so gently, you lift your hand and pass it over Phainon’s temple. You pretend it’s just a fond touch—just a stroke through his pale hair—but beneath your fingers, you thread a quiet flicker of magic. Just enough to peek beneath the surface. His mind is still a storm. But things are calmer now. The wild, chaotic fire you saw earlier has dulled, replaced by something low-burning, like coals after a blaze. He’s exhausted. He’s finally still.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

Good.

Your fingers comb slowly through his hair. It’s longer than it was before—softer, too, though still tangled and messy from weeks of unwashed travel. You catch a few strands behind his ear. He doesn’t stir.

Then, you feel it: the tug of the Thread, faint and cautious.

Are you safe? Aglaea’s voice brushes against your mind, quiet but laced with worry. I felt something earlier. I was about to bring you in, but… it stopped.

You close your eyes, focusing on the link.

It’s okay now. Your hand remains in Phainon’s hair, stroking gently. I’ve got it under control.

There's a pause followed by a sigh of resignation.

Alright… I trust you. Please be back soon.

The connection fades.

You tilt your head back, breathing in the forest night, staring up at the pale scatter of stars. Your body aches. Your dress is stiff with blood and dirt. And lying here like this, with Phainon curled up beside you like a broken thing trying to remember how to be human, you know you can’t bring him back like this.

If the others saw him—if they saw you—it would start a panic.

You shift, gently tapping his cheek. “Phainon.”

A soft noise. His lashes flutter, and then those painfully blue eyes crack open.

Your heart lurches. He blinks up at you, dazed and still half in a dream. You brush a lock of hair from his brow and offer a small smile.

“We need to wash up,” you murmur. “Our clothes. My friends… they can’t see us like this.”

It takes him a moment to process the words. Then he pushes himself upright, moving slowly, like each motion aches.

You rise together.

As you lead him from the clearing, weaving your way through the trees toward the riverbank, he speaks.

“…Friends?”

You glance back. He isn’t frowning exactly. Just curious. His voice is quieter when he adds, “The children. Were they your friends?”

You shake your head. “Not exactly.”

And then, after a beat, you decide to tell him the truth.

“There’s a sanctuary hidden in these woods called Silvarum. I live there now. It’s protected by a veil—an illusion, strong enough to keep out anyone who doesn’t know how to see through it. Aglaea maintains the wards, and I help reinforce them. The children are sons and daughters of other mages who live within the veil.”

Phainon walks in silence for a long while. But he nods.

“You’re safe there,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

You don’t reply. You don’t tell him how hard-won that safety was. How much it cost you to start over.

Not yet.

Eventually, the trees part.

The river glistens under the moonlight—gentle and slow, its surface glassy and undisturbed. The air here smells cleaner as you crouch at the edge of the stream, dipping your hand into the water. Cold, but not biting. Phainon lowers himself beside you, wordless, still watching with those too-blue eyes.

You begin to scrub the dried blood from your skirts, working the stains out in silence. He does the same, awkward at first, like he’s forgotten how. When your fingers brush beneath the water, his breath catches from contact and you wonder—how long has it been since someone touched him gently?

You don’t ask.

You just keep washing. Letting the sound of water and wind and riverstones fill the quiet space between you. As the minutes stretch past, you wring the fabric between your palms, watching pale red bleed into the river.

Beside you, Phainon stills.

Not because he's finished. But because he’s watching you.

You glance up, expecting his usual far-off stare. But this look is something else entirely—quiet, focused, hungry in a way that has nothing to do with blood. His lips are slightly parted, lashes lowered, gaze fixed on the way your wet dress clings to your thighs.

You clear your throat, shifting slightly.

“I think the worst of it’s out,” you say, holding up your skirts. “Still stained, though. I’ll need hyssop to lift the rest.”

He doesn’t answer. His gaze trails higher—past your knees, past your waist, to the exposed skin where your blouse hangs loose from the shoulder he bandaged earlier. You see his throat work, bobbing with uncertainty that makes you think that you should say something. Remind him you’re vulnerable. That he’s still recovering. That this shouldn’t happen, not now, not like this.

But your mouth stays shut.

Because something in the way he’s looking at you—like you’re the only thing in the world that matters—makes your heart skip. And after everything, after all of it, you can’t deny the warmth curling in your belly. The part of you that wants him to keep looking. That missed this. Missed him.

Slowly, Phainon rises to his knees.

Water drips from his fingers, his arms. His shirt clings to his chest in heavy folds, but he doesn’t seem to notice. His focus is entirely on you.

“Can I...?” he asks, voice hoarse.

You blink. “You don’t have to ask.”

“I do,” he murmurs. “If I don’t… I’ll break again.”

Something tugs behind your ribs.

You reach for him, and he comes forward carefully, almost afraid he’ll spook you. His hands hesitate over your thighs before resting there, warm and steady. When he leans in, he presses his face into the soaked fabric just above your knees. His breath trembles with sheer want.

“I dreamed of this,” Phainon whispers. “Not touching you like this. Just… being near. Hearing your voice again. Knowing you’re right there when I reach for you.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Your chest aches.

So instead, you lean down and brush his hair away from his face.

“I’m here now,” you whisper.

Phainon exhales shakily, and then he surges forward, pressing his lips to your inner thigh through the wet fabric. You gasp, body twitching slightly, but he doesn’t pull away. He lingers there with his lips parted, dragging soft, open-mouthed kisses through the thin linen. It’s a quiet devotion, like prayer.

Like worship.

His voice is a low rasp against your skin. “I want to make you feel good. I want to hear you say my name again. Not because you’re afraid of me. Because you want me.”

Your breath catches as you will yourself to nod once.

He doesn’t need more than that.

Phainon shifts forward, parting your legs gently. His movements are unsure at first—hesitant and unpracticed—but the hunger in him is real and raw. His hands settle on your hips to keep you steady as he presses a kiss just where the wet fabric sticks to heat. Then another. And another.

“Lift up for me?” he whispers.

You do.

He slides your soaked underwear down your legs with careful hands. Cold air kisses you before he does. But when his mouth finally finds where you ache for him most, you cry out softly, hips twitching in surprise. He groans against you, like the taste alone is enough to unravel him.

Phainon eats like he’s starving. Like this is the first real thing he’s had in weeks. He takes his time mapping out your sopping cunt with his tongue and lips, listening intently to every breath and stuttered moan. When he finds a spot that makes you buck, he stays there, lips curling into a quiet smile.

You tangle your fingers in his hair. His name slips out—soft and breathless.

And he whimpers.

He grinds against the riverbank, untouched, panting into your skin. But his focus never wavers. Not once. He wants nothing more than this—your voice in his ears, your thighs trembling around him, your taste on his tongue.

“Please,” he murmurs. “Please, please—don’t ever leave me again.”

You don’t answer.

You just cry out again, gasping into the dark.

“Phainon—!”

The name leaves your lips before you can stop it—his name, the one you gave him—and gods, the way he preens at the sound, it’s almost obscene. He presses deeper, tongue curling, drinking every soft cry from your mouth like it’s his birthright. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open, keeping you steady as he feasts on you with endless, eager strokes.

It’s too much. Too good. Too fierce.

You bite your lip hard enough to draw blood, but the pleasure keeps cresting, dragging you higher, tighter, until you’re gasping his name again, broken and breathless.

And when you finally fall apart against his mouth, trembling, one hand gripping his hair, he moans like he’s the one who’s been undone. His pace quickens as you tumble over the edge—shaking, crying out, clutching at his hair as he sets your whole body alight.

But Phainon doesn’t stop.

Even after you shatter into pieces beneath him, he keeps going—licking, tasting, chasing every aftershock with greedy, fervent devotion, as if he needs it to live. As if your pleasure is his only sustenance. And the greedy woman you are, you let him. Because somewhere deep inside, past all the fear and guilt and grief, you’ve always wanted this.

Him.

Your ruin, your hound, your most faithful sin.

And now that he’s found you again, you know there’s no escaping him.

You’re still gasping when he finally lifts his head. His mouth is slick, shining with your essence and utterly drunk on the taste of you. His chest rises and falls in ragged bursts, his breath as uneven as yours, but gods, the look on his face—he’s so proud. Like he’s done something holy.

When you meet his gaze—half-lidded, bliss-drunk, yours—you feel the last of your resolve crumble.

You reach for him.

You don’t know who moves first—maybe it’s both of you—but your mouths crash together in the same heartbeat, a kiss that’s messy and wet and filthy, tasting of everything he just took from you. He groans low in his throat, hands tightening on your thighs, pulling you closer, as if he can’t stand even an inch between you.

His fingers slip between your legs again.

You gasp into his mouth, but he doesn’t stop.

Phainon kisses you harder, swallowing every sound you make as his fingers slide inside—two of them, thick and sure, curling deep with devastating precision. His palm grinds against you, his knuckles pressing right where you’re still too sensitive, and the sheer need in him makes your head spin.

He’s not teasing or toying with you. No, he pumps his fingers in and out of you with frantic, eager strokes, his lips never leaving yours, kissing you like a man possessed.

And gods, it’s too much.

The river murmurs beside you, the air thick with heat and breath and the slick, obscene sound of his fingers working you open. His kiss turns ragged, sloppy, and still he keeps going—moaning into your mouth every time you whimper his name. He shudders at the sound, his pace faltering only to deepen the next thrust, driving you higher, harder.

You feel it rising too fast, too much, but there’s nowhere to run. Not with him holding you this tight, not with his mouth devouring yours, not with his fingers coaxing every broken cry from your throat.

You break apart again with a strangled gasp, shaking as you spill around him, your body trembling under the force of it, but even then, he doesn’t pull away. He kisses you through it—his greedy tongue licking deliciously into yours—and you let him.

Because for the first time in forever, you don’t want to run.

Because you’ve never known anything like this.

Pleasure was always a foreign thing to you—distant, unreachable, a luxury meant for people who weren’t hunted. But here you are, trembling in the aftermath, sprawled over the river’s edge, every nerve still alight with the ghost of his touch. And he’s still watching you.

Phainon stares like he’s never seen anything so beautiful—wide-eyed, lips swollen from kissing you, flushed and dazed and far too pleased with himself. He leans in again, his blue-eyed gaze heavy with a thirst that can never seem to be quenched.

“Don’t,” you rasp, still breathless, your body too limp to push him away properly.

But he only smiles, so soft it almost hurts, and presses his forehead to yours, his nose brushing your cheek as he murmurs—

“Please,” he breathes, like a man praying. “Let me have you again.”

You nearly fall under it—under him again.

But before you can stop him, before you can even think of yielding, the distant sound of children’s voices breaks through the trees.

“Miss! Miss, are you there? Lady Aglaea sent us to look for you!”

The spell shatters, and your heart lurches. Phainon blinks, confused and too drunk on you to react in time. But you don’t think. You just shove at his chest with a panicked gasp, scrambling upright.

It’s instinct—pure, panicked instinct—as the children’s voices ring out through the trees.

Phainon hits the river with a loud splash, going under with a startled noise that bubbles up through the current. The water swallows him whole for a breathless beat, leaving you gasping, flushed and frantic on the riverbank, yanking your robes back into place with trembling hands.

But before you can even begin to gather your wits, his head breaks the surface again—white hair plastered to his face, eyes wide and soaked through, staring up at you in open, startled betrayal.

“Don’t just sit there!” you hiss, half-mortified, half-laughing despite yourself as you lean down to grab his wrist. “Come on, get out!”

For a moment, he stares at you incredulously. As if you aren't the reason he's soaked. But still, he lets you drag him up, water dripping from every inch of him as you haul him toward the rocks. He’s still grinning, of course—still looking at you like you hung the stars—even as he staggers beside you, wet and flushed and utterly unrepentant.

Then just as you both start composing yourselves, there’s a sudden burst of footsteps crashing through the underbrush.

“There you are, Miss!” One of the children skids to a stop at the riverbank, wide-eyed and breathless, followed by another two just behind him. The same kids you stowed into safety earlier. “We’ve been looking everywhere! The stew’s ready—Aglaea said you’d be in trouble if you missed supper again—”

They all stop.

Three pairs of innocent eyes take in the sight before them: you, still flushed and breathless, robes tugged hastily back into place, hair mussed; and Phainon, drenched from head to toe, his soaked shirt clinging to every line of muscle, looking far too smug for a man just pulled from the river.

Silence.

Then—

“Ohhh,” one of the girls says, blinking slowly. “Were you swimming with your friend? I don't think I've seen him before though...”

You want to die.

“Yes,” you blurt, too fast, heat searing up your neck. “We—yes. He, uh, slipped. Into the river.”

Phainon coughs behind you, shoulders shaking with poorly muffled laughter.

“Come along,” you mutter, grabbing his wrist again—this time to drag him after you before the children ask anything else.

You hear one of them whisper behind you as you go, in a voice loud enough to make your ears burn:

“Why does Mister look so happy if he fell in?”

You don’t answer.

But Phainon just smiles, letting you pull him along like the most loyal hound alive—water still dripping in his wake, but his gaze never leaving you.

Still pleased.

Still helplessly, utterly yours.

Far beyond the veil of Silverwood, where moonlight does not reach and the riversong dies into silence, someone watches.

Perched atop a crooked tree branch half-eaten by ivy, a lone hunter sits without so much as rustling a leaf. Her boots dangle carelessly, eyes half-lidded beneath the gleam of brass goggles. Wind stirs the long fabric of her cloak. A gloved hand twirls a coin between two fingers, absent and rhythmic.

Down below, barely visible through the branches, the river glints like a ribbon of glass. Just beyond it: the foreign woman, and the tall man who follows too visibly for his own good. Their robes hang wet, hair disheveled, cheeks flushed. They walk together now, trailing behind a small cluster of children, and still he watches her like she hung the constellations with her bare hands.

