#as if he's been running and roaring for quite some time

[egotisticalmav]

Connected by a Wire

❀.ೃ࿔ ─── Even though your personalities are extremely similar, your music tastes are polar opposites.

content found : Rintarou Suna x gn!reader , established relationship , proofread for once (be proud of me)

word count : 536

hq mlist : main mlist

Soft rays of sun beamed through the train window onto your face, a heavy weight sat on your shoulder from your boyfriend who clearly was not a morning person

Two wires morphing into one connected into your phone as your playlist ever so lightly rendered into one ear

Something about your music taste was so soothing to Rintarou, his was loud. Heavy guitar riffs, booming drums and roaring vocals filled his playlists no matter what the occasion was

Yours was soft, light airy voices that sung gut-wrenching lyrics while smooth acoustic guitars strung in the background

It all made his eyelids heavy - not that his sleep schedule helped

Your fingers rubbing soothing circles on the top of his hand in rhythm with whatever song was playing

Occasionally your phone would light up with a notification, sometimes he would tap the screen to check the time

Something about the day was already peaceful, the twin’s consistent bicker was absent and your perfume infiltrated Rintarou's senses

A light ping broke you both out of the morning's daze

Your wallpaper of him kissing your check in some random photo you found one day on full display as you unlocked it. The Sundays artist page on Spotify open rather than your friends Instagram message

His eyes following across the screen as fingers tapped

Your voice softly spoke to keep attention off yourselves

"Did you end up finishing your maths Rinta'?"

He let out an emphasized sigh at the question

"'m too tired, can I just copy yours again?"

Your face morphed into either annoyance or disgust; he couldn't be bothered to keep his eyes open to tell the difference though

"You copied my homework last week, and the week before,"

Your head leaned back onto the train window as your watched people stepping onto the train as it sat idle by the station closer to your school

"Pretty please, this will maybe be the last time i swear,"

Eyes rolling on instinct knowing you would end up giving in every time he asked. Letting your hands run through his hair before speaking up again

"Fine.."

Clouds floated across the orange sky while you once again sat on the train

Rintarou's teammate had gotten off however many stops ago, leaving you both in the same comfortable silence that consistently takes over

Despite the relaxed atmosphere the music playing was quite the opposite for the occasion, Foo Fighters

Sometimes you wonder why you and Rintarou alternate music to listen to. With you being assigned the morning playlists and him during the afternoons

For the past five minutes you've been picking at your nailbeds to keep yourself awake as if his music wasn't enough

"Tired?"

As if it wasn't obvious enough. You let out a hum supporting his question

Head falling against his shoulder, like him every morning. Softened breaths escaping with no way to hold them back further than you already have

"Can you change the song please,"

Voice barley above a whisper from how lethargic you were

"Jus' wait this is the best part,"

Safe to say you fell asleep to Foo Fighters rather than the very next song in your shared playlist which happened to be by The Sundays

© egotisticamav | do not plagiarise or translate any of my work

[lucydixon]

Match my Freak

GIF crafted by @sweet-dr3amer

This one's a little weird and unsettling, but I like it. It's not quite smut and open to interpretation. Warning: Self-harm, blood, blood kink?

On the night of Mayhem’s first show with Pelle, you’d been standing in the audience when he slashed his wrists on stage. The warm sticky blood had splattered across the side of your face, and you’d gasped, somewhere between surprise and delight. 

This was the kind of thing that drove you towards black metal gigs. 

You had yet to find any place else where throwing a pig head into the crowd was met with cheers as opposed to horrified screams. 

The band continued playing while their front man staggered around, still growling into the mic. 

That was really the only word you could think of to describe the sounds he was making. 

Growling. 

It was so low that you could feel the vibration of his voice deep in your chest. 

You were fixated on him and the blood pouring out of his arms. The stage lighting made it look black. The blue and red lights reflected off the droplets as they spilled onto the stage floor. 

Your thoughts drifted from the music to what it would be like to climb on stage and run your finger along his skin, gathering a good amount of blood before popping it in your mouth. You pictured your tongue swirling around it, eager to get every last drop. 

It had been some time since you’d had someone else’s blood in your mouth. Too long. 

He was losing quite a bit of it. 

Wasting it. 

You licked your lips and tasted iron. 

Your eyes fluttered shut as you inhaled sharply, running your tongue over your bottom lip. You couldn’t help the groan that fell from your lips, not that anyone could have possibly heard it over the music. You hadn’t even really heard it, so much as you’d felt the vibration of your vocal cords on the exhale. 

When you opened your eyes, you were staring up at him, a little startled by the eye contact. 

The music had stopped, and the crowd was roaring, but the two of you were locked in some kind of silent staring contest. 

You thought for a moment that he’d seen you lick the blood from your lips and was freaked out, but then you saw a glimmer of what almost looked to you like understanding. It was like he was staring into your soul and could see every fucked up thing you’d done and thought, but didn’t look troubled by it whatsoever. 

He had to tear his gaze away to walk off stage, but he looked over his shoulder twice. 

You took that as permission to wander backstage. 

By the time you’d weaved your way through the crowd and slipped in through the back of the venue, spilling into the backstage area, Someone had wrapped electrical tape around his arms in an attempt to stop the bleeding. 

There were a few people milling around. The band was packing up their equipment while chatting with what you could only assume was a group of their friends. 

He was standing off to the side, watching the door as if he’d been waiting for you. 

He straightened when he saw you, swaying a little from the blood loss, and you wasted no time crossing the room to stand right in front of him. 

You didn’t steady him. 

Didn’t touch him, or open your mouth to speak. 

You just stood there, less than a foot between the two of you, and stared up into his eyes. He seemed a little startled, but not uncomfortable with your proximity. If anything, he looked intrigued. 

Your gaze dropped down to his arms, then back up to his eyes as you reached out for one of them, silently asking permission. He wasn’t sure why he felt so eager to comply, but he let you take his arm and inspect the brutal wounds. 

You turned it over gently and used your free hand to gather some of the fresh blood seeping from under the tape on the pad of your finger. He watched, mesmerized, as you looked into his eyes and popped your blood-covered finger into your mouth. 

He inhaled sharply, unsure if he was afraid or turned on. 

The way his dick twitched in his pants had him convinced it was the latter. 

Neither of you had to exchange a word. 

You nodded towards the back door, eyes glimmering with mischief, and he started walking immediately.

The two of you stepped out into the cool night air, tingling with excitement, and found yourselves standing in an alley. Grimy and dingy, it smelled faintly of piss and cheap beer.  

You went for his arm again, and this time, you ran your tongue directly over the skin, lapping up whatever non-congealed blood you could access around the tape. 

A shaky moan fell from his lips as he watched you, entranced by your strange and unsettling nature. He was completely and utterly enamoured by you. 

He could faintly hear the boys calling out to him, probably looking for him, but he didn’t care. Tuned it out entirely, especially once you’d looked up at him, blood smeared all around your mouth and dribbling down your chin. 

Pelle had never initiated a kiss with a girl in his entire life. He’d kissed a few, but when it came down to it, it was never him leaning in at the beginning. 

He was suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to kiss you. 

You looked like you’d let him, too. 

Any doubt he had was squashed when you tilted your head back as if you were waiting for him to do just that, licking your lips and moaning softly when your tongue caught a loose drop of blood. 

He couldn’t stop himself. 

Pelle ducked down and pressed his mouth to yours hard, immediately able to taste his blood on you. His lips parted and welcomed your tongue, snaking its way into his mouth, groaning at the feeling of swapping blood-covered spit. 

Before he could get too lost in the kiss, you were pulling away. 

You flashed him your teeth and pecked him on the lips one last time before leaving him standing there, watching you walk down the alley and disappear around the corner. 

“Dead!” Euronymous shouted just as the metal door slammed open. “What the fuck are you doing out here? We’ve been calling you.” 

“There was a girl.” He breathed, still staring in the direction you’d gone. “We were kissing.” 

Pelle’s bandmate looked at him like he’d lost his damn mind. 

“You’ve got blood all over your mouth,” He pointed out, barking out a startled laugh “Were you licking your arm, you sick fuck?” 

“No,” Pelle looked at him finally, eyes slightly widened, “She did.” 

“Sure, she did.” Euronymous waved him inside, looking like he didn’t believe him.

“She did!” 

“Did you find him?” Someone called from inside. 

“Yeah.” The Guitarist chuckled, shaking his head, “He was making out with a ghost!” 

Pelle frowned, wondering for a second if he was right.

Dividers made by @saradika-graphics

[badninken]

He's been hauled around by so many people and animals at this point in his life that he's starting to rate them by size and comfort level.

He's literally bent over backwards on a horse ridden by three other men here. He's having this thought in the privacy of his own mind while frowning at the sky, still shot full of lead bullets btw. Peak Law moment.

Episode 690 at 20:54 (the voice acting for this line is amazing)

[xo100]

Shifting gears - LN4

*:･ﾟ Summary: Lando and you, childhood best friends, discover a deeper connection during a drive in his new Porsche. After discussing his playboy image, the conversation takes an unexpected turn, leading to a realization of long-hidden feelings and shifting your relationship from friendship to something more romantic and intimate.

*:･ﾟ Word count: 2250

masterlist / community / request

౨ৎ

The afternoon sun filtered through the tall trees that lined the road, casting dappled shadows over the sleek Porsche as it cruised effortlessly along the winding asphalt. The roar of the engine was almost hypnotic, a perfect blend of power and control, much like its owner. Lando Norris gripped the steering wheel with ease, his fingers drumming absentmindedly as he glanced over at his passenger—his best friend, someone who had been by his side since they were kids.

While Lando had built a reputation for himself as a playboy—charming, confident, and always with a new girl on his arm—you were the complete opposite. Introverted, quiet, and shy. But that’s what made your friendship so special. You balanced each other out.

Today, though, something felt a little different. Maybe it was the car, the air of freedom and luxury it represented, or maybe it was the conversation you were having that shifted the mood. Either way, the usual playful banter between the two of you had taken a slightly more serious turn.