“Well,” Cipher murmurs, voice dry as parchment. “That took longer than expected.”

Her coin flicks into the air, catches the light of the high moon, and falls back into her palm without a sound. She closes her fingers around it and lets the silence stretch.

She’s been hunting ghosts for weeks now. Tracing magic signatures too old to follow, footsteps too clever to leave trails. And yet here they are—together again. The princess and the monster. Reunited, tangled in riverwater and stolen glances like they hadn’t nearly torn the coast in half chasing each other across it.

“Interesting,” Cipher says at last, smiling faintly to herself.

Then, in a single fluid motion, she rises. Not onto the branch, but into the air beyond it—walking where there should be no footing at all. Her silhouette wavers, the lines of her form rippling like a reflection disturbed. Step by step, she vanishes—folding into shadow, until even her breath is gone.

“Very interesting, indeed.”

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE

⟢ end notes: part 2 is upon ye!!! also i don't think it's obvious enough but cipher and aglaea are appearing way too often in my fics for characters that i don't even own in-game?! i love my queens ok... also, CONGRATS FOR MAKING IT THIS FAR WOOHOO 🥳 give urself a pat on the back bc WOW that was a lot! not much to note here except: i hope you guys noticed that, in the three scenes written in phainon's pov, he was never referred to by his name in the last two scenes bc the influence of his reaver instincts has more or less taken over his mind at that point. and when he was still the reaver, he was nothing but a weapon without a name. the moment reader called out his name during that altercation in the silverwood forest, it was the first time he fully came to his senses in weeks. poor guy. anyway sawrry for blabbering lol thank you kindly for reading, and for the avid reception of the first chapter!! what if i CRY what would you guys do HUH>?>?!

[rowanhoney]

🥰

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Eleven

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, Christian Horner, Lando being a complete simp.

Notes — Had some fun with some social media graphics in this chapter! Share all of your thoughts/feelings after the chapter, I love to hear your yapping!

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach x

Zak’s eyes were fixed on the monitors. Lando was mid-lap, sector times glowing green across the screen. The tension was high but familiar; the usual adrenaline hum of a qualifying session.

Then, from the corner of his vision, the main feed flickered to a live shot of the Red Bull garage.

And there she was.

Amelia.

She was in what had become her usual seat in the RedBull garage, laptop balanced on her legs, surrounded by telemetry screens and noise and movement; like she belonged there. Like she’d always belonged there.

Zak felt something hitch in his chest, but he pushed it down. He hadn’t seen her in person all weekend. Probably by her design.

Then, she looked up. Not at him. At the camera.

Grimaced. Waved, awkwardly. In a way that was just so Amelia. 

And then she held up a piece of paper.

“AND LANDO NORRIS’ GIRLFRIEND.”

It was on-screen for less than two seconds — just long enough to be undeniable.

Will, still tracking Lando’s data beside him, let out a low whistle. “Oh wow. Brave girl. Didn’t realise they’d made it official.”

Zak blinked at the screen.

The Sky Sports commentators were laughing. The F1 TV commentators sounded between shocked and amused. 

But Zak didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Lando’s car zipped through the final corner. Purple sector. P3 provisional. The garage cheered in his ear. Will was on Lando’s radio, mentioning something about the braking point into Turn 10.

Zak was still staring at the coverage screens.

Because no one had told him.

Not his daughter.

Not Lando.

And she looked… happy. God, she looked happy. Freer than he’d seen her in years.

But there was a tightness in Zak’s jaw now, a hollowness in his chest.

— 

The house was quiet, save for the gentle whir of the fan in the corner and the soft murmur of the F1 broadcast on the TV.

Tracy sat curled up on the sofa, feet tucked under her, a forgotten cup of tea cooling on the side table. She wasn’t one to watch every session, not unless Amelia was involved; which, lately, was more often than not. Still, it surprised her every time. Her little girl, in this world.

Then the camera panned to the Red Bull garage.

Tracy straightened.

There she was.

Amelia, hunched over her laptop, eyes sharp behind her glasses, entirely in her element. The graphic read “Amelia Brown, Engineering Intern.”

Tracy smiled, until she saw Amelia lift a piece of paper with bold, black writing.

“AND LANDO NORRIS’ GIRLFRIEND.”

There was a beat of silence in the room. Then Tracy let out a soft, surprised laugh, full of pride and amusement.

“She never was very good at sharing,” she murmured fondly, shaking her head.

And oh, didn’t she mean that. From toys to her spot on the sofa to the last slice of cake, if Amelia liked something, she claimed it.

Tracy smiled at the screen, at the quiet defiance in her daughter’s posture, the certainty in her eyes. “That’s my girl.”

— 

iMessage — 16:07pm

Max F. BRO WHAT JUST HAPPENED 😭😭

Lando ? what are you on about

Max F. GO TO THE MEDIA PEN RIGHT NOW YOU’VE BEEN HARD LAUNCHED

Lando what what are you yapping about mate

Max F. Amelia. Garage cam. “Engineering Intern” graphic. She held up a sign that said “AND LANDO NORRIS’ GIRLFRIEND” ON. LIVE. TELEVISION.

Lando ??????????????

Max F. BRO I SPAT OUT MY DRINK YOU COULD’VE WARNED ME YOU TWO WERE ACTUALLY TOGETHER I THOUGHT IT WAS JUST FLIRTY VIBES

Lando just saw the clip fucking hell

Max F. mate you’re smiling aren’t you

Lando yeah. a little. a lot. she’s unreal

Max F. unreal is one word for it 💀

Lando she’s so fucking cute Jesus. the handwritten sign? the little smile??

Max F. you’re in it man

Lando obviously.

Max F. she’s got guts. respect. also she might’ve just made F1 history first hard launch via broadcast overlay 💀

—

Subject: Media Broadcast Conduct – Spanish GP

From: media@redbullracing.com To: amelia.brown@redbullracing.com Date: August 18, 2020, 10:24 AM

Hi Amelia,

Hope you're well.

We wanted to quickly flag your appearance during the Spanish GP broadcast a few days ago — specifically the moment where you held up a handwritten sign referring to your relationship with Lando Norris.

While we understand this was done in good humour, we'd appreciate the chance to speak with you about the optics of team affiliations, personal relationships, and privacy within the paddock. As you know, the broadcast reaches a global audience, and we have to be mindful of how moments like this can be perceived externally and internally.

Please let us know when you’re free for a quick chat during the Belgium weekend.

Best regards, Red Bull Racing Media & Communications Team

—

Subject: Re: Media Broadcast Conduct – Spanish GP

From: amelia.brown@redbullracing.com To: media@redbullracing.com CC: adrian.newey@redbullracing.com Date: August 18, 2020, 11:22 AM

Hello,

I’m happy to discuss this further in Belgium, but just to clarify, I do only plan on having one boyfriend, so it’s not likely to happen again.

Regards, Amelia

—

iMessage — 11:24am

Amelia The PR team are being passive aggressive I think.

Lando Norris ??? You okay baby

Amelia Yes. It’s just via email.

Lando Norris Get the social media team on your side. Maybe Instagram?

Amelia I don’t like Instagram.

Lando Norris Give it a go, baby. You’re so pretty. The fans will love it.

Amelia Fine.

—

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landonorris look at my beautiful girl😍 ❤️ by ameliabrown

user9 im going to pass tf out

user62 i am seething with jealous right now

user22 SHES LIVING MY DREAM😫😫😫

user51 YOU ARE A FCKING QUEEN FOR THAT HARD LAUNCH. I WOULD HARD LAUNCH TF OUT OF LANDO NORRIS TOO

user6 my jaw DROPPED. she was nawt willing to hide her man

user18 anyone else concerned abt what redbull had to say abt it??😭😭

user51 @user18 BABY I COULDNT CARE LESS. I LOVE THEM

user7 that’s so real. like imagine lando norris being your bf, working for redbull racing, and your dad is the team boss for mclaren like ???? girl is hooked tf up

user18 @user7 don’t forget abt how much alonso has praised her in the past!!!!

redbullracing our favourite stem girlie!🤩

user93 you are my biggest inspiration! i want to study engineering and work in motorsport and seeing another woman succeed is so inspiring

ameliabrown Thank you.

maxverstappen A very nice front wing!

ameliabrown I agree 👍🏻

user18 how have you never posted on here before?!

ameliabrown I prefer twitter. I am not very good at taking photographs.

user18 agree to disagree. this is such a cute photo dump!

ameliabrown Thank you. I spent 4 hours rearranging the photos.

user7 oh my god. she has charmed me.

—

Amelia checked Twitter for the first time since the Grand Prix.

She hadn’t meant to avoid it; at least not forever. But between debriefs, logistics, travel plans, and Lando hijacking the vast majority of her spare time, social media hadn’t felt like a priority.

Now, curled up in a quiet corner of the hotel lobby with a half-drunk iced coffee and an overheating laptop, she opened the web app.

The notifications were overwhelming. Thousands of likes. Hundreds of retweets. Clips of the broadcast moment; her sitting in the Red Bull garage, holding up that very efficient sign, looping on repeat across fan accounts, meme pages, and even official F1 news outlets.

There were edits (some cute and some... a bit strange). Screenshots. Commentary. Debate.

And, of course, the most viral of the tweets.

She scrolled slowly.

She scrolled for a few more minutes. There was already a hashtag that was being attached to everything regarding them.

Amelia blinked once. Then twice.

“Oh,” she said out loud to absolutely no one. “Guess everyone knows he’s mine now.”

And with that, she closed Twitter, pushed her headphones over her ears, and returned to the CFD simulation.

—

Lando didn’t usually mind being a passenger.

In fact, outside of a race weekend, he liked not driving. Liked leaning his seat back, feet on the dash, sunglasses on, playlist humming. It was a break. A switch-off.

Except for right now. Because right now, he was gripping the door handle like it might save his life.

Amelia, completely calm beside him, was weaving through the hills somewhere outside Montmeló like she was auditioning for WRC. One hand on the wheel, the other tapping against her thigh in time with whatever Spanish radio station she’d insisted they listen to. She was humming, even.

“Amelia,” he said, as politely as humanly possible while his soul tried to climb out of his chest. “Baby. You… do know there’s a speed limit, right?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, eyes on the road. “I’m under it.”

He glanced at the dashboard. She was; just barely. But then again, it wasn’t the speed that was making his stomach lurch. It was the corners. The absolutely unapologetic and fearless way she took them.

“You brake after the turn,” he muttered under his breath, wincing as they zipped past a startled cyclist.

“What?” She frowned, eyes flickering his way. 

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “Just—Jesus, okay, that goat came out of nowhere—”

“You’re being weird,” she said, completely deadpan. She straightened the car again, after having swerved around the stray farm animal. “You’ve gone all stiff. Are you having a panic attack?”

“No,” he said through gritted teeth. He took a deep breath. “Sorry. I just don’t understand how you have a driving license.”

Amelia shrugged. “I passed the test. Same one everyone has to take.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.” 

“I used indicators. I drove under the speed limit. I checked my mirrors. Just drove normally.”

Lando gave a wild, incredulous laugh. “This is you driving normally?”

“Yes.” She said. 

“Amelia,” he exhaled, clutching the door handle again. “I like you. I do. I like you a lot. But I genuinely think you’re going to kill us both.”

She made a face, eyes still locked on the road, though she wanted to glance at him. “You’re being very dramatic about this. You’re a Formula 1 driver.”

“Exactly! I know what dangerous driving looks like. And this is it!”

Amelia rolled her eyes but eased off the gas slightly; for his sake, not because she agreed with his critiques. “Fine. You can drive next time. I don’t really enjoy it anyway. I have to focus on a million different things at once.”

“Baby, from now on I’ll drive us everywhere,” he said, placing a hand over his heart like he was making a vow. “Just get me to dinner alive and I’ll buy you dessert.”

“I was getting dessert anyway,” she replied flatly. “I’ve been wanting to eat chocolate cake all day. With vanilla ice cream.”

He looked at her then, still half-terrified but entirely smitten. That warm, indulgent smile pulled at his mouth. “That sounds good, baby.”

“Yeah,” she said, eyes still forward, nodding a little. “It does.”

— 

Lando drove them back to the hotel. Amelia climbed into the passenger seat with the calm satisfaction of a girl with a belly full of chocolate cake and ice cream. She had her knees pulled up to the seat, leaning into Lando’s side as much as the seatbelt would allow.

His hand drifted to her thigh at the first red light they came across, thumb brushing back and forth, the occasional tight squeeze that made her smile.

“I like you like this. Fed and sleepy,” he murmured, head tilted just slightly toward her.

She made a quiet sound in reply, somewhere between a hum and a sigh, and leaned in closer. “I much prefer when you drive,” she told him. “It’s much more efficient. You don’t flinch at your own braking.”

He laughed. “That’s because I brake like a normal person.”

“You brake like a professional driver,” she corrected. “I’m just a normal driver.”

“Sure, babe. That’s what we’ll tell the insurance company.” He teased. 

She gave him a soft shove. 

“…I was thinking,” she started, slightly hesitantly. “Before we fly to Belgium, I want to go see Fernando. He texted again earlier. He- uh, I told him that I told you about him coming back to the grid next year. He was okay with it. Made fun of me for being a terrible secret keeper.” She flushed slightly.

Lando glanced at her, then back to the road. “He’s in Spain?” He asked. She nodded. Without hesitation, he asked, “you want me to take you?”

She blinked at him. “You’d want to?”

He nodded. “Yeah, baby, of course. I’d like to meet him properly. Not just in the paddock, like… really meet him. He’s important to you, and I mean, he’s Fernando Alonso. I grew up watching him race.”

A pause. Her voice was small but unguarded. “He was the first person who ever took me seriously. Let me have full access to his data, made sure his engineers listened to me. It was nice.”