“So, who’s the flavor of the week this time?” you teased, your voice light but carrying a hint of genuine curiosity as you shifted in the leather seat.

Lando chuckled, a low, throaty sound that seemed to vibrate through the car. “Not sure yet. You know how it is,” he replied with a smirk, his eyes never leaving the road.

You rolled your eyes, but there was no judgment in your expression. “Yeah, I know exactly how it is. You with some random girl, one night, maybe two if she’s lucky, and then you’re off to the next. It’s like you’re collecting trophies or something.”

He shrugged. “It’s not that bad. I’m just… having fun. Life’s short, you know?”

You snorted softly. “For you, maybe. I can’t even imagine doing that. Just… being with someone like that, without any meaning. Doesn’t it get old?”

Lando raised an eyebrow, finally glancing over at you. “Why, you thinking about trying it out?” he teased, though his tone carried a hint of something deeper, something that wasn’t quite a joke.

Your face flushed, and you quickly turned to look out the window, trying to hide the sudden rush of heat that crept up your neck. “No,” you muttered, “I’m not like that.”

Silence filled the car for a moment, the hum of the engine the only sound between you. Lando’s eyes flickered back to the road, but his expression was thoughtful now, less playful than usual. “You don’t always have to be so… sweet, you know,” he said after a beat, his voice quieter, almost serious. “It’s okay to let loose sometimes. It doesn’t make you any less… you.”

You blinked, surprised by his words. He wasn’t wrong; you were the “sweet” one, the one who always cared too much, worried too much. But hearing Lando say it so bluntly made you feel strangely vulnerable, like he could see right through your carefully crafted exterior.

“Yeah, well, I’m not the one who’s constantly in the tabloids for having one-night stands with half the population,” you shot back, the words harsher than you intended.

Lando laughed, though there was a sharpness to it. “Touché. But you know, it’s not as glamorous as people make it out to be.”

You frowned, turning back to him. “What do you mean? You always seem like you’re having the time of your life.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, it’s fun, I guess. But it’s not… real, you know? It’s just… I don’t know. It’s easy. I’m used to it.”

For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. You had never heard him talk like this before, so openly about the lifestyle he had embraced. It wasn’t like him to get deep, not about this.

“Then why do you keep doing it?” you asked quietly.

Lando glanced at you, and for the first time, you saw something different in his eyes. Something almost… uncertain.

“Because it’s easier than thinking about what I really want,” he said softly.

The words hung in the air between you, heavy and loaded with meaning. You swallowed, unsure of how to respond, your heart suddenly racing for reasons you couldn’t quite explain.

“What do you mean?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Lando didn’t answer right away. Instead, he pulled the car off the main road, slowing down as he drove into a secluded spot overlooking a lake. The car came to a stop, and the silence that followed was deafening. He turned off the engine, and the two of you sat there, the tension in the air thick and palpable.

“I mean…” Lando began, his voice low, almost hesitant, “I’ve been with a lot of girls, sure. But none of them were ever you.”

Your breath hitched in your throat. “What?”

He turned in his seat to face you fully, his expression serious now, his usual cocky smirk replaced by something softer, more vulnerable. “You. You’re different. You always have been.”

Your mind was racing, trying to process his words, but all you could focus on was the way he was looking at you—like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

“But we’re… friends,” you stammered, your voice shaky.

“I know,” Lando said, his gaze never leaving yours. “And that’s why I’ve never said anything before. But… I don’t know. Lately, it feels like things have changed. Like maybe we’ve changed.”

You didn’t know what to say. You had always been close to Lando, but you had never let yourself think about him like that. He was Lando—the charismatic, carefree playboy who was always with someone else. But now, sitting here in the quiet of his car, it was hard to ignore the way your heart was pounding in your chest, the way his words made your stomach flip.

“I…” you started, but you didn’t know how to finish the sentence.

Lando leaned closer, his hand coming to rest on the edge of your seat, his eyes searching yours for some kind of answer, some kind of sign. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. “And I will.”

But you didn’t tell him to stop. You couldn’t.

Instead, you leaned in, closing the distance between you, your lips meeting his in a soft, tentative kiss. It was slow at first, hesitant, like neither of you were quite sure if this was really happening. But then something shifted. The kiss deepened, and suddenly it was like everything that had been simmering under the surface for years had finally come to a head.

Lando’s hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you closer as his lips moved against yours with more urgency. You could feel the heat of his body, the way his heart was racing just as fast as yours. It was intoxicating, overwhelming, and before you knew it, you were climbing over the center console, straddling him as the kiss grew more heated, more desperate.

You had never done anything like this before—never been this close to someone, never let yourself be this vulnerable. But with Lando, it felt… right. Like this was exactly where you were meant to be.

His hands roamed over your body, his touch sending shivers down your spine. You gasped as he kissed a trail down your neck, his breath hot against your skin. “Lando,” you whispered, your voice trembling with a mix of nerves and anticipation.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes dark and intense as he looked up at you. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice rough, barely controlled.

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. “Yes.”

The next few moments were a blur of tangled limbs and heated kisses, the world outside the car fading into nothing as you lost yourself in him, in the way he made you feel. It wasn’t rushed or careless like you had imagined his one-night stands might be. It was slow, deliberate, and full of a kind of intensity you had never experienced before.

And then, just as quickly as it had started, it was over. You found yourself lying in his arms, the cool leather of the seat beneath you, your breathing still ragged as you tried to make sense of what had just happened.

Lando’s hand stroked your hair gently, his touch comforting, grounding. “You okay?” he asked softly, his voice full of concern.

You nodded, snuggling closer to him. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m okay.”

For a long time, neither of you spoke. The sun had begun to set, casting a golden glow over the lake, and the quiet between you was no longer filled with tension, but with a kind of contentment you hadn’t expected.

Finally, Lando broke the silence. “You know… I didn’t plan for this to happen,” he said, his voice low. “But I’m glad it did.”

You smiled softly, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest. “Me too.”

He shifted beneath you, turning slightly so he could look down at you. “So… what does this mean for us?”

You thought about it for a moment, your mind still spinning from everything that had just happened. But when you looked up into his eyes, you knew the answer.

“It means… maybe we’ve changed,” you said quietly, echoing his words from earlier.

Lando smiled, a real, genuine smile that made your heart

skip a beat. He cupped your cheek gently, his thumb brushing against your skin in a way that made your stomach flutter.

“I guess we have,” he murmured, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your forehead. It was such a simple gesture, but it held a weight of everything unspoken between you. Years of friendship, of shared memories, of teasing and laughter—all of it led to this moment. The line you’d been dancing on for so long had finally blurred, and neither of you could deny it anymore.

For a while, you just lay there, wrapped in each other’s arms, basking in the comfortable silence that followed. The world outside the car seemed distant, irrelevant. It was just you and Lando now, and that felt right.

Eventually, though, the practicalities of life started to creep back in, and you couldn’t ignore them forever. You shifted slightly, sitting up in the seat, the reality of what had just happened slowly settling in.

“So… what now?” you asked, your voice quiet, as if speaking too loudly would break the fragile newness of what had just formed between you.

Lando sat up too, his hand still resting on your thigh, a small, reassuring gesture. He looked at you thoughtfully, as if considering his words carefully. “I don’t want this to be some random, one-time thing,” he said slowly, his voice steady. “You’re not like those girls. You’ve never been. I don’t want to screw this up.”

You smiled softly, feeling your heart swell at his words. “I don’t want that either,” you admitted. “I’ve never thought of us like this before… but now, I can’t imagine it any other way.”

His eyes softened as he leaned in to kiss you again, this time slower, more tender, as if sealing the promise between you. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath warm on your lips.

“I’ve liked you for a long time,” Lando confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. “I just didn’t know how to say it.”

Your heart skipped again, but this time it wasn’t from nerves—it was from the overwhelming realization that you felt the same way. Maybe you’d always felt it, buried somewhere deep down.

“I think I’ve always liked you too,” you admitted, your cheeks flushing slightly at the confession.

Lando’s smile widened, his eyes lighting up with a mixture of relief and joy. “Good. Because I’m not letting you get away now.”

You laughed, the sound light and easy, and for the first time in a long while, everything felt simple. No more games, no more hiding behind jokes or casual flings. Just you and Lando, finally facing what had been there all along.

The sun was almost set now, casting a soft orange glow over the lake as the two of you sat there, side by side, in the quiet of the Porsche. The future felt uncertain in the best way possible, full of possibilities and new beginnings.

Lando gave your hand a squeeze, pulling you out of your thoughts. “You know,” he said, a teasing glint in his eye, “I think this Porsche might be my new lucky charm.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. “Of course you would say that.”

He grinned, that familiar cocky smile back in full force, but this time it was softened by something else—something deeper, more real. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I’ll take you home. But tomorrow… maybe we can go for another drive?”

You nodded, your heart light as you leaned over to kiss him one more time. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

As Lando started the car and pulled back onto the road, you couldn’t help but glance over at him, your best friend—your something more now—and feel grateful for every twist and turn that had led you here.

And as the Porsche sped down the road, the two of you heading into an uncertain future, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning.

౨ৎ

*:･ﾟ Notes; thank you for reading, love’s! Hope you all enjoyed it! If there is something wrong or need to be edited, let me know!

[satellite-evans]

sweet nothing

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Summary: Lando often finds himself running home to your sweet nothings <3

Word count: 1.2k+

Warnings: tooth aching fluff, self doubt, based on the Taylor Swift song

A/N:

I know I know, another Taylor Swift based song, but honestly I could not help myself lol hope you guys enjoy xxx

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

Lando knew the world would always ask more of him.

More speed, more podiums, more perfection.

It was never enough—no matter how hard he pushed, how flawlessly he executed each lap, how many times he stood on the podium drenched in champagne. There was always another race, another challenge, another voice questioning if he could be better, faster, stronger.

He had spent his life chasing milliseconds, his every move analyzed under a microscope. Every qualifying session, every tire strategy, every split-second decision picked apart by experts, fans, and critics alike. The cameras never stopped flashing, the media never stopped pressing, and the world never stopped waiting—waiting for him to falter, to crack under the pressure, to prove he was human after all.

It was exhilarating, yes. But exhausting all the same.

Some days, the weight of expectation settled so heavily on his shoulders that he felt like he might collapse under it. Some nights, even victory felt hollow, lost in the endless cycle of needing to prove himself over and over again.

But when he came home to you, none of it mattered.

Because you asked for nothing.

No questions about strategy, no discussions about points or standings, no expectations he had to meet. Just you—curled up on the couch in one of his oversized hoodies, waiting for him with that familiar, soft smile that made his entire world slow down.

The moment he stepped through the door, the noise of the outside world faded into silence. The cameras, the flashing lights, the headlines—they ceased to exist. Here, he wasn’t Lando Norris, the Formula 1 driver, the rising star, the man under constant scrutiny. He was simply Lando.

“Long day?” you asked softly, setting your book aside as he crossed the room.

He didn’t answer right away—just let out a slow, heavy sigh as he dropped onto the couch beside you, his body sinking into the cushions as though the weight of the world had finally caught up with him. His eyes, usually alight with adrenaline and mischief, were clouded with exhaustion, the telltale signs of another grueling day etched into the tension in his jaw and the furrow of his brow.

You didn’t need to ask for details. You already knew.

Without hesitation, you opened your arms, wordlessly offering him the one thing he could never find anywhere else—solace. And the moment he leaned into you, his body pressing against yours, his face buried in the crook of your neck, he let out another sigh, this time softer, more relieved. The kind of sigh that told you he had been holding his breath all day.

Your fingers found their way into his curls, threading through them with slow, soothing strokes. The steady rhythm of your touch was his anchor, grounding him in a way nothing else could. Not the roar of the engine, not the rush of a podium finish, not the validation of the world’s applause. Just this. Just you.

“Talk to me,” you murmured, your voice a gentle invitation, not a demand.

But he didn’t need to. Because with you, silence was never empty—it was full. Full of unspoken love, of quiet understanding, of a peace he could never quite put into words.

You never asked about his lap times or his championship standings. You didn’t care about the noise of the world outside these four walls—the pressure, the scrutiny, the endless cycle of proving himself again and again. All you ever asked of him was to simply be. To exist without expectation. To rest without guilt. To love and be loved in return.

He shifted slightly, his arms tightening around you as he pressed a lingering kiss to your temple. A silent thank you. A silent I love you. A silent I need this more than you know.

His voice was quiet when he finally spoke. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You smiled, tilting your head to press a soft kiss to his jaw, your lips brushing against his skin like a promise.

“Good thing you’ll never have to find out.”

Lando exhaled a quiet laugh, the kind of soft, sleepy sound that only you ever got to hear. It wasn’t the boisterous, camera-ready chuckle the world knew—it was something smaller, something sweeter, something just for you. He tightened his arms around you, burying his face deeper into the curve of your neck, breathing you in like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground. Like home wasn’t a place but a person.

You.

As the evening stretched on, neither of you moved much, perfectly content in the quiet, tangled mess of limbs and warmth that you’d melted into. The television hummed softly in the background, flickering light dancing against the walls, but neither of you paid it much attention. The real comfort was here, in the way his fingertips traced absentminded patterns against your arm, featherlight and soothing. A subconscious habit—like he needed to remind himself that you were real, that you were here, that this moment belonged to him and no one else.

Every once in a while, he would sigh, a deep, contented sound that made your heart swell. You knew this was rare—Lando allowing himself to simply be. No overanalyzing, no worrying about tomorrow’s practice sessions or race strategies, no weight of expectation crushing his shoulders. Just this. Just love, wrapped up in a lazy, sleepy embrace that neither of you wanted to break.

After a while, you nudged a small box on the coffee table toward him. “I brought your favorite.”

He peeked up, blinking at you sleepily before glancing at the box, the familiar packaging instantly recognizable. His tired features softened, his lips curving into the kind of smile that made your chest feel like it was wrapped in sunshine.

“You always know what I need,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, like he was too at peace to speak any louder.

You grinned, nudging your nose against his in a playful Eskimo kiss. “That’s my job.”

Lando chuckled, shaking his head at you in that affectionate way that made your heart flip. His arms tightened around you, his nose brushing against your cheek, his lips ghosting over your skin with the gentlest, most reverent touch. “Best job in the world.”

And he meant it.

Because what could possibly be better than this? Than coming home to you, to the way you just knew—when he needed quiet, when he needed a distraction, when he needed to be held without saying a word. Than feeling this overwhelming, all-consuming love in the simplest, softest of moments, wrapped up in your warmth, your laughter, your everything.

Eventually, he let himself sink further into you, his head resting against your shoulder, his fingers curling lazily into the fabric of your shirt as his breathing evened out. You felt the way his muscles fully relaxed, the last of his tension melting away, like you were the only safe harbor in a world that constantly asked more of him.

And you were.

The world outside could wait. The pressure, the expectations, the endless cycle of proving himself—it could all wait.

Because right now, he was exactly where he wanted to be.

Home.

And for the first time that day, he felt like he could finally breathe.

Because in a world that always demanded more, you were the one thing that never did.

And that, he knew, was everything.

[mercurial-chuckles]

HIS FIORE - PART 1

Summary: Steve smexy Rogers moves into the neighborhood, and one evening, he catches you sneaking into the building opposite his through the fire escape. He watches curiously, slightly amused and, quite frankly, amazed by you. Guess what he does next? He writes a note, signs it with his middle name, Grant, and slips it under your door. How will you discover that Grant is none other than Captain America? Series Warnings: Language | Eventual smut | Mature content (minors DNI) | Steve’s naughty thoughts | Steve in-love Rogers | Steve possessive jealous Rogers | Drunk Steve (adorable, hot mess) | Neighbors | Secret identity | Steve watching the reader from a distance (slightly stalker-ish…ish) | A smidge of angst | Overloaded fluff | Happy happy ending

Chapter Warning: Language | Steve watching the reader from a distance (slightly stalker-ish…ish) | Good ol' fluff

A/N: Finally finished writing this! Originally, I wrote two parts as connected prompts for Steve Rogers Bingo Round 3, but I've decided to revamp the entire piece. Also, I'm going to try sticking to a schedule--wish me luck! 😉 Banner credits: Me | Photo credits: The internet | Divider credits: @buck-star (Sydney, thanks a trillion ❤️)

Note: Do not Steal, Copy or Plagiarize any part of my work! Check out my other works: Masterlist

His Fiore Series Masterlist

Indulge Away!

Steve was happier, much happier now that the excruciatingly long recruiting was done. It was a nightmare to have Tony during the recruiting, and now that it was all over, Steve would get a good night's rest.

"Maybe you should try asking that nurse from the med-bay...Nina, I think her name is," Natasha had suggested casually as they walked toward the compound's parking garage after the painstakingly long day.

Steve groaned, running a hand over his face. He shot her a sharp look, trying to convey just how disinterested he was in this line of conversation. If Steve could, he would have sprinted away, but with Natasha, there was no escaping a conversation, especially this. She'd been too interested in his personal life or lack thereof.

He was happy with his hobbies: sketching and visiting museums. In fact, he could take up a side gig as a virtual museum guide.

"Look, can we drop it? I'm really not interested," he emphasized firmly as he approached his bike quickly.

Natasha smirked, undeterred. "Might be time to find someone to keep you in check, old man," she teased, climbing into her car.

Steve rolled his eyes as he swung his leg over his bike. Natasha had been relentless about his lack of dating life, going so far as to learn the names of agents and acquaintances she thought might catch his eye.

But she never understood that Steve didn't believe in casual flings or whatever the modern dating concept was. He was a man from another time, one where courting had a clear purpose, and the idea of dating left him uneasy. Maybe he just couldn't shake the insecurity of the scrawny kid from Brooklyn who barely mustered the courage to speak to a girl, let alone charm one.

"You need help setting up your place?" Natasha asked, snapping him out of his thoughts as his bike roared to life.

Steve grinned, slightly grateful she decided to drop the discussion. "I've got a duffel bag of stuff, Nat. I think I can handle it." If he was being honest, he was simply glad he found friends and family, which was more than he could ask for.

She huffed, shaking her head. "At least buy some furniture, Rogers."

"Don't need to. Sam helped me find a furnished place," he countered, his grin widening.

With a quick goodbye, Steve sped off toward his new apartment in Brooklyn.

'This place is a steal,' Sam had told him, a one-bedroom unit with just enough space and a cozy little balcony. Located in a six-story building with five units per floor, Steve's apartment was on the corner, offering a decent view of the street below and, if he leaned far far enough over the railing, a glimpse of Hamilton Park.

Sam, ever resourceful, had pulled some strings with the building's owner, a friend from the VA, to ensure Steve's identity stayed under wraps. Not that most people cared to look twice at the guy in glasses, a baseball cap, and loose clothing. Steve made a point of blending in, and it worked mostly.

By the time he arrived, the neighborhood was bathed in the warm glow of a quiet evening. Steve parked his bike in the designated cellar spot and headed upstairs.

His stomach growled as he stepped into his apartment. The serum gave him an insatiable appetite. Despite the hearty meal he'd had at the compound earlier, he was hungry again.

Making a bowl of soup and a few store-bought dinner rolls that tasted appetizing enough, he stepped out onto the small balcony that connected to the living room while balancing his plate in one hand and a water bottle in another.

Steve's unit was on the 5th floor, and his towering frame made the modest space look smaller, but he was still grateful to have it. On his left, there were two more units.

The view from the balcony stretched over the nearby intersection. A small window beside the balcony door allowed light to stream in. Framing the balcony were sleek black railings, their design simple, providing a clear boundary without obstructing the scenery. Thankfully, the balconies for each apartment were independent, offering a sense of privacy rather than being connected.

Modestly furnished with two petite metal chairs, a small table arranged neatly near the center, and a compact two-seater bench sat at the edge, positioned to take advantage of the view, Steve's balcony was more functional in comparison to his neighbor's, which looked cozy and inviting in the faint glow of series lights and vibrant looking furniture.