Lando squeezed her leg. “Then I definitely want to meet him.”

She didn’t say anything else, but she reached across the console and tangled her fingers with his, settling their joined hands on her lap. Lando glanced over, just briefly, and smiled.

“I’m glad I didn’t die on the way to dinner,” he said, teasing.

“I wouldn’t risk killing you,” she replied, all logic and deadpan. “You pay for my food.”

He laughed, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand, eyes still firmly on the road. “Unbelievably romantic. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She smiled. 

— 

Lando hovered just behind her, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, expression caught somewhere between polite interest and mild nerves. He was in Fernando Alonso’s house, after all. Not exactly neutral territory.

“Amelia, mi niña!” came the booming voice from across the space. Fernando appeared, all wide smile and familiar presence that made the hairs on Lando’s arms stand. “Finally! You keep me waiting too long.” The Spanish driver exclaimed. 

Amelia lit up, in that subtle way she did, just the slight lift of her eyebrows and the way she tilted forward a little as he pulled her into a tight hug. “You said Wednesday. It’s Wednesday.”

“So punctual, like a human calendar,” he teased, then pulled back and looked over her shoulder. His dark eyes zeroed in on Lando. “And this must be your boyfriend.”

Lando stepped forward, extending a hand. “Hey. Yeah, I’m Lando. It’s really nice to meet you, man—”

Fernando didn’t take the hand. He just stared for a moment. Then said, “As you know, I will be driving alongside you again next year. And I have taken a year off, so I may be… rusty. I would hate to be involved in any kind of racing accident with you, Norris.”

Lando stared at him. “Right.”

Amelia frowned. “Fernando. He’s been very nice to me.”

Fernando ignored her. “Do you like espresso?”

Lando nodded hesitantly. “I—I mean, yeah.”

“Good. Come. I will show you my sim rig and my data sheets, and then we’ll see if you are worth her time.”

Amelia made a small noise. “That wasn’t part of the plan—”

“Plans are for people without passion!” Fernando called over his shoulder as he marched off toward the far side of the large house. 

Lando shot Amelia a look, equal parts amused and alarmed. “Is he serious?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” she said, already walking after him. “But don’t worry. He only makes people run laps around his karting track when he really doesn’t like them.”

“That’s… not actually reassuring!” Lando exclaimed. 

She glanced over her shoulder at him and shrugged. “You’ll be fine. He offered you espresso.”

—

The jet hummed. Amelia was curled sideways in one of the oversized brown leather seats, legs tucked under her, iPad balanced on her knees. Charles sat across from her, nodding along with increasing confusion as Amelia spoke at a pace that could only be described as alarming. She was scrolling through graphs like a woman possessed, pointing at coloured lines and spiking data curves with growing excitement.

“—and then, if you look at the delta between laps fourteen and twenty-two, there’s a consistent 0.04 offset in throttle trace on exit, which shouldn’t happen unless you’re compensating for aero loss, probably from floor damage, but the thing is, the slip ratio here doesn’t match the expected degradation arc, so I think your downforce coefficient might’ve been slightly off due to a micro-blister pattern. See? Look… here.”

She spun the laptop toward him, tapping the screen.

Charles blinked. He followed her finger. He saw… a line. Maybe two. Some colours. Lots of numbers.

He was usually pretty good at reading his own data, enough to hold a solid conversation with his race engineer during debriefing. But clearly, Amelia operated on an entirely different level. Her brain didn’t just read the telemetry; it devoured it, translated it, turned it into a second language he was definitely not fluent in.

“…Oui,” he said eventually, smile tight and unsure. “Yes. That’s… very interesting.”

She beamed, clearly thrilled that he understood.

He did not.

Not even a little bit.

Across the aisle, Max leaned his head back with an amused exhale. “Amelia, let Charles sleep before his brain combusts.”

She turned, brows furrowed in confusion. “He asked about his Sector 2 drop-off in FP3. I can’t tell him how to fix it, but I can explain what he did wrong.”

“A lot, apparently,” Charles muttered, rubbing his temples.

Max smirked at him, and then turned back to her. “Come talk to me instead. I know you’ve got a list of critiques to walk me through.”

Amelia perked up, snapping her laptop closed. “Oh, yes. I’ve been meaning to ask you about that late-braking overtake attempt into Turn 8 at Silverstone. You lost at least 0.2 from the correction alone. Also, your throttle mapping in low-speed corners is still slightly erratic, less so than last year, but it could be cleaner.”

Max nodded at her indulgently. “Very helpful. And from Spain?”

Amelia hopped up from her seat and moved to the one next to Max, angling her iPad toward him. 

Charles turned slowly to Lando, who was sprawled out, watching the whole exchange with a cheesy grin. His eyes were warm and utterly enamoured. 

“…Is she like that all of the time?” Charles asked. 

Lando nodded. “Yeah. Isn’t she great? Like a walking Google search engine.”

Charles just took a deep breath. “She frightens me a little.”

Lando nodded. “Me too.”

Amelia, oblivious to their conversation, was already pulling up a new graph on her screen and gesturing wildly at something. Max was squinting at the scene and nodding. 

The jet hummed steadily beneath them. Outside, clouds drifted lazily past. Inside, amid banter and baffled glances, was something warm. Familiar.

Lando leaned his head back, smiling softly, gaze remaining on her. 

He didn’t think he’d ever get tired of watching her. 

—

The paddock was still settling. Trucks being unloaded, media crews trailing cables, mechanics in Red Bull polos jogging back and forth with crates of components. Amelia was in the hospitality suite, sitting between Max and Jos at a back table, just going over some Spa telemetry from last year, when her phone rang.

Unknown number.

She hesitated. She hated answering the phone. She exchanged a look with Max, who gave her an encouraging nod, and then answered.

“Hello?” She cringed at the pitch of her voice. 

A clipped voice responded. “Miss Brown. This is Laura Marchand with the FIA’s Competitive Integrity Division. I need to inform you that we’ve received a formal inquiry regarding your involvement with cross-team data access. We’re conducting a preliminary review. You’ve been named directly.”

Amelia’s brain blanked. “What? What are you talking about—”

“This isn’t a disciplinary action, but I’m obligated to inform you that the inquiry has been escalated internally.”

Click.

Silence.

Amelia slowly lowered the phone.

Jos didn’t speak, but Max immediately caught her expression. “Who was that?”

“Somebody named Laura… she— she works for the FIA.” Her voice came out small. “Someone filed a report about me. A— sporting integrity, data.” She was fumbling with her words. Her hands were shaking. “They said it’s been escalated.”

Max’s jaw locked. Jos leaned forward, eyes narrowed into sharp slits.

“Who would do that?” Max asked sharply. “That’s—bullshit.”

Jos didn’t ask who. He already knew.

He gave Amelia a steady, quiet look. “Did Christian try to talk to you about this kind of thing? Insinuate this being a concern of his?”

She nodded once, tight.

Max swore under his breath, hands flexing on the table.

Jos sat back for a moment, thinking. Then, without raising his voice, he said, “You need to go.”

Amelia blinked. “Go?”

“To get your father,” Jos said. “And Norris.”

Her eyes widened and panic thickened her throat. “Why? What does my dad have to do with—?”

“Amelia.” Jos’s tone was gentle, but absolute. “Listen to me, yes? Go and get them. Bring them back here.”

She hesitated. Her stomach was clenched.

“Why?” she asked again, quieter, more nervous. 

Jos didn’t smile, but his voice softened. “Because we’re going to work this out. Together.”

Max stood. “I’ll stay here with my dad. Go, Amelia.”

Amelia didn’t move for a second. Then she stood, slowly, shakily, and walked out the back of the hospitality unit, her feet carrying her in an all too familiar direction.

The calm before the storm had passed.

Now the clouds were rolling in.

NEXT CHAPTER

[grimmsbride]

⠀⠀⠀ ▒ ❀ ̭͡⠀ ❛ Promises, promises. Johnny Storm

summary. out of desperation you make a deal with the literal fiery devil. let’s see if you can keep up your end of the bargain.

tags. johnny storm is ooc (based off my interpretation of him in the game & little things i remember from the movies). reader is a healer. mentions of usual game mechanics. not proofread. smut. porn with little plot. face seating. oral sex (fem. recieving). reader is chubby/curvy & black girl coded (all are free to read ofc). attempts dirty talk. like one pet name. overstimulation. multiple orgasms. entire plot is inspired by that one luna snow & human torch comic by; CEO OF MILFS on twitter.

author’s note. trying to get back into tumblr writing with marvel rivals, i’m sorry for being so mia everyone. i hope you enjoy and as always please excuse any typos or grammar mistakes.

I’m tired.. The statement was simple running through your mind, jogging closely behind a salivating Venom and your other teammates. Being a hero was a daunting job, one you didn’t regret— but daunting nonetheless. And having to use your abilities to heal wounds was even harder; the concentration that went into it— nevermind the fact some people were just so demanding at times.

A heavy sigh escaped you, hands caressing the air to heal Venom, hearing his tongue-filled thank you shortly after. The time was ticking, only about a minute and thirty seconds left, with zero progress to the last objective. Your teammates were dropping like flies and it seemed like they took even longer to come back from recovering.

Between the match looking quite bleak and the tiredness running through your body, you wanted nothing more but to find a corner and hide; awaiting that familiar feminine voice to tell you, the team had lost.

Caught up in your thoughts, you jumped in surprise the moment something slammed into the wall beside you; concrete crumbling from the impact. You spun around, gasping as a familiar silhouette came into view.

“Johnny!” His name escaped your lips urgently, rushing over and stepping carefully over the debris. Your eyes scanned his body, noting the fact his skin was back to normal as he laid amongst the rubble. A hiss escaped, lowering to your knees and gently scooping the man closer.

You couldn’t deny the level of affection you held for the infamous Human Torch. Despite his frat boyish and overly flirty ways, you knew there was a good heart underneath all that flame.

Not that you would ever admit it anyway.

“I got you, Johnny.” You mummured, hand rising right above him and healing him, the pink glow covering his body like a comforting blanket. You watched happily as his eyebrows undid from his pained crease, watching his own gaze focus on your face.

A boyish grin crossed his features, “Hey, thanks…” He spoke, albeit strained. Though soon he coughed, a hand rising to cover his lips. “I—I think you missed a spot with your healing.

Your eyebrows pressed close, eyes scanning up and down his body for a moment. “Where?”

Like the overgrown child he was, Johnny pointed right to his lips, even making an effort to pucker them in your direction. You gave a loud groan, basically tossing him off you and back into the rubble where pained laughter escaped him.

“Be serious for once, we’re about to lose.” You huffed, slowly dragging your body to standing whilst patting your bodysuit free of rocks and debris. You glanced down at your watch spotting the fact you had forty seconds left. Forty, and your teammates progress wasn’t far at all.

You gritted your teeth, glancing down at Johnny who seemed all too comfy on a bed of rocks.

“Johnny— come on! We have to help the others.”

Johnny gave an unenthused expression, tucking his hands behind his head. “Let the time run out, we can’t do much like this anyway.”

You crossed your arms, struggling not to strangle him right then and there. “I thought the Fantastic Four always fought to the end. I wonder what Reed would think of this..”

The threat went unnoticed, Johnny seemingly tuning you out. Now with only twenty seconds left, it seemed the anxiety began to stir within you, debating on whether to leave him behind and go back to your team.

It would be best, even without some extra firepower you going back to healing would help expeditiously.

Still..

With nothing left to lose, and clenched fists, you stared down at the man with a serious expression. One he caught quickly.

“Wha—“

“If you get up right now, help, and we somehow win this; I’ll sit on your face for however long you want.”

All was silent for a moment, Johnny slowly removing his hands from behind his head, staring at you with an unreadable expression. Suddenly, the air around you was getting hot— way too hot.

A loud flame on! thundered from Johnny’s throat, skin coated in flame as he blasted from the debris and back to the fighting area. You didn’t actually expect that to work, at all. You expected some laughter and him continuing to ride the time out. Not the sudden burst of energy.

But you couldn’t complain.

You chased close behind, hands rising to heal your teammates as they came into view. Sweat trickled down your body, eyes flickering between the time and the objective. It was reaching overtime, it growing closer and closer— more stressful as the seconds passed.

Your team was pushing though, whether with the extra fire or not you couldn’t tell— nor was it a main concern right now. You just needed to keep healing, even when your eyes grew blurry and body ached; you had to keep healing.

Flame began to consume your opponents, their numbers dwindling as you pushed and pushed, the seconds draining but oh so fulfilling.

Finally you made it , the objective clearing as a triumphant you win! echoed around you.

As this reality set you couldn’t help but smile, feeling your body relax slowly. Only to tense the moment you remembered.

You made a promise. And unfortunately for you. Johnny didn’t seem like the type to forget those so easily.

. . .

You dragged the towel along your body, drying your skin completely whilst standing in the middle of your bedroom. After the match you made your way quickly to your quarters, far too excited to wash off the sweat and grime that accumulated from the battle. The water was way too soothing, you nearly extending your shower but not wishing for your skin to get pruny.

With a heavy sigh you placed your towel off to the side, sliding on some panties first before going for your night gown; a pale pink cami style night gown that hung at your ankles, silky and soft against your fresh skin.

You lowered to your bed, legs crossed as you slid some shea butter along them. Focused on smoothing the lotion evenly, you jumped the moment someone knocked on your door, eyebrows creasing in slight concern.

It was getting late, and you weren’t exactly prepared for guests nor were you in the mood to hold any ounce of conversation.

But with another knock you were rising, lips curling into a grimace as you waltzed over to the door in lazy strides. Soon enough you were infront of it, fingers locking around the knob as you turned and pulled, opening the door to reveal the one and only Johnny Storm.