Settling into a chair, Steve let out a content sigh. The sounds of the city filtered out, and he felt a rare moment of peace. This was good, Steve thought. Perhaps he could get a larger chair.

The evening air was warm, and as the sky darkened, he finished his meal, settling back in his chair to enjoy the peacefulness of the moment.

He was about to head inside to play some music and sleep off the day's stress when he noticed a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye.

Curiosity piqued, Steve leaned forward, glancing toward the source. You were pulling down the fire escape stairs in the opposite building.

The stairs were only five feet from the ground, but you struggled to grip the first one and had to fight to get your footing on the next. With surprising speed, you managed to steady yourself, though nearly slipping. You quickly hugged the metal stairs, and Steve's heart raced, expecting you to fall at any moment.

You mumbled something, then began climbing.

Steve initially thought you might be up to something…a thief maybe, albeit a beautiful one.

Despite the precariousness of your situation, there was something undeniably intriguing about you. Steve was grateful for his enhanced vision because he almost had a clear view of you. Your silhouette in the dim light revealed a lithe figure, and the determined expression on your face only made him more curious.

Steve instinctively moved closer to the railings, ready to intervene if necessary. Either you were up to trouble or were going to hurt yourself, and it didn't seem like a good idea to let you keep going.

Just as he was about to call out, you jumped onto the balcony and, with a proud little flourish, did a victory lap.

Steve couldn't help but smile, silently chuckling at the sight. You wore shorts and a simple T-shirt with an angry dog saying, 'Bite me,' and a huge band-aid on your left knee. He knew this was going to be etched in his memory.

He decided to wait a moment, intrigued by what you would do next. If you gave him any reason to act, he was ready--but he watched in silence for now.

To his utter shock, you pulled a water jug from somewhere behind you on the balcony filled with plants, and you began watering them, which was when Steve's focus shifted to the balcony opposite him. It was beautiful. The garden was full of various plants and creepers, flourishing vibrant flowers.

Steve leaned forward, utterly captivated. You moved with such care while watering, gently wiping away the remnants of old leaves and tenderly touching the plants. At one point, you even blew a flying kiss to a few of them. And then, were you… talking to them? His surprise deepened, and he instinctively ducked behind the railing, hoping to remain unnoticed as he observed the scene.

After a while, you carefully descended from the fire escape, moving toward the edge. You hesitated, looking down at the ground with a mix of apprehension and determination.

From his vantage point, the height was nothing when he was so used to jumping from the buildings, and you looked adorable, silently praying before jumping.

But you miscalculated and landed hard on your butt with a loud thud.

"Every fucking time," you muttered to yourself, loud enough for Steve to hear.

He couldn't hold back a laugh at the sight of your disgruntled expression, utterly charmed by everything you did.

Steve bit his lip, trying to suppress a laugh. He didn't want to be too loud, though he couldn't help it. Watching you rub your ass and mumble about the pavement, he couldn't help but notice. You had a sexy ass.

What the hell? He was horrified at where his thoughts were going, shaking his head to clear it. No. Focus.

He watched as you crossed the street, disappearing into his building as you entered the main door and out of his view. He stood there, staring straight ahead, his mind caught in a swirl of thoughts about you. A small, uncontrollable smile crept onto his face.

You lived in his building.

He glanced across at the beautiful, tiny garden where you had just been and felt an unexpected warmth bubble up inside him.

Minutes later, he heard shuffling from the balcony next door. His heart raced. He quickly retreated into his apartment, hoping--praying--that it was you. And yes, there you were.

With the light still turned off in his unit, he opened the small window to the balcony beside the door, leaning out slightly, not wanting to be seen.

You had a tube of what looked like ointment in your hand, your smile bright as you gazed at the opposite balcony.

You sat down and removed the band-aid on your knee. Steve winced as you hissed in pain, muttering a string of profanities. He rolled his eyes, tempted to step outside and tell you off for your language, but his thoughts quickly turned to something else. I could totally spank some manners.

His mind immediately snapped back to focus. His thoughts had never jumped in that direction before. Never. He shook it off, blaming it on the fact that he'd not been so attracted to someone so quickly.

He focused on the injury you were tending. What appeared to be a small scrape was a large bruise, and Steve could feel a sharp pang of concern for you as you winced, applying the ointment carefully.

You disappeared inside, leaving him with a sense of disappointment. He peeked out, checking to see if you had gone to bed. To his surprise, you came out again, this time with a book.

Steve watched you for what felt like hours, a smile never leaving his face. He felt content, oddly happy to have moved here, and it was not just because it was a decently prized single-bedroom apartment with a balcony. It was more to do with you being his neighbor.

~

This continued for the next few days, and Steve wasn't proud of it. He had become that guy--watching his neighbor like some sort of creep. But he couldn't help himself. It was therapeutic, in a way, watching you.

You moved with such care. Steve could see you filling a watering can, tending to the plants with such gentleness. There was something almost reverent in the way you whispered to them.

He found himself wanting your attention and the need to know you, hear you talk, feel your touch, and hold him the way you did with the plants so tenderly grew in him every second of the day.

And he needed to hold you as tended as a flower. His flower. His Fiore. Delicate and beautiful.

~

Two weeks had passed, and Steve couldn't stop thinking about you.

With his hectic schedule and sudden missions, he hardly had a fixed schedule. He had to leave early and return late at night, and though he tried to adjust his schedule, it was no use. He had no idea where you worked, either.

'Maybe I could ask Nat for help,' Steve thought, but he quickly dismissed the idea. Getting Nat involved would be a disaster.

It was a catastrophe in his head anyway because the thought of you consumed him, and as the days went by, he decided to act. He'd leave you a note just to see what would happen. A way to break the ice, if nothing else.

He slipped a note under your door.

Was it creepy? Maybe.

Could he help himself? No.

Maybe, just maybe, you'd see it as romantic.

Dear Fiore,

I must say, the garden looks beautiful. Your nightly rescue missions seem to pay off.  Keep up the good work. This is your next-door neighbor.

–Grant

He'd changed the note a dozen times before settling on that, trying to keep it casual and sound cool, not revealing who he really was yet being somewhat truthful.

Steve hadn't felt that anxious outside of missions in his modest existence except when he got the serum, his palms were sweaty, and his nerves were dangling tenuously by a damn thread as he waited for your response.

The whole night, Steve was hyper-focused on every tiny sound around him. He slept in the wee hours of the morning, cursing his enhanced senses, worried sick if you'd knock on his door to tell him off, to mind his business.

The next morning, he found a note from you and finally could breathe again, a smile tugging at his lips when he read it. No one could dampen his mood all day, not the stubborn ass SHIELD secretary, not the stick-up-their-butts agents, and not even Tony calling him Cap, Capsicle or whatever the hell he seemed to come up with.

Hey Grant,

Welcome to the apartment, neighbor! Terry, from the third floor, told me someone had moved next door to me. You know about my secret plant ops! I'm not sure whether to be flattered or annoyed that you were watching me. But thank you? The plants need all the love they can get. I've seen those people bring tons of plants, let them die and replace them with new ones. Can you believe it? I couldn't just leave the plants to die now, can I?  :(

PS: Love the name Fiore! Name's Y/N, BTW.

–Fiore

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[a-hermit-pining]

LaDS Men with a Monster Reader

AN: Guess who was in bed and got up to write this? This dumbass. But seriously love the idea. Why become a monsterfucker when you can make them the ones to do it? POV me, coming up with my own myths because I can't afford LaDS 😭

Pairing: LaDS boys x gn monster reader

Ingredients: 65% angst, 25% tension, 10% comfort ig

My Fav: Zayne and Sylus. No questions asked.

Summary: Of all the births and rebirths, this one was unlike the others. There was no gentle calling from beyond, no familiar warmth pulling you into form, only a hiss, sharp and ancient, splitting the stillness. The air was thick with the scent of pine and dew, alive with the pulse of something older than memory. Gleaming golden eyes locked onto theirs, not with recognition, but with chaos barely contained.

Xavier:

He had been fighting, running his sword through wanderers in an unnamed ancient forest, a dance he had grown used to in your absence. He would rather rid himself of them waiting for you. Save all his time for another lifetime with you.

That is, until his sword quivered, striking a rock. A giant rock. He looked up. Staring back at the rock. And it stared back.

Golden eyes, narrowed in rage. A hunched form. A shattering growl.

Yet, his heart thrummed in recognition. Even in this form, he came to know you, at very first sight.

Not quite a wanderer. No, you were different. A form made of the very core of life. Antlers of obsidian, lithe limbs, and fangs glaring at him from your pulled-back lips.

His blade slipped from his fingers, useless now, as your snarl triggered a memory, firelight in a cottage, your laughter. Lifetimes ago. Still you

Xavier stepped back, his hands raised. His eyes lit up. "I mean no harm," he whispered, unwilling to scare you. To spare you from the blooming joy that threatened to unravel him, at your sight.

Rafayel:

Tales of your presence preceded your meeting with him.

A sea serpent, some whispered, while others babbled of a vicious hydra.

He had not expected to find himself in your lair.

The world had not given him any sign of your presence, not until he stood in your empty nest, which held a single scale. His scale. Carefully kept in the safest of your havens.

He knelt down, picking it up, feeling his skin greet a lost part of itself, itching to be reunited. But stronger was the pull to seek you.

Reaching into the ancient parts of himself, Rafayel summoned the power of the Sea God, to seek your whereabouts, to wrestle the sea itself before another got to you.

That is when he hears it, a distant yelp, a confused half-form thought in the tongue of the sea. The sight of a human vessel from your eyes. He feels the faraway sear of fire, and then, rage.

Unrelenting wrath of an invaded home. The complaint of seas themselves in your roar.

Snapping awake, Rafayel rushed. His thoughts half-formed, his emotions riled by yours. His powers rose up to meet you, barely held back by him. He had to resist it. Bring you back to safety. Revenge could wait.