He was dressed in a simple pair of sweatpants and a black tshirt, hair tousled yet still neat enough. Johnny’s gaze traced your attire, smiling to himself.

“Nice gown.”

You rolled your eyes, arms crossing. “What do you want, Johnny? I wanna some sleep after today.”

The man wore a disgruntled expression and despite your best efforts — which really weren’t any — he crept into your room, busying himself with picking up some random knick knack upon your vanity.

“So soon? What about your promise?”

You rose a single eyebrow, trying to make sense of what he said. Silently you stood, arms crossed and staring straight ahead in thought— Johnny waiting ever so patiently, his own gaze settled on your form.

Finally it hit you, like a train, all at once— the stupid promise you made in the heat of battle.

You began to sputter, instinctively shutting the door behind you in fear of what someone might hear;

“Ar—are you seriously going to hold me to that? For what I said in the heat of the moment— that wasn’t a pun.” You added quickly the moment you noticed that damned smirk creep onto his face.

Johnny placed your random item off to the side, shrugging a little as he took you in.

“I mean.. you sounded pretty serious back there..” He hummed, eyes rising from you up to the ceiling. “And I did..” The man stretched the word to really get his point across;

“Hold up my end of the bargain.” Again, Johnny shrugged as if it was no big deal, clearly enjoying the way you squirmed.

“So how about it [Name]? Looking to keep your promise?”

You couldn’t handle the way he was staring at you, your gaze quickly looking at anything but him. From your vanity to your ceiling, your eyes danced about as if the answer was written plainly in the air. You expected to be in bed by now, cuddled up under blankets and sleeping away the stress of the day.

Not being propositioned for a statement you said randomly without a single thought.

As your eyes flicked back to the man, you noticed how he stood patiently— for once. Fully waiting for your reply. Maybe even a hint of excitement resting in his eyes.

Your teeth dragged across the inside of your cheek, rising a single hand and pointing towards your bed.

“Lay down..” You tried to sound much more confident than you were letting on, but you were sure your voice wavered with each word. Though it didn’t seem to faze the man, as Johnny was more than ready to abide your command; basically running over to the bed and dropping to his back— bouncing a little from the impact.

You took in a sharp breath, bending as your hands ran across your thighs for a moment, under your dress, and hooking onto your panties. All under his watchful gaze you slid them down, the fabric bundling before landing against your floor.

Stepping out of them, you glanced up spotting the excited smile practically glued to his face. Slowly you stepped closer, approaching your bed and going knee first onto the comfy blankets. Carefully you crawled up and over him, soon standing right over his torso, collecting your night gown in both hands.

Johnny stared up at you, hands going to glide across your exposed legs, awaiting your next move.

You clenched your dress, lips pursing as you spoke, “Do you even know what you’re doing?”

“Sit and find out.”

Johnny spoke far too quickly, voice devoid of his usual playfulness. You couldn’t deny his words sent a shiver down to the right places, your anxiety simply churning even more.

But, you couldn’t turn back now. Or rather, you didn’t want to. So with a careful step, you inched until you were directly standing right above his head, slowly bending your knees.

Just when you were an inch above his face, strong arms suddenly locked around your waist, quickly pulling you down the rest of the way. You couldn’t help but gasp, face flushed with warmth the moment you felt his gentle breathing right against your center.

“I—I’m not too heavy…right?”

You jumped the moment his annoyed grunt tickled against you, deciding it may be best to shut up right then and there instead of focusing on such trivial things. Rather you began to focus on his lips, and how they gently pressed against you.

Your own parted as the softest oh escaped. The feeling foreign but not at all unwanted. Your eyes fluttered closed, breathing softly as the gentle ministrations continued, Johnny purposely warming you up, slowly.

And when it seemed like you would get enough of just his lips, his tongue poked through, prodding at your lips before sliding them open with a slow lick.

You shook, clenching your night gown tight as those licks continued. His tongue was thick and long, slithering from your entrance right to your clit; paying special attention to that little bud. You were growing hot, eyebrows creasing closer as the pleasure grew. You weren’t experienced in this sort of thing; no one has ever gifted you the pleasure of cunninglingus, yet here you were; with a fellow hero nonetheless.

Your coworker, really, one whose tongue was doing wonders.

“Johnny..” His name fell from your lips in a soft moan, it etching into a groan the moment you felt a hand of his move towards your ass, a warm palm gripping a handful. There, Johnny’s rhythm sped up, his tongue twirling, creating a sloppy mess of your cunt.

Filthy sounds echoed from between your legs, a combination of your pussy and the downright sexy groans that the man was humming right into you. His fingers gripped your skin tightly, assuring you didn’t move an inch as he kept up his treatment.

Your legs began to shake, his hair tickling your thighs as your stomach tightened. A hand released your nightgown to instead grip your headboard, even leaning forward to rest your forehead against the cool wood. The pleasure was clouding your mind, hips slowly moving; grinding right down on his face— without a care if he could breathe anymore.

Johnny’s enjoyment was clear in the way his tongue went flat, gifting you a perfect surface to ride upon. The man was in pure heaven, having such a pretty thing right on his face, unable to move unless he says so. And albeit muffled because of your thick thighs, your moans were the perfectly melody to his already splendid front row seats.

The Human Torch wondered how loud he could get you with just his mouth. Maybe enough that someone bangs on the wall, begging for some peace within the night. Johnny couldn’t help but grin to himself, lips slowly circling your swollen bud, sucking eagerly.

“Fu—fuck…Johnny, Joh—johnny please!”

That’s it.. The man thought to himself, far too happy. He wish he could speak properly, muttering sweet praises and teases; wishing to mock you for being so loud yet encourage it in the safe breath. For now though, Johnny settled on humming along to your moans; the action causing the sweetest vibration.

Your hips increased in ferocity, chasing that high as the band within your stomach continued to tighten. Your eyes were going hazy, struggling to keep your voice at bay. It seemed your night gown went completely forgot, pushed up on your waist whilst your free hand went for his hair, tugging at the perfect locks; feeling the man grunt in response.

The harshest moan escaped you, hips grinding to a stop as you came; a sticky mess painting his face. Your chest rose and fell, heavy breaths escaping as your eyes shut close in an effort to relax.

Which, proved useless the moment you realized Johnny hadn’t stopped. At all. Not for a second. His tongue remained on your cunt, licking you clean of your orgasm and then some.

The pleasure bordered on torture now, quickly turning into overstimulation that had you babbling for mercy;

“J—johnny..! Ple..please I need a break..!—“ You reached for his forehead, pushing weakly at the space. The man didn’t move an inch, him even making an effort to snake a tight arm around your leg so you didn’t move off him.

Tears sprung to your eyes, using the headboard to steady yourself as tremors ran through your body. You could only sit there, paying the price for your poor choice of words in sobs and moans, the tears now streaming right down your warm cheeks.

Johnny was somehow able to peek at you, something he instantly regretted the moment he saw your features. So beautiful, face flushed, eyes glossy, and with the tiniest pout. He felt himself getting harder right in his boxers, struggling not to use a hand to stroke against the growing bulge. But the man knew if given the opportunity you would probably jump right off, so instead he settled on moving his hips uselessly in the air— hoping the friction would relieve even an ounce of tension.

“So fucking wet…I might drown.” Johnny managed to say right into your pussy, a loopy chuckle escaping him; as if drunk off your taste. But with the way his eyes were rolling back, he just might be.

“Jo..johnny, Johnny, please..”

“Fu..fuck..” The man muttered, sucking you up with such vigor as if his jaw was made of metal. “Keep.. saying my name, baby. Let me hear you.”

You obeyed his request easily, his name falling from your lips in a desperate mantra. With each call it pitched, your eyes going blurrier— possibly even rolling to the back of your skull. That familiar feeling broached your stomach, only harsher than before; a feeling that nearly scared you if it wasn’t for the pleasure that quickly washed over.

With shaky legs you were riding his face, your own a complete mess with tears, pressed against the cool wood of your headboard. Your eyes pinched closed, broken gasps and heavy moans escaping you— voice going raw the moment it all came crashing down.

Heavier than before, surely soaking Johnny completely with your mess. You struggled to breathe, eyes pinched closed as the hold on his hair and your headboard loosened.

You whined the moment you felt movement, worrying he would pick back up but pleasantly surprised to feel the man gently pushing you down to rest on his chest, hearing a sharp breath escape him.

Your head went slack, eyes opening to land on his face. Johnny was a mess, skin coated with your arousal and his saliva, marking up his lips and cheeks. Along with that, he was a little red, hair even messier than before.

Yet he still grinned easily, gliding his hands up and down your thighs, soothing you a little.

“See? I knew you could do it.”

You rolled your eyes slowly, shifting a little and moving in an attempt to crawl off. Yet you didn’t move an inch as his arms tightened, refusing to let you go.

You caught his gaze, Johnny chuckling softly at the look of confusion painting your features. His hand rose, thumb curling to your waist.

“You said for as long as I like..”

“John—“

The man gave a playful pout, head tilting up at you.

“You wanna keep your promise.. don’t you?”

[written-and-readen]

you know what. time for me to be a whore (3.1 spoilers)

thinking of non-relationship reader coming over to anaxa's new temporary place in okhema to drop off some stuff only to hear strange noises. they move to check it out before cerces shows up and is like "i wouldn't do that if i were you. anaxagoras is simply... preoccupied."

but reader is still a dumbass and wants to check on him (cerces tried, alright) only to walk in on him "relieving some stress" from everything that's happened.

...ofc maybe a talk about respecting privacy and boundaries is in order later but ooh boy

Knock Before You Enter

Anaxa x reader

Summary: You go to visit Anaxa after the incident at the Grove of Epiphany and accidentally interrupt him while he’s busy.

Warnings: nsfw (18+), male masturbation

a/n: The way my jaw DROPPED while reading this

You readjust the box of scrolls in your hand as you climb the stairs to where Anaxa's supposed to be staying. Aglaea had directed you to a house at the edge of Okhema, one further from the city's noise, after giving a brief rundown of what had happened. You're sure the professor would be irked that you'd had to speak even a word to Aglaea, but that's something that could be omitted easily enough without raising suspicion. Honestly, you're just relieved he's alive. Hopefully, seeing how you'd salvaged some of the Grove's resources would lift his mood a little.

As you approach the door, you hear something coming from the other side. It sounds like heavy breathing. You set your box down next to the door to check it out, but before you can lean your ear closer, a voice speaks from behind you.

"I suggest not going in there." You jump and turn to face a woman with branches entwined in her long hair and a faint golden glow surrounding her.

"You're Cerces, aren't you?" You ask in awe, and she nods in reply. As amazing as it is to finally see the Titan of Reason in person, you have to curb your excitement for now. "I didn't know you could separate from Anaxa. Is he in there?"

"He's a little preoccupied right now. I do not wish to be around him, and I'm certain he feels the same." That tracks. Anaxa wasn't really known for his agreeable personality, especially concerning the Titans.

"You too should probably not interrupt him," Cerces advises.

"We're friends though. I want to make sure he's alright." Anaxa may dislike the Titans, but you're no Titan. Before the incident at the Grove, you’d drop by his office when possible. Although he often scolded you for interrupting his work, especially when you didn't knock, he’d let you keep him company. You're sure he wouldn't mind a visitor, and you made a promise to yourself to keep it short so he could get some rest.

You push open the door, and your hand hasn't even left the doorknob before you see Anaxa. His eye meets yours, slightly hazy compared to their usual sharpness, and his turquoise hair has strands falling in front of his face. His jacket is draped over the back of the chair he's sitting in, exposing his shoulders and making their rise and fall clearer as he breathes heavily, mouth slightly agape.

His right hand, unadorned by his rings, is wrapped around his leaking cock. You hadn’t noticed how long his fingers were until you now saw them curled so prettily around its length. That's the best word you can come up with in the moment: pretty. He looks so pretty like this—

In an instant, you pull the door shut again. You’ve never seen the Sage so….uncomposed, and it has you losing your composure as well. Your heart has gone from normal to max speed, your cheeks are aflame, and for the life of you, you cannot forget the image you just witnessed. Anaxa's recurring reminders of how you should knock before entering ring in your head before Cerces' voice breaks through them.

"I did warn you, didn't I?"

[egomiso]

hi 😀 can i get rin w/ a reader who gets overstimulated easily 🙊

hi pookie, ofc i gotchu LOL

you thought staying over at Rin's place for a sleepover was going to be the usual, watching movies until you fall asleep. you never expected it to take such a turn... but sometimes a wrong turn is needed.

chara: rin itoshi x f!reader warning: nsfw content: overstimulation, unprotected s*x, praise, established relationship +20 charas, bimbo/naive mc, virginity loss

The night had a chill in the air, with the moon glowing in the dark sky. Funnily enough, it felt almost cozy, as your feet stepped upon dry leaves, causing a crunching sound.

You climbed up the driveway, your grip on a pink bear plushie tightening as the weight of your bag dragged you down. Perhaps you packed a little too heavy tonight, but anytime you packed for any overnight trip, you always forget at least one thing. Better safe than sorry, right? Knowing you... you probably still left something at home.

Just as you were about to ring the doorbell, your feet caught the crevice of the path. Tripping over it, the momentum sent you forward, making you topple over.

As if Rin Itoshi could sense the danger, he opened the door, wide eyed in concern.

You were sprawled on your knees to the ground, blinking in confusion for a moment. The prickling of pain on your knees stung, despite you having worn pants. Rin sprung into action instantly, rushing to your side and picking you up, bridal style.

With him suddenly so close to you, you had grown flustered, cheeks warming at the feeling of hands curled on your torso and legs. His beautiful, attractive face was so close. Dark bangs swayed across his forehead majestically, right above the teal of his eyes, to the long lashes that radiated from them. All of it... all of him was pretty.

"You can be such a fool, [Name]."

"Y-You don't have to carry me. I can walk."

His grasp on you only tightened as he shook his head silently, bringing you inside of his abode. The interior was the same as the last time you came by, very neat and modern. He went down the narrow hallway and into the living room to set you down on the couch. Despite your protests, he ignored you as he took care of you, placing your bag to the side and taking your shoes off to set them near the door.

When he returned, he had a first aid kit in his hand. It seemed he washed them as well from the way the sleeves of his sweater were rolled up.

"You don't have to do all this," you tried again. "I can take care of myself."

"Oh really." His eyes shot up to you, narrowing sternly. You froze, grinning sheepishly. "The moment I opened the door expecting to see my girlfriend, I instead see her toppling over like some sad puppet."

"I'm sorry..."

He sighed, scratching at his head. "Don't be sorry. You just make me worry. So the least you can do is let me treat you."

"Y-Yes sir!" You saluted him and he finally cracked a smile, turning away to try and hide it.

"Dummy."

Rin rolled the lengths of your pants up to expose the skins of your legs. There were minor cuts and bruises lined up along your knees, but overall, it wasn't the worst thing ever. But for fear of getting scolded by Rin again, you kept your mouth shut as he did his work. With an alcohol wipe, he cleaned at it expertly. The pain stung bad at the contact of it, your eyes tearing up and your mouth trembling. Quite the low pain tolerance you had.

It didn't go unnoticed. Your boyfriend swiped at your tears smoothly. "It's okay... It's almost done. You're doing good."

You nodded, clenching at your bear.

Then he went on to bandaging you up. His fingers moved expertly to apply the ointment gently, careful to cause you no further pain. Rather than pain, the touch of it sent tingles along that area, spreading slowly down your limbs. You liked his touch, the warmth of it, as if Rin Itoshi was the armor of your protection.

Eventually, he bandaged you up, the skin contact less frequent, leaving you... disappointed? You furrowed your brows at your thoughts.

"What's wrong?" Rin Itoshi saw your expression.

"I..." You couldn't seem to voice it, embarassment sinking into your system. "Nevermind."

"No, say it," he said bluntly, his inability to let anything go coming back tenfold.

"I don't know! I just... liked the feeling of your fingers. I like your touch, okay?" you blurted, unable to keep secret of anything when it came to Rin Itoshi.

He was quiet for a moment and you were afraid you had scared him off. But when you grew the courage to look at him again, his face was not what you imagined. Cheeks flushed in red, his arm was covering his face as his eyes narrowed to the ground. You had never seen him so flustered. The temptation to snap a photo of him in such a state was blooming, but you controlled yourself, knowing he would only kill you.

"You shouldn't have said that," he muttered. Finally, he moved towards you, his hand placed against your thigh.

"Oh!" His touch sent more tingles, the feeling of it even better than before.

You were pushed deeper into the couch as his face grew closer, the turquoise of his eyes darkening. "Can I kiss you?" he whispered, his gaze taking in the soft plumps of your lips. You were so innocent, so light, so soft, so pure -- how could he dare to ruin you? He had held back for so long, to be the boyfriend you needed and not act on such carnal desires, but when you said those words, something vile in him had flourished.

"O-Of course."

He kissed you with fervor, taking you by surprise. Other times you had kissed him, it was gentle and sweet. He had kissed you like you were a fragile doll, making sure to allow you time to breathe. This time... it was different.

His tongue slipped into your mouth, sliding along yours to taste you. Lips pressed against one another in rough fashion, the heat of his body stemming from him. You held the back his head, running through soft strands of hair, becoming one with the boy named Rin Itoshi. His hands rubbed at your thighs, the feeling of it causing you to quiver. To your surprise, you liked it. You liked it a lot.

He broke the kiss, staring at you for a moment, still kneeling between your legs.

"Is something the matter? Do you want to watch The Shining now? You've been looking forward to it all week."

Rin shook his head. "I want to try something new today."

"A new movie?"

"Not a movie. I... want to make love with you."

"Make love..." you trailed off, unable to process the phrase for a moment. Your jaw nearly dropped to the floor when you finally understood. "Y-You mean... like s-sex?"

"Yes," he said, growing red once more. He kissed your hand. "If you are not ready, we don't have to though. I will always wait for you."

You looked at your beautiful Rin, kneeling there in front of you, with genuine love despite the cold exterior he always donned with others. You knew your boyfriend would never intentionally hurt you and only uplift you instead. He had been nothing but the best, looking out for you no matter where you were. You trusted him a lot... and you loved him a lot.

So making love was something you were okay to try, if it was with him.

If you loved him this much already, you could only imagine how much deeper you'd fall tonight.

For Rin. Only if it was Rin Itoshi, your beautiful star that shined so bright.

"I can try," you told him, covering your face with the plushie. "I'm... embarrassed though. I don't know where to start."

The plushie was ripped away from your grip as he stood there, eyes glowing in love and adoration. A hand landed on the top of your head, ruffling the masses of your [h/c] hair. "You do not need to be embarrassed. We can go slow, okay?"

You nodded in agreement.

He started to undress you, peeling your sweats off to leave you in your panties. You followed his lead, also undressing him, eyes looking elsewhere as you grew unconscious.

"You're so fucking beautiful... [Name], look at me." His voice was stern, but laced with a warmth that you could only tell. So you did as told, taking him in from the strong, lean build he grew from soccer, to the muscles on his abdomen, and then finally to the large outline on his boxers. Oh god, it was looking at you! You couldn't seem to take your eyes off of it, feeling nervous but intrigued.

He pulled your arms from the self-conscious hug you gave yourself.

"Do not hide yourself from me. I want to see all of you."

You gulped and nodded. "Okay."

"Do you want to touch it? You keep looking at it."

You flinched, caught like a deer in headlights. "Oh, um..."

He pulled his boxers off, revealing his large penis that was clearly already hard. For some reason, looking at it made you feel tingly from down under. Rin guided your hand to it, so you grabbed onto it. It was warm and it was veiny under your fingers. Immediately, he reacted at the touch. Curious, you started rubbing at it, to receive faces of Rin you had never seen before. Wide eyed and tongue out from slightly panting, he gripped the side of your face in return.

From his harsh breaths to the soft moans he let out, it was incredibly fascinating. You... wanted to see more.

"Wait." He stopped you. "It's my turn."

He pushed you to the couch and the two of you tumbled against the cushion, his form towering above you. Legs tangled along one another, naked and all, and you had never felt so close to him. His body heat clouded your head, intoxicating you under a spell. Slowly, his finger crept into your panties, sliding through the folds of your pussy. The feeling of it was foreign, so you tensed up.

As he kept stroking at your vagina with his fingers, it started to feel good. The focus he reserved for the field was presenting itself here on his face, the furrow of his brow lowered in concentration. It was hot. And so, so, so good. "Mmph!" you released a shuddering moan. Horrified by the sound you made, you covered your mouth.

Rin Itoshi took your hand off in return, watching you patiently. "Let it all out. I want to hear you when you feel good."

As he sped up his fingers and plunged them deeper, your body began to shake, your nails clutching at his back. "Ahh... too much... too good. Rin. Rin!"

"You're doing great," he said, giving you a kiss on the forehead.

Your pussy was growing wet, dripping past the cloth of your underwear. The heat was overbearing, the throb of your vagina loud in your ears. So much was happening at once, your head reeling to catch up to process everything.

"Rin! I can't...!" you mewed, limbs shaking and trembling at the high from the feeling of his fingers stuck in your pussy. When he finally pulled them out, you stared at the white substance that coated his fingers. White substance that came from your body. "What is wrong with me?"

"Hey." His sharp voice interrupted your flurry of doubts. He grabbed your chin, forcing you to look him in the eye. "There is nothing wrong with your body. This is normal and a human body's miracle. You are my blessing, [Name], do you understand?"

You nodded. "Okay."

"Did you feel good?"

"Yes..."

"Then that is all that matters."

"Did... you feel good too?"

"Of course. Do you want to feel good together?"

"Yes. I want to feel good with you."

He blinked at you for a moment, surprised. He ruffled your hair, a soft smile adorning his beautiful lips. "I forget how fucking cute you are sometimes."

To see him shower you with this much love and affection, your heart could only swell even bigger for him. Your sweet, blunt Rin Itoshi. Your talented soccer player, who just needed love the most when the world betrayed him. He was yours as you were his. For him to feel good from your touch, this was the most vulnerable kind of love you could give. So sharing the loss of your virginity with him was undoubtedly the easiest choice you could make.

He held his member up and slowly brushed up against your vagina, making you quiver. "Let me know if it hurts. But follow my lead.”

He spread your legs out and gave you a quick kiss. His dick inserted into the chambers of your vagina, the walls of it closing around it. Your legs trembled, your mouth hanging lopsided. His penis was much larger than two of his fingers, the weight and girth of it enough to set you on fire. It felt so good, but painful... until it wasn't.

Was it because you were comfortable with Rin that it wasn't as painful as you expected?

"Rin! It doesn't hurt," you said, cheesing up at him.

He brushed a strand from your check. "Good. Because this is where the fun starts."

His cock started to ram into you, and it dug into your core. You could feel it, throbbing in there, sucking you whole. You howled at the motion, not because of pain, but how aroused it left you. "Rin! Wait..." You were arching your back, toes curling as he pounded into your vagina, deeper and deeper and deeper. "S-So good."

He groaned slightly, his grip on your shoulders firm. "Good girl... tell me... where it feels good."

You couldn't stop shaking, your mind muddled in euphoria and lust combined. "I... can't..."

"[Name]."

"I-It's too much."

"Do you want to go slower?"

"...No."

A smirk crossed his face, so cocky and arrogant, like the true star he was. "That's my [Name]. Now tell me where it feels good."

"There! R-Right there."

He shoved his dick deeper at the spot you mentioned, accurately hitting the shots like the way he did in soccer. Your eyes lulled back as you panted heavily, overwhelmed but also feeling so much pleasure from this new type of love. It was a double-edged sword, but it was so worth it, seeing your boyfriend enjoy you. If it was for him, you'd do anything.

"Shit," he groaned, his member assaulting your cunt left and right, in every direction. He kept it going, tireless and nonstop, due to the stamina he built up from years of his sport. It felt so good, his dick pulsing alongside your twat, a mixture of warmth and wet.

"I'm... coming soon."

"C-Coming?" you asked, whining once more when he thrusted into you.

"Naive girl," he grunted. "I have to punish you for this."

He grabbed your ass and you moaned, unable to handle it anymore. You were reaching a high, climbing up a ladder to reach a climax. A blissful of feelings released, oxytocin spreading throughout your system. You convulsed at the intensity of it, gripping onto Rin.

Rin Itoshi reached his climax as well, gritting his teeth. As he pulled himself out from you, he stared at you as if you were the goal he had just conquered. Winning meant everything to him, after all, for it was life or death out in that battlefield.

But... actually, it was you who had conquered him. You, who had stole his heart, in your clutzy fashion.

He simply could not win against you anymore.

Rin Itoshi laid down beside you, hugging you like it was the last day on earth. He, who had never believed in luck, felt like the luckiest man on this planet to have met you. He, who could not rely on anybody else after the deception of his brother, found himself searching you. He, who scoffed at the idea of love, was now so submerged in love when it came to you.

You had dozed off already, tired from this little escapade today. He shook his head at your ability to fall asleep so easily, staring at every crook and crevice to burn your beautiful self into his mind.

"I love you, my little fool."

[dxrlingluv]

Hey, can I please request Apollo x fem Goddess reader, where they are in a secret relationship to keep it private. To have alone time together, cause as friends the other gods liked to crowd around them. They make accuses up to go meet each other. However, all the other gods are nosy trying to figure out clues as to who Apollo new lover is. Apollo keeps bragging that he’s got this lover, you heard him a couple of times. (It’s quite funny) (they even don’t know if it is a mortal or not) at the end part, They got so close to the truth through different clues, that the reader covers as a mortal that Apollo visits. However, The other gods ofc find out who is his lover. Fluff and lots of kisses. Thank you so much 😌

Secret Lover

A/N : I would like to thank everyone for all the love and support that I’ve been receiving. I really appreciate all of you. Also, thank you sun-rise05 for requesting this! Apollo art is from Gigi.

WARNING : Fluff, Fem!Goddess!Reader, kisses, secret relationships.

Word Count : 2.1k

The golden light of Olympus usually bathed everything in a cheerful glow, but for you and Apollo, the most precious light was the stolen kind, found in hidden moments away from the prying eyes of your fellow deities. You were Y/N, a goddess whose heart had been captured by the radiant God of Music and Prophecy, and he, in turn, was utterly devoted to you. Your love was a vibrant, secret melody played only for each other, a necessary concealment because, as much as you loved your divine family, they had an overwhelming tendency to crowd, to comment, to meddle. Privacy was a rare bloom on Olympus, and you and Apollo cultivated it with careful hands.

"Are you sure no one saw you leave?" you whispered, your fingers tracing the strong line of Apollo's jaw. You were nestled in a secluded alcove of Olympus, one an ancient Titan had forgotten, now draped with star-flowered vines that shimmered faintly, providing just enough light to see the adoring look in his golden eyes.

Apollo chuckled, a sound like wind chimes. "Positive, my radiant star. I told Hermes I was off to inspect a new sun-dial design in the mortal realm – something exceedingly dull about gnomons and precise angles. He looked so bored he practically waved me away." He leaned in, his lips brushing yours. "And you, my love? What grand excuse did you weave?"

"I mentioned a sudden urge to catalogue the whispers of the west wind," you murmured against his mouth. "Artemis raised an eyebrow, but she knows my penchant for the slightly obscure."

These were your rituals, the small deceptions that paved the way to these precious hours. Without them, your moments together would be punctuated by the boisterous arrival of Ares, the knowing winks of Aphrodite, or the well-meaning but lengthy advice of Hera. Here, though, there was only the soft rustle of the celestial vines and the thrum of your shared affection.