Zayne:

He heard the tinkling laughter in the air surrounding him first. The tenth day of his trek. In the solace of mountains that had pulled him closer since childhood. That took away the memory of lost lifetimes.

Surrounded by bare snowland, his eyes fell upon you. His breath lost to the altitude, and what stood in front of him.

The very form of seduction itself, draped over the tundra, bare. Your eyes lazily traced over him, your lips red and pulled back in a lazy smile. Your eyes, drooped, yet so vibrant.

And nine tails, spread around you, tracing your own curves, making Zayne's eyes follow their every move.

"Come, traveler," you beckon him with your hand. "Let me allow you some warmth." A mischievous glint lit your gaze as it traveled to his backpack.

And Zayne, without resistance, walked. Kneeling in front of you, no better than a reverent worshipper. Had his heart already felt you? Had the mountains held you for him?

Your ice-cold hand traveled up his arm. "Mmm… a mark of Astra," you whispered contemplatively as you assessed him. "How very fun," you grinned, rising him to kiss his lips.

Sylus:

Waking up with horns had to be a sign. He had tried denying it. It was too early. Too soon after your last death. Trapped in the tomb of your last remaining memories, Sylus had been grieving when he felt scales climb up his neck.

He had forgotten that past long ago, of the doomed lifetime of a dragon. Why not? Was the grief to drive him mad?

He sipped the bitter amber in his glass, his fingers moving over a framed photo of you and him.

In the unlit room, he fell asleep in your closet once again.

Dreams of the cave, of treasure, plagued his mind. And then of you. No... it was not... but, "come to me," it hissed. "Come to me," it repeated.

His hands hovered over a scaled back, so familiar. His fingers ran over the hardened skin, as he felt it shiver and settle closer to him. Mate, the word flashed in his mind. Not his thought. No... it was your voice. In his mind.

The word echoed, not in his ears, but through his bones. His spine arched. Horns pulsed. His dragon soul, long buried, stirred awake. He did not know how long it would last. He had to memorize it, until you returned.

"Sylus," it called, full of longing, of knowledge of past, present, and future. "Come to me." A breath ghosted over his neck. "Wake up. Seek me," it admonished in exasperation, nipping at his ear with surprising gentleness.

Just when he dared to look up, Sylus awoke, stumbling and falling out of the closet, his horns slamming against the floor painfully.

A distant snort echoed in his mind.

Caleb:

He sat with his back next to your enclosure. His eyes alert, fixed on the door. There was no other way.

He could not guard you better anywhere but here.

His mind alert to every noise. He would not allow it. Clutched in his palm was a card. A simple admin card with tons of permissions. Tonight, after the meds, he would escape with you. No matter what. His other hand clutched at the syringe hidden in his pocket.

Away from all who held you for your heart. All who made you into this.

Howling, cowering creature of agony and misery.

He could hear the pained gasps of your breath. The latest modification had been worse than any.

Somehow, making the very act of breathing a challenge.

No amount of comfort had worked. No breathing exercise offered you relief.

Alone with him, he could hear your whimpers. Slow, hidden tears of a creature of the lab.

His own eyes full, his head resting against the glass.

This was a punishment. For the past week, where you had, in pain, lunged at one of the scientists. It had not lessened since then.

Days of pain. And nights of pained moans. They did not allow you mercy of death, to escape the form of a monster they bestowed upon you with force. Kept you teetering on the edge, to watch the madness give way to resignation.

To watch life die in the eyes of the one who could not die. It was sick pleasure.

But no more. He had found you. Becoming a guard, one of them, he came to you. "We will leave soon, and pain will go away. I will take away the pain," he turned to look at you. "And I vow to return it to them a thousandfold."

He rested his forehead against the glass, imagining your laugh again. Not this rasping, hunted thing. But of the one who you were, before the needles, before the pain.

[readwritealldayallnight]

A Stranger is a Friend You Haven’t Met Yet…

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Reader

wc: 2.5k words

warnings/tags: brief allusions to m masturbation

He should have known it would start pouring.

It had been that kind of day after all. More like than kind of week if the Lieutenant was being honest with himself. They’d been stuck on base for well over a month now, doing what felt to him like absolutely bloody nothing. He knew that wasn’t the case. Periods of lull happened from time to time in this career, they were still training diligently, gathering intel, running simulations, but Simon was becoming antsy.

As the days of not seeing any active combat turned into weeks, Ghost had gone through more packs of smokes than he cared to keep track of. He was itching for something to do, something that got his blood pumping and adrenaline coursing through his veins, in a way he couldn’t achieve through an intense workout or sparring session. His Captain was noticing his demeanour as well. Which in hindsight, was likely why the older man had tossed Ghost a set of keys late one evening after a particularly drab day. He’d told his Lieutenant to get some air, advising him to try and return before the soft pitter patter of raindrops that had steadily been falling all day turned into a proper storm. He sent him on his way, not without cautioning him against getting any scratches.

“On me or the bike, sir?” Ghost had teased the Captain, thanking him with a nod of his head as he accepted the motorcycle’s keys. But now an hour later, those soft raindrops had indeed began to increase in frequency, the wind equally picking up speed, whipping the drops across his helmet to and fro as he sped down any open stretch of road he came across. It’d already been dark out when he’d left base with the feeling of a roaring engine underneath him, but it was now becoming increasingly difficult to see through the visor of his helmet.

Most roads around the base were empty and desolate, considering there wasn’t much else in the area for a few klicks, and so Ghost found himself thankful for the sparse streetlights that began to appear as he ventured closer towards the city. He was still in a fairly quiet area, especially combined with the time of night and weather, and so as he began considering turning around and cutting his ride short, Ghost was especially surprised to spot what appeared to be a lone figure standing under one of those lamp posts.

Not just some figure, but a girl.

Ghost blinked twice, unsure if he was imagining things. But she was still standing there, soaked to the bone and frantically poking shivering fingers at a cell phone. His bike slowed down as he approached her, acting almost on instinct, without considering what he was going to do. He just saw her and immediately knew he was going to do something.

She jumped in surprise as the loud bike approached, gaze lifting from the phone in her hands and landing on the source of the rumbling noise. Ghost planted a foot on the ground, leaving enough space between them as to hopefully not frighten her any further than he might have already, but close enough to see her properly through the rain. And when her gaze lifted to the visor of his helmet and locked eyes with him, he swears his heart stopped beating right then and there.

You were quite the sight to behold. Hair dripping as if you’d just dunked your hair under water, strands sticking to your face and neck, clothes completely soaked through, any exposed flesh was covered in goose bumps and your entire body was shivering. Your makeup was smudged slightly around your eyes, your lips were parted in surprise and you gave out the tiniest little “Oh!” upon his approach. You were nothing short of mesmerizing. What were you doing out here all alone?

“Y’alright?” Ghost has to half shout to be heard over the roaring of the engine and the steady falling of the rain. He watches you blink through the raindrops clinging to your eyelashes and he has to bite back the urge to rip his helmet off and lick the drops sliding down your face. Christ what the fuck is wrong with him?? Where did that come from??

“I- I’m lost! I’ve been trying to call for a cab, but-” you’re cut off by a small gasp of displeasure as a cold gust of wind hits you. “Reception out here isn’t working!” You shout back to him. Ghost finds himself momentarily mortified by the movement he felt in his pants in reaction to the noise you just made, but he pushes those thoughts aside and glances around him.

“How’d you end up out here? S’not safe!” He for some reason finds himself displeased with the idea of you walking up and down this desolate stretch of road, late at night, getting yourself sick in this weather you aren’t even properly dressed for. You’re nothing short of a vision on legs, who would allow you to be out here by yourself like this? You open your mouth as if to answer him, but Ghost shakes his head, having already made up his mind. “Where you tryin’ to get to?”

“Was supposed to get dropped off at The Morris. Didn’t realize there was more than one…” you tell him sheepishly, glancing down at your shoes as if you’re the one who should be embarrassed that the cabbie dropped you off at some dingy old pub by the same name as your hotel, and left you in the pouring rain when you clearly didn’t look sure of yourself. Ghost decides then and there that he does not like to see you looking so upset and down on yourself, especially if there’s anything he can do about it. He’s planting his other foot down on the ground now, pulling his helmet off his head and thrusting it in your direction in the blink of an eye.

“S’not far from here. Hop on, I’ll take ya.” He says, holding the helmet out to you as he adjusts the black surgical mask he’d donned beforehand. He is momentarily thankful he switched masks out at the last minute. He’s never cared whether his usual Ghost masks intimidate anyone before, that’s kind of the point of them. But for you, being approached late at night in the dark by a large strange man on a motorcycle offering you a ride, he’s grateful that you’re looking into his eyes rather than through his usual mask. Still, he can sense the hesitation rolling off of you. You’re obviously in a predicament, and this stranger is your new best hope, but you’re still cautious. Good girl, he thinks to himself. “Can’t just leave ya out here, love. Wouldn’t be right of me.” He cringes internally at his use of the nickname, but he watches as your gaze drops to the helmet in his still extended hand. “You’ve my word, I’ll keep ya safe.”

At that, you look up into his eyes again, and you must see something there that appeases whatever part of you still wants to deny a stranger, because your small hand slips the phone into your back pocket before both hands each out to grasp the helmet, a small sheepish smile on your face.

“I don’t know, my mother always said not to take rides from strangers…” You said, pushing the wet strands of hair away from your face as best as you could. Wait, were you teasing him now? He can’t help the small surprised chuckle that slips past his lips.

“Well,” he replies, watching as you don the helmet and attempt to adjust the chin strap. Your fingers have gone numb from the cold and are shaking, struggling to complete your task. He extends a hand out gently in offering, raising an eyebrow as well, before you nod in approval. His own hands reach out to grab onto the straps, careful not to pinch your skin in the process. “My mum always said that a stranger was a friend you hadn’t met yet.” He actually could remember his mum saying that to him once as a small boy. A rare happy memory that was still nestled in the deep recesses of Ghost’s subconscious.

“Thanks.” You answer as he retracts his hands reluctantly. “Suppose if I knew your name we wouldn’t be strangers anymore.”

Ghost can’t help but to freeze momentarily at that. You’re asking for his name. His name. For some reason he cannot name at the second, he doesn’t want you to call him Ghost. Something about it feels unnatural to the moment that’s happening before him. However, he isn’t about to utter the name Simon. He can’t even remember the last time someone called him by his first name, it might’ve been Price ages ago. The rain is still pouring down on your both, wind whipping you from all sides, and so in a split second, Ghost decides to say:

“Riley. Name’s Riley.” And to his utter amazement, you smile up at him after that. A beautiful, genuine, earth-shattering smile. All because of his name?? He has to actively fight to listen past the beating of his own heart to hear you offer him your name. And it’s a sound that etches itself into his memory right then and there.

As much as he wants to stand here forever just gazing at you, he wants to get you out of this weather more. Again, without really thinking about it, Ghost is slipping his leather jacket off and insists on slipping it onto your frame, mentioning something about the roads being slippery and not wanting you to get road rash. When you tell him you’ve never ridden on a motorcycle before, he helps direct you in how to sit behind him, showing you where to hold onto him with your delicate hands around his midsection. Ghost is glad you’re behind him and can’t see the way his face has gone beet red at the feeling of your touch. He’s telling you to hold on tight, knowing he’s going to be driving half the speed he normally would without such precious cargo in tow.

The ride isn’t a very long one, and Ghost finds himself wishing he could have a word with whatever cabbie left you out there like that when it was this easy to drop you off where you were meant to be. But as he approaches your destination, his mind begins to wander. What are you doing out here? A pretty little bird like yourself shouldn’t be alone to begin with, and there isn’t anything out here for tourists or sightseers. This area really is predominantly just the military base and its few surrounding businesses before reaching the next city.

Are you staying at the hotel near base because you’re visiting someone there? A boyfriend or a husband? He doesn’t find it likely, considering he found you by yourself and you were trying to get in contact with a cab rather than someone you may know around here. Still, the thought of there being someone in your life leaves a bad taste in Ghost’s mouth, though he knows it is wholly unjustified.

As the bike slows down in front of your hotel and settles under an awning, allowing temporary reprieve from the rain, Ghost finds himself stepping off first to help you with your descent. He wordlessly helps unfasten the helmet and gently slips it off your head, hearing your sweet little laugh as you brush back the hair that got messy on the ride, slipping off his jacket and handing it back to him. Now you’re gazing up at him and Ghost isn’t sure what to say or do but he finds himself, more than anything, grateful that he was the one to find you tonight, knowing that he got you here safe and sound.

“I really can’t thank you enough. I’m not sure how long I’d been standing there, but I might just get feeling back in my toes by the end of the night now.” You mention with a small giggle at the end, yet another sound that Ghost finds himself wanting to memorize forever.

He opens his mouth in an attempt to wave you off. It really wasn’t a big deal in the end, if anything you gave him a purpose tonight. He goes to tell you as much, but then your small hand is reaching up, landing on his bicep in what feels like a hot iron touching his muscle directly, before you whisper to him:

“You’re a good man, Riley.”

With a gentle squeeze to his arm, and one last soft smile, you’re turning around and walking through the front doors, leaving a 6’4” mountain of a man frozen in place and face burning hot as it ever has.

He’s back at base within the hour, and has already replayed every moment of your interaction over and over in his mind, that by the time he’s in the shower and has his fist wrapped around his steel hard cock, he feels like he can still hear your laugh, still feel your delicate touch on his skin. He reminds himself that there’s no way any of these chumps on base are the reason you’re around, none of these men were there for you tonight when you needed them, but he was. That’s what Simon reminds himself as he stokes his thumb over his tip, spreading the drops of precome up and down his shaft, imagining that it’s your hand instead. That’s what he tells himself to ensure he feels guilt free as he thinks of you calling him ‘a good man’, as he spills over his hand in record time, your name choking in the back of his throat, his eyes rolling back in pleasure.

The next morning as he’s sitting next to Soap for the morning briefing, he can’t stop thinking of you. It’s bittersweet to think that he will never see you again, but at the same time, he can forever keep last nights events as a treasured memory for himself, keeping it tucked away for when he needed it. He’s never going to share that story with anyone, not Soap, not the Captain, not even his journal will be hearing of you. He wants you all to himself in his mind only. Hell, he very well might have imagined you last night for all he knows, an illusion his mind created to entertain him, even for just a short period. He’s hardly listening to the Scot yapping next to him about some new translator finally arriving, rolling his eyes when he hears him whine that he hopes it’s ‘a bonnie lass this time’.

“You’ll do well to mind yourself Sergeant.” Price says to Soap, not bothering to look up from the papers he’s going through. “Been tryin’ to get ahold of her for a long feckin’ time now.”

“So it is a lass??” Soap asks with no attempt to hide his excitement.

“Last time I checked, yes, I’m still a ‘lass’.” Comes a new voice from the doorway. Everyone’s gazes have snapped towards the newest figure to enter the briefing room. Everyone’s but Ghost. Because he recognizes that voice.

It’s you.

Part 2 Part 3

[annewithaneofthegreengable]

Kinktober - Day 2

2nd — choking, Lewis Hamilton

The previous day I The next day I Kinktober masterlist I Main list

Cat and mouse. You’d spent your life running from Lewis, all while trying to catch up with him, consider him both some sort of your admiration, an idol, no less but at the same time all you want to do is to beat him, to be the only one beside Michael Schumacher to match up with him, 7 titles. You did try to put him in the back of your mind, but he was everywhere you went. He is still there on the track, fighting neck to neck with you every weekend. He is there during the drivers’ parade, in the debriefing room, in Monaco, he is even your neighbour. And you hated it, you hated him for having haunted you in your sleep, your mind, even your body almost every second you were awake or asleep. But how can you stop it? You can’t. Not when it comes to Lewis Hamilton anyway. Instead, you have a big fat crush on him. 

You’ve felt it for a while now, this strange tension. It’s always been there, bubbling beneath the surface whenever you’re near him. The world sees your rivalry, two fierce competitors battling it out for glory on the track, but they don’t see the real war—the one that takes place inside you every single day. You despise him, don’t you? Or at least, you try to. But there’s something magnetic about him, something you can’t shake. You tell yourself it’s just the competition, that burning desire to be better, to prove that you’re the one who belongs at the top. And yet, it’s more than that, isn’t it? It’s the way he carries himself, the confidence in his every move, every word. He doesn’t just race to win—he is the race, the man who’s conquered everything in his path, and no matter how hard you try, you can’t ignore that. You’re used to pressure, to the heat of the moment, to the roar of engines and the sting of sweat in your eyes as you push yourself harder, faster, always looking for that apex. But when it comes to him—Lewis—it’s different. The pressure comes from inside, twisting in your gut, tightening in your chest. It’s like an itch you can’t scratch, a need you can’t quite name. Every glance across the paddock, every shared moment in front of the cameras or behind closed doors feels like an unspoken challenge. And God, you hate it. You hate that he gets to you in ways no one else can. But underneath the frustration, there’s something else—something darker, something that pulls at you in the quiet moments when no one’s looking. 

At least that’s what you thought. You thought all your glances were discreet, but he noticed it all.  The way your eyes lingered just a little too long when he entered the room. The soft smile that played on your lips when you thought no one was looking. Even the moments when you'd glance away quickly, your pulse quickening, pretending to focus on something else. He saw it all, every flicker of interest, every moment of hesitation. You didn't realize how often his eyes found you, how he'd quietly observe the subtle shift in your expression when your gazes accidentally met. He never said anything. Just let it unfold in silence, a game only he seemed to be playing. 

Back to now, you had your hands on your steering wheels, eyes locked onto the track waiting for 5 red lights to go out. There were 5 races left. It is the United States Grand Prix. You knew this was going to be a difficult race but you knew your team was going to get you through the race quickly and safely. Everything felt super surreal to you at the moment. You were ready. You knew this race was going to be a good one. You felt it in your bones. All of a sudden it was “lights out and away we go!”. Everything was going well until lap 49. You and Lewis had been battling all race long. Suddenly,  your car was hit from the left side and the next thing you know, you and Lewis were all done for the race, with no points at all. you’re both fuming when you head back to the paddock, Lewis comes to your driver’s room and knocks on the door, which you assume that it’s someone from your team looking for you so you open the door

“What the hell do you want?” you scowl at him. 

“An apology would be better, Lewis says, pushing his way into your room while you scoff at him, shutting the door behind you. 

“An apology for what? I assume it is you who owes me an apology.” 

“You fucked up my race, you took both of us out.”

“Me?! you crashed into me!” 

you go back and forth like that for a couple of minutes before your back is slammed against the wall

“God do you ever shut up?” Lewis asks

“Make me then,” you say.

Neither of you could deny the sexual tension between the two of you that had been growing more and more with each race weekend. So when your lips crashed onto one another, neither of you were surprised. You can practically feel the tension still radiating from his body; his muscles taught and flexing, rippling underneath his skin where it was flush against yours. Barley a minute Lewis is now shoving you against the wall. 

"You drive me crazy... " He whispers huskily in your ear as his hands slowly trail down your backside, gripping you tightly. Lewis then picks you up and wraps your legs around his waist, carrying you over to the couch, where he gently lays you down.

He crawls over you on the couch, his muscular body pinning you down. Lewis's intense green eyes bore into yours, filled with lust and barely contained desire. “You've been teasing me all season, haven't you?” His voice is low and gravelly as he grinds his hips against yours.

His hands slide under your racing suit, caressing the soft skin of your thighs. Lewis leans down, his lips brushing against your neck as he inhales your scent. “God, you smell incredible…” He places hot, open-mouthed kisses along your throat, his teeth grazing your pulse point.

Lewis's hands roam your body possessively as he kisses you deeply, his tongue delving into your mouth to tangle with yours. He groans into the kiss, his hardening length pressing insistently against your core through the thin fabric of your racing suit. “I want you so badly..”