Lately, however, Apollo had been making your quest for secrecy a delightful challenge. He was, to put it mildly, bursting with joy, and it spilled out of him like sunlight through clouds.

"You should have seen Zeus's face today," Apollo recounted, his eyes sparkling with amusement as he lounged beside you, his head in your lap. "I was humming a new tune, one I wrote for you, of course..." He paused to kiss your palm. "And he asked if I'd finally found a Muse powerful enough to inspire such... 'saccharine sentimentality,' he called it." Apollo grinned. "I just smiled and said my inspiration was 'truly divine and utterly captivating, unlike anything Olympus has ever known.'"

You laughed, gently stroking his golden hair. "Subtlety, my love, is a virtue you seem to be misplacing more often these days."

"How can I be subtle when I'm so incandescently happy?" he protested, nuzzling your hand. "This love, Y/N, it makes me want to sing from the highest peak of Olympus! But," he sighed dramatically, "for our peace, I merely brag a little. Let them wonder."

And wonder they did. The other gods were abuzz. Apollo, the eternally charming but often emotionally elusive sun god, was clearly besotted. He was more vibrant, his music more passionate, his prophecies occasionally tinged with flowery, romantic metaphors that made Pythonesses blush.

"He's definitely got a new lover," Aphrodite declared one afternoon, reclining on a cloud as Hermes zipped back and forth, delivering nectar and gossip with equal speed. "Did you see that new laurel wreath he was wearing? Woven with flowers I've never seen before on Olympus."

"And he keeps disappearing," Hermes added, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "Says he's 'checking on his oracles,' but he comes back smelling faintly of wild jasmine and... starlight? It's very specific. And he's always humming these ridiculously romantic tunes."

"He claims his new love is 'ethereally beautiful and possesses a wisdom that outshines Athena's'," Artemis grumbled to Hera, though there was a hint of grudging curiosity in her tone. "He's being insufferably smug about it. But he won't say who. He just smirks and says we wouldn't understand the depth of such a 'celestial alignment.'"

The other gods didn't even know if this mysterious paramour was a mortal, a nymph, or perhaps even a Titaness from a forgotten age. Apollo's vague, grandiose descriptions gave them nothing concrete. Was it a queen from a distant land whose beauty rivaled Helen's? A shy dryad hidden deep within a primordial forest? The speculation was endless and increasingly fervent.

One sun-drenched afternoon, the pursuit nearly came to a head. You and Apollo had planned to meet in a quiet meadow on the slopes of Mount Cithaeron, a place where mortal shepherds rarely trod and gods even less so. You had told your divine companions you were seeking rare herbs for a new ambrosia recipe. Apollo claimed he was guiding the sun chariot on a slightly more southerly route to encourage an early spring.

You arrived first, settling under the shade of an ancient olive tree, your heart fluttering with anticipation. When Apollo appeared, a radiant figure against the blue sky, you rushed into his embrace. His kisses were warm, tasting of sunlight and pure joy.

"I missed you," he whispered, holding you tight. "Every moment apart feels like an age."

"And I you," you replied, when suddenly, a familiar winged sandal flashed at the edge of your vision. Hermes. And he wasn't alone. Aphrodite was with him, her eyes wide with triumphant discovery, and even cautious Artemis peered from behind a cypress tree.

Your divine aura, your true form, would be instantly recognizable. Panic, cold and sharp, pricked at you. Apollo tensed, sensing your alarm and seeing the intruders in the same instant.

Thinking faster than you ever had, you pulled slightly away from Apollo, deliberately softening your features, dimming your innate godly glow, and allowing a touch of human frailty to flicker across your expression. You focused on the small, unassuming cottage you'd once seen nestled in a valley like this, channeling the image of a simple, mortal woman. It was a trick you'd practiced, a way to walk unseen among mortals, but never had you deployed it with such urgency.

"Oh, my Lord Apollo," you said, your voice a shade softer, more human, your eyes downcast as if in awe of a deity. "You honor my humble dwelling with your presence."

Apollo, bless his quick wit, caught on instantly. His surprise flickered for a mere heartbeat before his charming, slightly condescending god-to-mortal smile snapped into place.

"Ah, my dear," he said, his voice booming slightly, playing his part to perfection. He gently extricated himself from your hold, though his fingers brushed yours with a secret reassurance. "I was just... admiring the view. And your, ah, charming little olive grove. Such fine trees."

Hermes, Aphrodite, and Artemis slowly approached, their expressions a mixture of suspicion and confusion.

"Apollo?" Artemis called out, her bow still in hand. "What are you doing here? And who is this... mortal?"

"Just a local," Apollo said breezily, gesturing towards you. "A devout follower, it seems. She tends this grove. I occasionally stop by to offer a blessing. For the olives, you know. Very important, olives."

Aphrodite scrutinized you. You kept your gaze humble, your energy carefully dampened. You looked like any other pretty, if somewhat overwhelmed, mortal woman in the presence of gods. The wild jasmine scent Hermes had mentioned earlier? It came from the garland you'd been weaving, now clutched in your hand as if it were a simple offering.

"She seems... rather taken with you, Apollo," Aphrodite purred, though a hint of doubt lingered in her eyes. The passionate embrace they'd glimpsed didn't quite align with a god blessing a random mortal's olive grove.

"Well, I am rather dazzling, am I not?" Apollo said with a disarming grin, preening slightly. "It's a burden, but someone has to bear it."

Hermes still looked suspicious. "So, this is the one you've been composing those epic love ballads for? A mortal olive tender?" He didn't sound convinced.

"Inspiration comes from many places, my swift friend," Apollo said smoothly. "The simple beauty of the mortal world, the devotion of my followers... it all fuels the creative fire." He then clapped his hands together. "Well, duty calls! The sun won't guide itself, and these olives seem sufficiently blessed for today. Farewell, dear lady!" He gave you a formal, divine nod, then turned to his celestial companions. "Shall we?"

Reluctantly, the trio followed him, though Aphrodite cast one last, long look over her shoulder at you. You stayed in your mortal guise until their divine light had completely vanished over the horizon, then sank to the ground, your heart still pounding. It had been far too close.

For weeks after, the "mortal olive tender" became the leading theory. Apollo, to his credit, played along, occasionally mentioning his "rustic muse" and her "charming simplicity." It was a clever cover, and it threw the others off your true scent, allowing you and Apollo to return to your carefully guarded, secret meetings, albeit with even more caution.

The truth, however, had a funny way of revealing itself, especially on Olympus.

It happened during the grand festival of Dionysus, a night of revelry, music, and uninhibited joy. The great hall of Olympus was filled with gods and goddesses, wine flowed freely, and the air thrummed with laughter and song. Apollo was, naturally, at the heart of the musical celebrations, his lyre singing with a passion that made even the stones of Olympus vibrate.

You were watching him, your heart swelling with love and pride. He caught your eye across the hall, and even amidst the chaos, his gaze was intimate, a secret message just for you. He began a new melody, one you recognized instantly – the tune he'd been humming for weeks, the one he'd told Zeus was inspired by a "truly divine and utterly captivating" love. But this time, as he played, he sang the words, his voice clear and true, echoing through the hall.

The lyrics spoke not of fleeting mortal beauty or simple devotion, but of shared starlight, of whispered secrets in celestial gardens, of a love as boundless and eternal as the cosmos. He sang of eyes that held the wisdom of ancient nebulae and a touch that ignited galaxies within him. There was no mistaking it – this was not a song for a mortal.

As the last note faded, a hush fell over the usually boisterous hall. All eyes turned from Apollo to you, then back to Apollo. He was looking directly at you, a radiant, unabashed smile on his face, his heart in his eyes.

Aphrodite gasped, a perfectly manicured hand flying to her lips. "The whispers of the west wind... the star-flowered vines... not a mortal?"

Hermes' jaw dropped. "The 'celestial alignment'! Of course! You weren't visiting a mortal, you were visiting her!" He pointed a dramatic finger between you and Apollo.

Artemis simply stared, then a slow smile spread across her face. "So, that's why your archery has been so poetic lately, brother."

A warm blush crept up your neck, but as you met Apollo's loving gaze, a sense of relief, as potent as any nectar, washed over you. The secret was out.

Apollo set down his lyre and walked towards you, parting the stunned crowd of deities. He took your hands, his golden eyes full of adoration.

"Yes," he announced, his voice ringing with pride, for all of Olympus to hear. "My inspiration, my love, my happily ever after. Not a mortal, though she could charm the birds from the trees in any form. This is Y/N, and she is the goddess of my heart."

He leaned down and kissed you, deeply and tenderly, right there in the middle of the grand hall, with every god and goddess of Olympus as their audience. There were a few surprised gasps, then a smattering of applause, led, surprisingly, by Zeus, who was chuckling. Aphrodite was already cooing about the romantic implications, while Hermes was mentally cataloging all the clues he'd missed.

The crowding and comments would surely come later, but in that moment, wrapped in Apollo's embrace, with his lips on yours, none of it mattered. The secret melody was finally playing for all to hear, and it was beautiful. He pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours.

"No more excuses?" you whispered, a joyful laugh bubbling up.

"No more excuses," he confirmed, his smile dazzling. "Just endless verses of our love song, sung for all eternity." He kissed you again, and then again, each kiss a promise, a celebration, a perfect note in your shared, no-longer-secret symphony. The fluff was undeniable, and the kisses, as you had always known they would be with Apollo, were plentiful and divine.

[cryinggirlnamedhelen]

Hey hey, 😳 I just read your writing about sakura hakura as a dad will you do with suo too?

yes ofc! ty for the request!🫶

slipping through my fingers all the time - s. hayato

cw ; fem!reader, mentions of violence, reader and suo are 23

now playing ; slipping through my fingers by abba

༯ suo is a complete “your body your choice” kind of person, but at the same time, he really does adore the thought of having a child or two with you. he thinks about it much more often that he really should, especially back when you were both in high school. now that you’re married though, he has way more of an excuse to.

༯ he’s absolutely glowing when you hand him a positive pregnancy test when he comes back from patrol one day. he only shows a calm smile on his face—as usual—but he feels the rapid beating of his heart and the warm tingling in his cheeks.

༯ he makes you a lot of warm tea, but he’s careful not to give you too much; otherwise, you’d get caffeine overdose. he gets a bit fascinated with your growing abdomen though. of course, he knows how a pregnancy works. he’s done enough research on that. he’s more curious to see how much your child has grown.

༯ nearly everyone in makochi knows about your pregnancy. it’s a small town, and rumors spread fast. but suo just loves talking about it; in every conversation he has, he always manages to slip in a “my pregnant wife” sentence starter. the kind store owners give him double the amount of free food they usually give him now because of how you’re pregnant.

༯ kotoha comes over to take care of you a lot. suo usually isn’t too busy, but he teaches people how to fight and he’s still a part of bofurin. because of this, whenever he does leave your side, he comes back after four or five hours or so. he dreads it, so kotoha always takes his place to take care of you whenever he’s gone. she cooks for you, and she also helps you with the chores in the house.

༯ suo thinks it’s adorable that you’re eating way more than you usually do. your cheeks are chubbier—and cuter—and have a healthy red tint to them, and suo’s convinced that pregnancy glow is real. suo has seen you practically shove down four bowls of rice down your throat and thought you were the cutest person to ever exist.

༯ when you were in labor, suo stayed right next to you the entire time. you squeezed his hand so hard that his knuckles were practically white, but he couldn’t feel any pain. the concern had drowned it all out. but the moment your daughter was born and you were safe, all of his worries melted away.

༯ he was tempted to name your child after a type of tea, but you cut him off with a sharp “no.” because no way in hell was your child going to be bullied in the future for having the name of a type of tea. you both ended up naming her “hanako”, because sometimes tea was made of flowers.

[llamagoddessofficial]

LLAMAAAAAAAA

WRITE MORE ABT FARMER (when you get the chance ofc)

AND MY LIFE IS YOURS!!!!

Your life. Hand it over

---

It was the thickest rain you’d ever seen. It didn't fall like normal rain, it fell in layers, great arcs of water that thrashed the ground one after the other, stormy waves hitting a shoreline. The roar of it landing on the world around you was almost deafening - a problem, considering it was three in the morning, and you were walking in almost pitch black. Any other night you would’ve been guided through the seemingly-endless farmland by recognising the hedges and hearing the animals... right now, you were guided only by the weakened blueish light of your headlamp, and the best that your memory had to offer.

You spotted it, in the near distance. The tiny light of another lamp was flickering back and forth in the rain, moving with the speed and efficiency of a hard-at-work man who couldn’t wait to get out of the terrible weather and go back to bed. You quickened the pace, marching down the field, your waterproof pants were coated in cold mud up to the calves; you were glad you couldn’t feel it. The only wet part of you was your face, and hands - you needed the latter out to hold the big metal flask you were carrying.

You didn’t mind the wet and cold. You stomped on regardless. All you cared about was the sight of that head lamp, getting closer and closer in the relentless wind and rain. You could just about make out the things he was looking at, illuminated by his lamp... the part of the fence he was doing his best to repair.

Before you knew it, you were within shouting distance. But there was no point, he wouldn't hear you. A particularly strong gust rushed across the field, you felt a carpet of rain hit you in the back, and the wind shoved you ungracefully forward. You let out a little yelp but managed to stop yourself from falling over.

... You heard your name over the rain. He had noticed you. You looked up - his headlamp was angled slightly downward, rather than straight ahead, so it didn’t dazzle you like you expected it to. Sans was dressed in his usual farm gear, his heavy boots and thick waterproof pants, and the rain had washed his green jacket cleaner than you’d ever seen it before. His hood was pulled securely up over his skull and he had a fence post the size of you in one hand like it was nothing.

... And he was looking at like he’d seen a ghost. It was rather comical.

“There you are!” You picked up the pace for the last few steps, jogging over to him, before you finally came to a stop. Phew, you’d been walking for almost five minutes in the storm. It felt good to finally see him. Despite the cold, you were pretty flushed from the exercise, hot under the combination of your sweater and coat.

“what the hell are you doing out here?” His green eyelights glowed under his hood, like two soft fireflies, a much more pleasant colour than the cold lamplight both of you were bathed in. It was as if only the two of you existed in the whole world... two headlamps in an endless sea of dark and wind and water. “it’s two in the morning,”

“Three, actually,” you chirped. It was somewhat hard to hear him over the rain hitting your hood, but you just stood a little closer to him. Your hurried breaths formed clouds, you could see them in the combined lamp glow.

He put down the fence post. It dropped with an heavy thunk. “did papyrus send you?”

You just held the big metal flask out to him. It had a black strap attached to the side of it that was sodden by now. He accepted it, seemingly out of instinct, staring down at it before glancing back up to you.

“... uh... thanks. what is it?”

“Soup!”

He blinked. “soup?”

“Yeah. I woke up to the rain, and I figured you’d be out here, because you’d mentioned the fence needed fixing properly before the storm hit." You pulled your coat sleeves over your now-free hands. "Though I did ask Papyrus if you’d actually headed out before I left. I’m not that crazy.”

He was still staring. The rain continued to roar, you had really hoped it would've eased up by now. But it seemed to be only getting worse. Probably for the best Sans was repairing the fence now, before everything completely flooded come morning.

“I know, I know," you continued when he didn't reply. "I’m dumb for going out in the rain, I’ll get wet. But I’m fine, see? I put the waterproof pants on over my boots, like you said. It’s been raining like hell and the only part of me that’s wet is my hands!”

“you... came out all this way, to bring me soup?” he said, softly. You almost didn't hear him.

“Yeah. Pumpkin soup. Knowing you, you didn’t eat anything before you left.”

He had gone quiet. That wasn’t like him. He was looking at you very intently, with great big eylights. Another gust of wind sent a wall of rain into the two of you. You visibly swayed, but Sans didn't seem affected by it.

Was he upset that you might get cold? He didn't look upset, his eyelights were so round, almost sparkly.

“I promise I’m not cold," you pressed. "This is the coat you lent me. See? It’s - ” 

Sans moved forward a step. It was all he really needed to close the gap between you. He put an arm around you, despite the flask in hand, and swept you in against him; you were too startled by the sudden movement and proximity to move or do anything. His free hand came up, sliding between your coat hood and the side of your cheek, cupping your face.

He leant in and kissed you.

...

For a moment, you couldn’t hear the rain. You couldn’t hear anything at all. All you could think about was how smooth his hand was, how nice he smelled, how hard your heart was beating, and how warm he was. After so long walking around in the rain, being pulled in close to him felt incredible.

He felt so strong, too. All night, you'd been pushed around by any breath of wind, no matter the direction. In his arms? Nothing moved you. Nothing could shake you.

... Your eyes closed. Maybe it was the dark and gale and rain, maybe it was how early it was in the morning. But you just didn’t want him to let you go.

...

Sans pulled back. Your eyelids fluttered open again. There were raindrops on his skull, and the lamplight was dancing over his bones. His eyelights are such a pretty colour. He was looking at you like he wanted to pick you up and walk home with you.

...

Then, in an instant, the reality of what he just did appeared to hit him. So close to him, you could watch in real time as his eyelights shrank into pins in his sockets, and his smile twitched in what you could only describe as total internal panic.

... You, too, started to do the worst possible thing - think.

Sans just... kissed me. Sans just kissed me.

... You both just stared at each other, he was still holding you. You had no idea for how long. Sans’ eyelights kept flickering between your eyes and your nose, and you kept staring blankly at him, dazed and suddenly very confused.

...

“I-I should, head back,” you started, nervously.

“yeah. uh... yeah.” His hand came off your face, and he let go of your waist, stepping back again. You immediately missed the warmth. “thank you for the soup."

You nodded.

"i’ll..." He sounded shaky. He held onto the flask with both hands, maybe to stop himself from fidgeting. "see you later?”

"You too," you stammered.

... Wait. Shit.

No idea what else to say or do, you stood there like an idiot for a few seconds, trying to formulate something to say or some interesting witty way to turn that fuck-up into a joke and end the conversation - but you had absolutely nothing. Your head was spinning, your heart was still beating a mile a minute, you couldn’t believe that had really just happened. So you just turned right around and started walking.

...

Holy fuck, you thought, pulling your hood tight over your head. What the hell am I going to tell Papyrus?

[notarmedandnotdangerous]

bucky x a power bottom reader would heal me. (specifically where they end up drinking way too much and the reader has way more courage than usual) 🙏🙏

ofc!! tried to expand on it, and honestly i like it, so i hope you do, too :)

18 mdni! reader has a bit too much to drink, and bucky has to suffer dealing with it

cw: drunk!m!power bottom!reader, service top!bucky, mentions of the thunderbolts* (alexei), dry humping, blowjob, multiple orgasms, forced orgasms, fingering, handjob, (borderline) edging, rough sex, creampie

word count: >4k

-------------------------------------------------------

the night started as a celebration with the team in your bar, though it was now 2 am, most of the team had left, including alexei, surprisingly. the bar was winding down. the lights dimmed down to a sultry glow, while the jazz slowed into a lazy rhythm. you swirled the remnants of your fifth, maybe sixth cocktail. you were two cocktails past your limit, and draped across bucky’s lap, as if it was a throne.

“you,” you spoke, pointing a slightly wobbly finger at bucky. “you have been staring at me like i’m some kind of puzzle.. am i that complicated to figure out?”

“maybe,” he chuckled. “or maybe i’m just wondering how someone gets that tipsy over some fruity drinks.”

“fruity drinks make me honest.” you took your drink and slid closer to sit next to him, your knee brushed his, briefly. “and bold. very, very bold.“

“really now?” he raised an eyebrow at you.

“yeah.” you held your glass like it was some kind of royal decree. “i’m charming as hell when i drink.” you declared, eyes half-lidded and heavy. “you’re lucky to be in my presence, buck.”

“mhm, so lucky.” bucky smirked, and adjusted slightly under your weight. he let his hand rest at your lower back. not possessive, but supportive, steady. “especially since you’ve been trying to grind on my thigh for the past ten minutes.”

“trying?” you chuckled. “sweetheart, i am grinding on your thigh. don’t act like you’re not enjoying it.” you leaned in, your breath grazing his neck. “tell me to stop if you’re scared.”

“i don’t get scared, babydoll.” he tilted his head, exposing just enough skin for you to latch onto. “i get in control, there’s a big difference.”

“is that so?” you bit your lip, before shifting your weight around on his lap, pressing your hips harder, making a quiet, needy sound.

“jesus.” bucky’s hand tightened slightly around your waist.

“you’re gonna let me keep teasing you like this all night?” you whispered into his ear. “or are you gonna do something about it?”

“i’m letting you run your mouth so you can burn it all out.” he exhaled through his nose, this time steadier than before.

“oh i’ve got plenty left, sweets.” you traced your tongue across his neck, before mumbling into it. “you should be begging to ruin me by now.”

“babydoll.” he looked at you, his gaze calm yet dangerous. that tone made you still. “you’ve had enough to drink.”

“and enough to want you.” you tilted your head, smugly. “still not hearing a ‘no’ from you, buck.”

“because i don’t want to say ‘no’.” bucky murmured. “but you’re going to stop running your mouth for five seconds, and you’re going to listen.” he ran his hands through your hair in a gentle, controlled motion.

you opened your mouth to talk back to him, but he caught your jaw in time. his thumb dragging over your bottom lip.

“you want to be fucked so hard you forget your name.” he spoke, his voice low and even. “but first, you’re going to get on your knees, take a breath, and ask.”

“don’t wanna.”

the bar was empty now, there was no one in sight. bucky gave you a stern look, and that was it. you slowly slid off his lap, and onto the floor. you looked up at him through your lashes, that bratty glint still in your eye.

“please.”

“there’s my good little tease.”

the hardwood floor was cool beneath your knees, but your skin was hot, flushed from alcohol, desire.

“take your shirt off, buck.” you said.

“is that a request, babydoll?” he raised an eyebrow at you.

“no.” you replied, tongue darting out to wet your lips. “it’s the first of many orders. move.”

there was a beat of silence, as if bucky was weighing the authority behind your words. then he stood, as calm as ever, and pulled the black tee over his head. he folded the shirt and draped it across the back of a nearby stool.

“fuck, you’re beautiful when you obey.” you exhaled, and he stepped back towards you, towering over you.

“careful.” his hand rested lightly on your head. not holding, just hovering, like a threat.

“oh?” you teased, your fingers brushing along his thighs. “you said you were in control. i’m just testing the limits.”

bucky didn’t answer, just tilted your chin up with two fingers.

“you like it when i give you orders, don’t you?” you rose back up to your feet, sitting on the stool now.

“i like watching you think you’re in charge.”

“good.” you spoke. his words earned a low laugh from you. “then kneel. let me look at you properly.”

for a second, the room was completely silent. then slowly, bucky sunk to his knees in front of you. you leaned in, your fingers brushing against his cheek. he seemed still and composed, but the look in his eyes shifted.

“good,” you said, reaching out to run your fingers through his hair. “look at you, all that power, right here at my feet.”

he didn’t flinch, not physically. but his breath hitched, just once.

“oh, you like this.” you murmured, amusement flicking in your voice. “you like pretending to be in charge, but your body language gives it all away.” you leaned in close enough for your lips to graze his ear.

“you’re going to do exactly what i tell you.” you murmured. “if you do it right, i might let you have me.”

“and if i don’t?” he smiled, as if he was challenging you.

“then i’m going to make you try again.” you spoke, gently dragging your nails down his chest. “bet if i told you to sit still, and let me use you, you’d say ‘yes’ before i even finish my sentence.”

“you’d have to earn it.” bucky looked up at you, his mouth parted slightly.

“oh, sweets.” you said with a grin, sliding into his lap with one smooth motion. “i don’t earn things, i take them.”

he let out a soft moan when you straddled his thighs, hands braced on his shoulders. you grinded in one slow, deliberate roll of your hips. his hands twitched against the hardwood floor, they wanted to grip, to move, but they didn’t.

“no touching unless i say.” you caught his wrists, and pinned them to the floor.

“you’re playing a dangerous game.” he muttered, his voice cracking from how the effort of holding back.

“i am the game, sweetheart.” you whispered, your lips brushing against his. “and you’re already losing.” then, you kissed him. it was sharp, controlling, more teeth than tenderness. your fingers released his wrists just long enough for you to tangle your hands in his hair, pulling slightly to tilt his head back, and deepen the kiss.

bucky moaned, low in his throat, but scoffed when he felt you grin against his lips. he knew that was the sound you had been waiting for. you pulled back, just enough to speak.

“just because i let go of you, doesn’t mean you get to touch me.” you spoke. ”not until i say. and when i do, you’re going to thank me.”

all he could do was nod, who was he to deny you? not when you looked so pretty in his lap. you slowly took your shirt off, tossing it to the side.

“go on.” you commanded, voice steady, but the flush creeping up your chest betrayed just how much you wanted it. “slow. like you know i’m worth savouring.”

bucky’s hands finally moved, controlled movements sliding along your thighs. the way you gasped, barely audible, was rewarding enough.

“good,” you spoke, hips tilting forward into his touch. “that’s it, look at you. you’re finally learning your place.”

his hands started to get restless, they were everywhere, warm, and precise. he touched you like he had mapped your body in a dream, and was just retracing the lines. you let him, guided him. every shift of his hips against yours, every low whimper from you, was both pleasure and command.

“don’t rush it.” you breathed, back arching slightly. “i want to feel how badly you want to please me.”

bucky obeyed, his hands, and mouth moving rhythmically.

“you feel that?” you pressed your palm gently against his face. “that’s mine.”

he groaned softly, overwhelmed, but still silent.

“no, say it.” you demanded, nails digging slightly into his shoulder. “say you belong to me, right now.”

“i belong to you.” he spoke against your tender skin.

“good, good. you’re a quick learner.” you gasped, body twitching. “now, make me cum like it’s your only job.”

bucky pulled you up, he lifted you like you weighed nothing, hands firm on your waist, setting you down on the table of one of the booths. your legs dangle over the edge, brushing his thighs, his body crowding yoursin the intimate glow of the booth's shadows. the table creaks softly under the shift of weight, or maybe it just reacts to the heat pulsing between the both of you. he pulls your pants off, fingers lingering a second too long at your hips, thumbs grazing the bare skin.

you lean back slightly, bracing yourself on your palms. he doesn’t hide the way he looks at you, like he’s already imagining all the ways this could go. he leans in, his hand landing beside you on the table.

“comfortable?”

“you always manhandle people like that?”

“only the ones who like it.”

bucky grazes his teeth against your lower stomach, making you tense, before he nips at your waistband and drags your boxers down with his bare teeth.

“that bad, huh?” you teased.

“just take it.” he leaned down, but he wasn’t doing anything, not yet.

“uh? go on?” you were confused as to why he didn’t move.

“ask for it, come on.”

“please?”

“there we go.” he propped your feet up against the table, nibbling at your inner thighs.

“fuck, hurry up, will you?”

“you told me to take it slow?”

all you could do was lay there and take it. bucky kissed your hips, before finally taking your cock in his mouth. he sucked eagerly around you, and you couldn’t help but buck your hips.

“ugh, fuck, you’re too good at this.”

he looked up at you, his eyes watering slightly as he took you deeper into his throat. his free hand reaching up to fondle with your balls. your hips rocked forward gently.