“Then have me.” You whisper back while your fingers gripping onto his broad back. 

With a growl, Lewis shreds your racing suit, baring your skin to his touch. He rains kisses all over your body, his hands mapping out every curve and contour. When he finally settles between your thighs, he looks up at you with fire in his eyes. “You're mine.”

“I think I have already been yours since before I knew it.”

Lewis's expression softens briefly before a hungry grin spreads across his face. He leans down and kisses you slowly, sensually, as he slowly enters you. He pauses to allow you to adjust before beginning to move, his hips rolling in a rhythm that drives you both wild. “Say it again…”

“I’m yours, Lewis. As long as you have me.”

With a satisfied groan, Lewis buries himself deep inside you, his movements becoming more frantic as he loses himself in the feeling of being reunited with you. He captures your mouth in a bruising kiss, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he pounds into you. 

“Mine... You're mine…”

You feel a surge of emotion wash over you as you realize that despite the tension between you and Lewis on the track, he still considers you are his. The passion between you intensifies, and you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him even closer.

“No one else fucks you this good, isn’t that right baby?” Lewis whispers darkly against your ear.

You attempt to sound an answer to his question, but all that ends up leaving your mouth is a pathetic mewl as he fucks you even harder, slamming into you. 

One of his hands then snakes to your front, gliding up your body until his fingers wrap around your throat. His eyes are dark with an intense lust, a slight anger that you’d probably find frightening if it wasn’t so arousing. 

“Answer me, sweetheart,” he seethes. “Use your words,” he commands with unquestionable authority. 

His fingers squeeze your throat for a second, a promise of what was to come, a challenge to try and answer his question.

“Y-yes,” you barely manage croak, your voice breathy.

“Yes, what?” He snarls, his teeth scraping across the delicate skin of your ear.

“No one fucks me… fucks me as good as you,” you whisper brokenly, your eyes wide and pleading as you look back at him.

Lewis keeps his hand around your neck as he continues to fuck you. His eyes locked with yours, Lewis tightens his grip on your throat, not enough to cut off your air supply, but just enough to make you feel dominated. 

“Fuck, you gonna come, baby. You love it with my hand on your throat, don’t you,” he said. 

Your face turns red from the lack of oxygen and the intense pleasure. You nod eagerly, digging your nails into his shoulder. The tension between you two on the track may have been fierce, but in the room, it was even hotter.

Lewis tightens his grip slightly, his muscular arm flexing with the effort. He leans in close, his hot breath tickling your ear as he growls. “That's it, take it like the champ you are. I know you can handle it.”

He squeezes your throat a bit harder, cutting off your air supply completely for a few seconds before releasing it. You gasp desperately for breath, your body shaking with the effort. “Fuck, you look so pretty when you can't breathe,” he says, his voice dripping with lust.

Your vision starts to blur and you feel yourself losing consciousness, but the pressure on your cervix and the lack of oxygen keep you on the edge of orgasm.

With a final, brutal thrust, he slams into you and tightens his hand around your throat.Stars explode in your vision as the lack of oxygen and the force of your release hit you at the same time. He collapses on top of you, his breath hot on your neck as he nuzzles into the crook of your shoulder. He loosens his grip on your throat, allowing you to drag in ragged breaths. "Good girl," he purrs softly, planting a gentle kiss on your neck.

He rolls off of you, pulling you close to his sweat-slicked body. His strong arms wrap around you possessively. "You're mine now, you know that? I don't care about the track, about our rivalry. In here, you belong to me."

Taglist: @formula1-motogpfan @iamafootballfanmiasanmia @arian-directioner @annimausi @mythicalmaven @lucycowr @hamilton-mount @Chuxk-leclerk @landosgirl @Kikiaaaay @iluvvmeeee @stars4me @starz4me1 @fxrmuladaydreams @Ashleyo1611 @ln-fours @cloud-55 @neo-stay @mysteriesincorporated @nzygftoji @dinodumbass @qxeenjen @lilmacabe @9fi @sya-skies @toriiez @jud-3 @ryl-xoxo @fandomz-queenie @gracie23x @kr1sblog @b-law @F1fan24 @taylorsdoratheafr @missevrythingg @salma @cherrypopsicle @toasterpiastri @uhhvictoria @01rrdbull @aracelys-stuff @horseymchorse3 @lou-ghoul @unknownmystery22 @thisbitxhs-blog @toxicdreamer296 @maxivstappen @si1ver06 @mendes-bae @bestgirlie @mbioooo0000 @depressedgiftedburnout @lieslostinsilence @chaoticversion @kaydesssssssss @maryelizaart @milkyymelanine @bisrae @carlando4 @mystichandspruneshark @sweetwh0re @larastark3107 @fiveyjustin @moonchildlec @bicrazybabe @maximumflaps @sainzwife @i--sa @liviav @nitonan-blog @moodymoony71 @horrible-decision @verstappenluv111 @Meyla123X @bea-stilinksi24 @Hayley125 @imjustme-n @elizamoe133 @bernelflo @evie-likes-stuff @anne1444444 @celtis--vr @rockytheluver @orlafitz1664 @aliceespector @ricciadosredbull @novelant @briannamh07 @oliveswiftly @hotlapshottakes @sinners-98-world @ramenblutte @fallenlunar @little-nando14 @fore45fore @importantduckhumanoidpatrol @eroselless @strabunny @sydneyhlove @jkdaddy01 @multi-fandom5 @f1-hoff @kittylolly4 @reguluscrystals @uhhvictoria @arian-directioner @forza-dolce @dukeofjjune @vimayxo @ilove-tswizzle @peachapat119

[yandere-romanticaa]

"How long do you plan on keeping me here?" you ask with a slight sneer. The man in question hardly pays you any mind as his large back is still turned to you, his attention seemingly fully concentrated on some flashing images on the screen that change every few seconds.

All those weeks ago, you had been swallowed by a black hole and found yourself in a completely new dimension and by some strange twist of fate Miguel O'Hara had discovered you. He would often call you an "anomaly" and would say how you must go back home but should stay here in the meantime. Traveling through dimensions is rough on tough guy like him let alone a regular civilian who had zero combat experience. He would keep you close to him and his office, giving you little tasks and chores to keep you from dying of boredom and to, quite frankly, keep you away from the sea of endless Spidermen who were more than curious about your person as a whole, which risked you picking up their bad jokes and stupid attitude and Miguel was just not in the mood to deal with that. You relationship was purely professional with a slight humorous twist from time to time. Miguel was so easy to rile up, how could you not mess with him? Be it rearranging his stuff, poking and pinching his cheeks in order to get some sort of hilarious reaction out of him Miguel became your main source of entertainment. His stone cold attitude always backfired and instead of running away into the opposite direction like most people do, you stuck to him like glue.

Without even realizing it, your presence became a sort of weakness of his.

He lost track of how many images he had saved up of you in a secret folder of his and he just liked to... watch them. He just liked watching you in general. His face was devoid of emotion, his attitude was anything but welcoming but no matter how snappy he got, no matter how angry he may get, he never got truly mad at you.

People like to say that the eyes are the windows to ones very soul and Miguel O'Hara embodies that saying perfectly.

He could be having the worst day imaginable but all he needs to do is to see you, to look at you in your own element and he will feel like a brand new man.

He can't help but to be a little angry at you, for making him so weak.

You distracted him from his work, his duty, however, he still could not bare the thought of you being by anyone else's side. He needs you like a man needs air and you were left in the dark when it came to that fact.

Good.

You don't need to know the extent of Miguel's feelings, you don't need to see just how hard the flames of wicked jealousy roar in his heart and you most certainly do not need to know just how much his soul weeps to touch, kiss, protect, keep you.

He can keep that facade up only for so long though. And as much as he likes to think, Miguel is not the best when it comes to keeping his cool. It is only a matter of time before the dam of his feelings cracks and spills, overwhelming you and him both. Once that happens, there is no going back.

[starsofang]

CALL OF THE SEA / PART TWELVE

pirate poly!141 x f!reader tw: NSFW, MDNI, heavy topics such as death, blood, and past trauma mentioned masterlist a/n: thank you for all your support while i grow through a difficult time!! i appreciate all of you for being so patient and loving. long chapter for u!! <3

When a group of unhinged pirates invade your small village, you're whisked away from your peaceful home and thrown on to a voyage out at sea. Forced to obtain a new role as their medic, you have no choice but to accept your fate as you join their forces and aid them in their treacherous travels.

Ghost didn’t remember much about his childhood. His mind blocked it out for him. But he did remember the pain and suffering he went through at such a young age.

He didn’t deserve that. Seeing his family, massacred in front of him. The blood mixed with the metallic scent that even now seemed to tinge his nose with a nostalgia that made him sick.

He was only a child, yet that was the day Ghost was born within him.

It was like an awakening. He saw how cruel the world could be through a pure lens and it tainted his vision red. Nothing was ever the same that day, and gradually, Simon was forgotten and Ghost was his new muse.

He could recall the nights he spent alone, digging through waste bins and slumping out on the streets like a dead dog. Stealing bread from shop merchants and having to run, barefooted to avoid getting beaten. Freezing to death on the street corner when winter came around and the pure snow covered the ground in a blanket.

It was scary for a boy his age. Dehumanizing. He didn’t deserve that.

He thought he was lucky when a ship crew came along, parading the streets to offer security. A job, a place to sleep, and meals — it seemed perfect for somebody who had absolutely nothing.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

Ghost never saw Simon again after that day. He was lost somewhere at sea, hidden under the roar of waves. Ghost didn’t know where to look for him until soon enough, Simon had disappeared and Ghost replaced him. Graves made sure of that.

A captain, like hell he was. Ghost knew something wasn’t quite right about Graves the moment he met him, yet as a child, he was desperate. Once he was in, it was too late, and the broken pieces of him became completely irreparable.

Graves held a devilish aura about him, one Ghost could practically see radiating around him. Every step he took was one closer to chaos.

No matter the destination, Ghost was held on by a leash with Graves being the handler. The sights Ghost saw, some being from his doing, was something he’d never get back. It was as if reliving that very day where he lost everything.