“fuck- i.. ‘s so good, i’m gonna cum..” you gasped, your voice was breathy and ragged.

every movement after that was worship. not fast, not frantic, just purpose-built. bucky’s hands were firm where you needed, and gentle where you wanted. his mouth traced your skin gently. your voice cracked around a shuddering moan, as your whole body locked up in pleasure. even as you came, the power still didn’t leave you. you had let it happen, let yourself come undone on your own terms.

you were still catching your breath, your chest rising and falling in short, ragged breaths. a lazy smirk formed on your lips as you sighed.

“hope you’re feeling proud of yourself.” you said, voice wrecked, but still smug. “that was..”

“incredible?” bucky offered, brushing a thumb along your hip.

“i meant predictable.” you rolled your eyes at him.

suddenly, he leaned in close. his gaze was different now.

“i’m not done.”

“you-” your body tensed when he slowly began to jerk you off.

“shh.” he kissed you gently. “one more.”

“who said you get to decide?” you tried to regain your usual snark, but it came out as a whisper instead.

“i’m not asking,” he spoke. “you’ll give it to me.”

you shivered at his words, having no choice but to oblige.

bucky didn’t rush, he moved like he had all the time in the world. his touched were gentler compared to earlier, now coaxing rather than commanding. his hands explored slowly, and you whimpered. it started out quiet, but then turned into something raw.

you helplessly clawed at his shoulder as he started to stroke you faster, he tried to keep the edge of control, but it was slipping. every stroke, every breathy murmur from him chipped away at you.

“not fair.. mmh..” you hissed. “i-i just-”

“i know,” bucky cut you off. “but i want to see you come again. want to see what you look like when your pride finally gives out.”

that did it. your body arched, as your mouth fell open in a gasp. there was no wit, no command behind it, just the sheer pleasure ripping through you like lightning. you came again, harder this time, desperate, and uncontrollable. when it passed, you collapsed completely, dazed, blinking up at the ceiling, one of your hands limp on his shoulder.

“fuck,” you breathed.

he leaned over you, kissing your temple, then your lips.

“my turn.”

“you already-” you blinked at him

“no.” he cut you off once more. “you used me, and got what you wanted. twice.” he stood up, and pulled you up too. “now you get to watch, to hold me, to kiss me. but this time.. i take.

you looked up at him, flushed, undone but slowly grinning.

“about damn time.” you whispered. “you’ve been holding back all night.”

bucky let go of any ounce of self control. this time, it wasn’t slow, it wasn’t soft. it was raw need, finally uncoiled. he let himself feel, not serve. he guided your hands, mouth, body, exactly where he wanted, and you followed, obedient only in this rare moment. he positioned himself in between your spread thighs, pulling you to the edge of the booth table. he used his thumb to circle your hole, before pressing in slightly, making you gasp.

“so tight, not even my fingers can fit.” he purred, applying gentle but insistent pressure with his thumb, working it steadily deeper. “squeezing me so deliciously.” he breathed, before starting to pump his thumb in and out, increasing the pace as he watched your reactions. “look at you, babydoll. so eager, so easy to make you fall apart.” he murmured, leaning in to nip at your earlobe. his free hand wrapped around your hyper-sensitive cock once more, stroking it in time with the thrusts of his thumb.

“f-fuck.. uh, uh.. buck..”

“that’s it, keep going.” he groaned, feeling your body tense and spasm beneath his hands. “oh no, not yet. you’ll have to wait a little longer for that. first, let’s focus on making you feel so good you forget your own name, yes?”

“n-no, don’t edge me.. buck.. sweetheart, please..”

he didn’t respond, just dragged his finger across the tip of your cock, making you mewl.

“buck- please, i-i’m going to cum.. i’m so close..”

this ‘torture’ went on for a while, bucky stuffed a few more fingers in you, making you drool dumbly, while not cumming. your brain was fuzzy now, just taking whatever he gave you. after he deemed you ready, he leaned down to wipe the tears from your cheeks. he wrapped your legs around his waist, and aligned himself up with you, before thrusting forward, sinking into you.

“fuck, you feel s-so good.” he groaned, pausing for a moment to savour the sensation.

“buck! oh- oh god..” your hand gripped at the edge of the table as hard as you could to ground yourself.

he gave you a kiss, an innocent one, this time, before he set a relentless pace, driving into you with deep, powerful strokes. his hips smacked against you with a lewd rhythm.

“f-fuck, s-so fast- mmgh..”

“this is what you needed isn’t it? no matter how hard you try to prove that you’re in control, you’ll always end up with my cock in you.” he chuckled.

“y-yeah..” you nodded frantically. “thank you- t-thank you, buck.. mmh..” you whimpered, before cumming on his cock.

“whoops. looks like you came on my cock without my permission, babydoll. how are you gonna make up for it?” he hissed under his breath. “you’re going to let me cum in you, got it?”

“right here.. i want all of it.” you were so far gone, all you did was agree. you could barely understand his words, not when he was fucking you so deliciously. bucky’s rhythm grew erratic, he was getting close. he gave you a few more harsh thrusts, before filling you up.

“fuck, ugh.” he groaned, pulling back to see the cum flow out from you. “don’t waste it.” he grabbed your hand, and stuffed two of your fingers into yourself.

“y-yes.. i won’t..”

“that should keep you occupied for a while, hm?” he kissed the back of your thighs. “that’s it, all of this, mine.”

it took a while for the both of you to calm down. you removed your fingers from yourself, shuddering as you felt bucky’s cum drip out. thank god you owned this bar, who knows what other people would think if they saw the both of you going at it like rabbits.

“guess we’re even now?”

“mmh, not even close.”

[drewswife]

Heyyy I have a req for drew x actress reader, where they’re together and working on set. Reader gest really sick but doesn’t say anything and Drew is busy with work so he doesn’t notice. When they get to filming a scene together she gets really dizzy and ill etc. And Drew ofc feels so bad that he didn’t notice anything.

Sorry if it’s too specific (English is not my first language)

The bright lights of the movie set always made your head spin a little, but today it felt different. A fuzzy, uncomfortable feeling had been creeping up on you all morning. You tried to ignore it, focusing on your lines and hitting your marks. Drew, your boyfriend and co-star, was across the bustling set, deep in conversation with the director about the next scene. He looked so focused, his brow furrowed in concentration, and you didn't want to bother him. He had a lot on his plate today.

You coughed lightly, hoping it wasn't noticeable. Your throat felt scratchy, and a wave of nausea rolled through you. "Just nerves," you mumbled to yourself, taking a sip from your water bottle.

Hours passed in a blur of takes, costume changes, and hurried instructions. The fuzzy feeling intensified, turning into a dull ache that spread through your body. You felt clammy and a little shaky, but you plastered on a smile whenever someone looked your way. You were a professional, after all.

Finally, they called for the scene you and Drew had together. It was a pivotal moment in the movie, a tense confrontation filled with emotion. You took your place on the set, trying to remember your lines through the growing dizziness.

Drew walked over, his usual easygoing smile in place. "Ready?" he asked, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Yeah," you managed, your voice sounding a little weak even to your own ears.

The director called "Action!" and the scene began. You delivered your lines, trying to channel the character's anger and hurt, but the room seemed to sway slightly. Your vision blurred for a moment, and you gripped your hands tightly to stop them from shaking.

As the scene progressed, you were supposed to step closer to Drew, your character confronting his. But as you moved, the dizziness hit you full force. The lights seemed to explode in your vision, and the ground tilted beneath your feet. A wave of icy sweat broke out on your forehead.

Before you knew it, the world went black.

You vaguely registered the sound of your own body hitting the floor and a chorus of worried shouts. Then, nothing.

When you finally blinked your eyes open, the bright set lights were gone, replaced by the softer glow of what looked like a medical bay. A worried face swam into focus above you.

"Hey sweetheart ," Drew said softly, his hand gently stroking your hair. His usual cheerful demeanor was replaced by a look of deep concern.

"Drew?" you mumbled, your throat feeling like sandpaper.

"Yeah, it's me," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "You scared me half to death."

You tried to sit up, but a wave of weakness washed over you. "What happened?"

"You fainted," he explained, his eyes filled with guilt. "Right in the middle of the scene. Everything just… stopped."

A nurse bustled around you, checking your pulse and temperature. "She's coming around now," she said gently to Drew. "Just needs to rest."

Drew kept his gaze fixed on you, his hand still in your hair. "I had no idea you weren't feeling well," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "Why didn't you say anything?"

You looked away, feeling a little foolish. "I didn't want to bother you. You were so busy…"

Drew gently turned your face back to his. "Hey," he said, his eyes earnest. "Nothing is more important than you. If you're not feeling okay, you tell me, okay? Always."

Tears welled up in your eyes, partly from the lingering dizziness and partly from his genuine concern. "I'm sorry," you whispered.

"Don't be sorry," he said, his thumb softly wiping away a tear that escaped your eye. "I should have noticed. I should have been paying more attention."

"You were working," you said weakly.

"And you were hurting," he countered gently. "From now on, we look out for each other, okay? No matter how busy things get."

a/n: thanks for the req don’t worry english is not my first language either! :)

tags, @starrii-sturns @chrepsi @drewsstars @spencerreid66 more

[ladywhistlewrites]

Hi can I request a wife x Anthony bridgerton story where reader is finally pregnant and how she would tell Anthony and the family

hi darling, ofc!! (omg thanks for sending an ask)🩷

Anthony Bridgerton x female wife! reader

warnings: mentions of period/blood, pregnancy

***

The morning light filters through the delicate lace curtains, casting a warm glow over the room as you stretch beneath the covers. It’s early, and the house is still wrapped in the serene quiet of dawn. You take a deep breath, feeling the familiar tug of routine urging you to start the day. As you move to rise, a sudden realization freezes you in place. You glance down at the crisp white sheets beneath you and feel a jolt of surprise and anticipation. There is no sign of your monthly visitor.

Your heart begins to race. Could it be? After all these months of hope and disappointment, dare you believe it? Your hands tremble slightly as you press them to your abdomen, a wave of tentative joy washing over you. You have to be sure. Quietly, so as not to wake the household, you slip from the bed and dress quickly, your thoughts a whirlwind of hope and possibility.

Making your way down the hall, your steps are light, almost as if you are floating. Each breath feels like a prayer, a silent plea for your dreams to be true. As you approach Anthony’s studio, you hear the soft scratching of his pen against paper. He’s been up for hours, as is his custom, losing himself in work before the household stirs.

You hesitate for a moment at the door, gathering your courage. Then, with a bright smile breaking across your face, you push it open and step inside. Anthony looks up, his eyes lighting with surprise and pleasure at the sight of you.

“My love,” he greets, rising from his desk. “What brings you here so early?”

You can barely contain your excitement as you close the distance between you, your hands reaching out to grasp his. “Anthony, I have news. The most wonderful news.” Your voice trembles with emotion, and you see his eyes widen, a spark of anticipation igniting within them.

“What is it?” he asks, his tone eager, almost breathless.

“I… I think I’m pregnant,” you whisper, tears of joy welling in your eyes. “I checked the sheets this morning, and there was nothing. I haven’t felt any of the usual signs. Anthony, I believe we are finally going to have a child.”

For a moment, he is silent, the words hanging in the air between you. Then, with a cry of joy, he sweeps you into his arms, lifting you off your feet and spinning you around. Laughter bubbles from your lips as you cling to him, the room a blur of motion and happiness.

He sets you down gently, his hands framing your face as he gazes into your eyes, his own brimming with tears. “My love, you’ve made me the happiest man in the world,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “We are going to be parents.”

You nod, unable to speak, overwhelmed by the depth of his joy and the love shining in his eyes. He kisses you then, a tender, reverent kiss that speaks of promises and dreams and the future you will build together.

In the hours that follow, you and Anthony make plans to share the joyous news with the rest of the Bridgerton family. The day seems to fly by, a whirlwind of preparations and secret smiles, your heart soaring with the knowledge of the life growing within you.

As evening falls, the dining room is a picture of elegance and warmth. The table is set with the finest china, gleaming silverware, and fresh flowers that fill the air with a sweet fragrance. The soft glow of candlelight bathes the room in a golden hue, casting flickering shadows on the walls.

The family gathers, their faces alight with curiosity and affection. You can barely contain your excitement, your eyes meeting Anthony’s across the table, a silent communication passing between you. Finally, as the conversation lulls, Anthony rises, his hand reaching for yours.

“Everyone,” he begins, his voice steady but filled with emotion, “we have some wonderful news to share. We have just learned that we are expecting a child.”

For a heartbeat, there is silence, and then the room erupts in joyous exclamations. Daphne and Eloise rush to embrace you, their laughter mingling with yours. Benedict and Colin slap Anthony on the back, their congratulations hearty and sincere. The younger Bridgertons dance around the room, their excitement infectious.

Violet, her eyes shining with tears, crosses the room to you. She takes your hands in hers, her smile radiant as she draws you into a warm embrace. “Oh, my dear,” she whispers, her voice trembling with happiness, “this is the most wonderful news. I am so happy for you both.”

You hold her tightly, the love and acceptance in her embrace filling you with a profound sense of belonging. “Thank you, Violet,” you whisper back, your voice choked with emotion. “We are so blessed to have all of you to share this with.”

As the evening unfolds, the room is filled with laughter and celebration. Glasses are raised in toasts, and stories are shared, each one adding to the tapestry of joy that weaves through the night. You sit beside Anthony, your hand in his, your heart full to bursting with love and happiness.

This is the beginning of a new chapter, a future filled with promise and hope. And as you look around at the faces of those you hold dear, you know that this child will be welcomed into a world brimming with love and joy, surrounded by family who will cherish them always.

***

hope you like it!!🩷