Living amongst Graves’ crew was worse than living in hell. He would’ve preferred it. To be banished for his sins, to taste the sweet nectar of death, and live his eternity punished. Anything to stray from Graves and his ship.

When he saw the way you looked—the darkness looming over you, the distress in your eyes—he saw himself. And when he saw Graves, he saw the life that was stolen from him.

That red that clouded his lens when he was a child was all he could see. Pure, angry red.

Now, standing in Price’s quarters, that red only grew angrier. This time, for you—for putting you in the same position he’d been stuck in for years.

You didn’t deserve that.

Your mind was a whirlwind of chaos. It was struggling to digest the information given to you. So much at once and you could barely manage to keep yourself together.

Everybody looked sorry for you. Ghost looked enraged. Price was lost. Soap and Gaz were remorseful. It was too much.

You hated that they looked at you like that. You hated when they didn’t look at you like that more. Having them worry, when for the duration of your stay it was like walking on burning rocks, it felt strange.

Their own worry caused yours as well.

“What is that?” you asked. “The mark of death. I— I don’t know what that is. What does that mean?”

You were becoming more frantic. The panic that ensued was growing, and you could tell it bothered Price. He was quick to grasp your shoulders, settling you.

“It’s complicated,” he explained quietly, hushing you. “That man you saw? His name is Phillip Graves. Some call him the Devil of the Seas. He’s a wicked pirate who feeds off of the innocent, their fear. None of us know what he truly is, not even Ghost, but we believe he’s apart of something sinister.”

“What, like he’s sold his soul? Made amends with the Devil? You are talking madness!” you exclaimed, exasperated.

“We are talkin’ truth,” Price corrected. He was as patient as ever, yet still held the firmness of a leader. “He’s that of a reaper. Souls is what he wants. The mark of death is his contract, you may say.”

“But you are not telling me what the mark does,” you cried.

Your head hurt. The world was spinning. You didn’t understand.

“I think it’s quite obvious what the markin’ is, dove,” the Captain said solemnly. “It is only by miracle it hasn’t happened to Ghost yet.”

“So I am to die? Is that it?” You flickered your gaze between each man. Your eyes told a million stories, and each of them were ones of fear and anguish. “I am going to die?”

“No,” Ghost snapped. You looked at him. He seemed as pain as you were, but the anger was taking over logic. “You ain’t dyin’. Not today, not tomorrow. M’not lettin’ it happen.”

“Ghost,” Soap tried, but he was quickly shut down.

“I said no,” he repeated resentfully. “Price, show her the map.”

Price turned to him, stiffening. It seemed he still didn’t quite want to let you know the full truth. Now, you felt it was to protect you rather than leave you out. It was too late for protection.

The Captain silently walked to his desk, pulling open the old drawer with a slam, shaking the table. He pulled out the map you’d seen so long ago, unrolling it and slapping it on the table.

“Come, dove,” he called, and you listened.

The men surrounded the desk with you, staring down at the map. The ink was still the same as it was before—islands crossed out with an X, while one remained circled.

“Suppose it’s time you knew, hm?” he asked, offering the smallest of smiles. You found that you missed his real one. The one he tried to hide when he found a joke of yours humorous.

Your nerves shot up. Your emotions were at an all-time high. You were scared, scared to find out the truth.

“These islands,” he began, tracing his finger along the map to point at the ones with an X, “are all land marked by Graves. Every single one, we went to in search of a medic. The one in the poem, remember?”

The one who heals the ill and poor

shall be the cure to all demise.

You weren’t sure how it linked to you. You’d never met Graves, nor had you met your pirate crew until they took you away. The connection wasn’t there. It didn’t make sense.

“Yes, I remember,” you confirmed quietly. “What does it have to do with me?”

“We searched for a medic from every village, yet when we arrived, they were famished with death, or on the brink of,” he explained. “All of the villages were all succumbin’ to Graves’ mark of death. We think he was attemptin’ to get rid of all villages as much as he could so we wouldn’t be able to find their medics. We don’t know how, but he knows we have the prophecy, and he doesn’t like it.”

“And how do you know the prophecy is related to Graves?” you questioned. “How do you know it relates to me?”

“Ghost got the prophecy a long time ago when he was still on Graves’ ship,” Soap piped in. His hands rested on the table and he leaned over the map, but his eyes bore into yours. “He was searchin’ for answers even then. This is all he got.”

You couldn’t imagine the desperation Ghost must have felt, knowing Graves had him under his despicable spell. Not knowing whether he was going to live or die.

Your heart ached.

“And me?”

The room went silent, as if your words burned a wound in them.

“Your village had the mark, yet nobody had suffered from it,” Gaz said quietly. His eyes were soft when he looked at you with the unmistakable glimmer of pity in them. “We knew you were the one we were lookin’ for.”

“My village was not cursed,” you denied, shaking your head. “There is simply no possibility. We rarely got outsiders unless they were coming to browse the merchants.”

It clicked in your head how quickly it must’ve happened. Graves, visiting your village under the guise of an innocent shopper, gearing his interest towards the various merchants that littered your small streets.

It would’ve been so easy for him. So terribly easy.

Your people died to Price’s crew, but the true evil was the man who gave the pirates reason to ensure a massacre.

“That’s why you did what you did,” you muttered to yourself in disbelief. “You killed them because of him. You killed Mary because of him.”

“The curse would’ve taken over the moment you left,” Gaz explained. “You were the shield protectin’ them without even knowin’. You’re meant to fulfill the prophecy, grantin’ you immunity until we found you.”

All this talk about a prophecy made you want to scream, cry, yell, anything. Why you? Why were you the one chosen, and why did it have to be you?

You wanted your life back. You didn’t want to be apart of this.

Before you knew it, tears welled up in your eyes. They stung, causing you to blink rapidly. You didn’t want to seem weak, but in this moment, you were.

“Dove?” Gaz called out, concerned.

“I don’t want this,” you cried, shaky hands balling into fists. “You—you knew I was apart of this and never told me. You kept me in the dark for this long, you hid me from the truth, and for why?”

“We don’t have all of the information yet, dove, please—” Price began, but you shut him down.

“Bullshit!” you shouted, and he reeled back in surprise. You had been outspoken before, plenty with the Captain especially, but he had never seen you lash out so fiercely. “You took my life away because you assumed I was the one in your ridiculous prophecy on a whim. You took a guess and went with it. I am hardly a proper medic, let alone worthy enough to be that person for you, so why have you chosen me?”

“You must understand, you were the only medic left alive,” Price defended. “We had no choice. We did what we had to do.”

“At my expense,” you argued.

“At all of our expense,” he retorted. “I did not care for your life when we stole it. I did not care for it when you were locked in the brig. I cared for Simon’s.”

You fell silent, whipping your head to look at Ghost. You’d heard Price call him Simon before, by a slip-up, but now he had said it purposely. Ghost simply looked away, arms crossed over his chest.

All that talk before and now, at your aid, he was as quiet as a street mouse.

“Without you, he will die. We do not know when. Graves hasn’t killed him due to the thrill of holdin’ his life in his hands. It’s a toy to him. He can take his life away at any moment, and I would not allow that, even if it meant ruinin’ yours.”

Price’s cheeks were reddened from the frustration and helplessness he was feeling. He was a Captain trying to save his crew’s life, uncaring of yours—in the beginning, at least.

Now, the mere thought of losing both had him kneeling like a pitiful dog to the Devil of the Seas.

“I do not wish to be here,” you murmured, taking a step back. Soap opened his mouth to retort, but you silenced him. “I need to be alone.”

The Captain gave you a sad smile, nodding his head. He was respecting your wishes.

“As you wish,” he agreed, and you made your way out of the suffocating quarters, returning to your shared one with Gaz and Soap.

“Dove,” a voice called out. It was quiet, like it was whispering, yet to you, it sounded loud. You hated its voice.

It was black. Your eyes couldn’t adjust to the light, no matter how much you shifted them to look around.

Your body felt heavy, as if something was weighing on you. Your lungs were tight, and when you opened your mouth for air, nothing came in. You slapped your hands over your throat, clawing at the skin.

Why couldn’t you breathe? You felt like you were drowning. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t take in an ounce of air, and you could feel your lungs beginning to protest.

A cold panic came over you, like an icy wave consuming you in its dangerous waters. You tried to move your legs, but they were stuck. They were too heavy.

All you could do was helplessly paw at your throat, praying to gasp for a breath, praying that the Gods had mercy on you.

“Dove,” it whispered once more. Where had you heard the voice before? You knew it, but your mind was blanking from the lack of oxygen.

“I’ll be seeing you, dove,” it mocked.

Dove. Dove. Dove.

“Dove!”

You shot awake, a sharp gasp invading your lungs. The burning in your chest was harsh, and it was as if you truly hadn’t been breathing.

Coming to, you blinked the groggy confusion away, lifting a hand to wipe at your eyes.

Soap peered down at you, his eyebrows knitted worriedly. His hands were on each side of your shoulders, as if he’d shaken you awake, and when you realized you had been asleep, you only guessed that’s what he was doing.

“I kept callin’ ye but ye weren’t wakin’,” he said wearily. “Are y’alright?”

You glanced around the room, taking it in. Gaz’s bed. The clothes strewn on the floor. The mess on the small desk that you’d never seen occupied.

You were no longer suffocating in darkness. It was a mere dream—no, a nightmare. A terror.

You were safe.

“I don’t know,” you confessed breathily, still catching air.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you recalled the nightmare. You couldn’t remember the voice, not when you were fearing a death that was merely fake, but you knew now.

“Tell me,” Soap urged gently, taking a seat next to you on the bed. You sat up to join him, frowning at the floor. “It’s okay.”

You risked looking up at him, searching his eyes. They were soft whenever they looked at you, and they’d been like that since the beginning. He was always patient, even when you did things that cost him a scolding from Price.

You felt like you could trust him, more than any of them.

“It was that man,” you explained. “Graves. I think he is messing with my head. I dreamt of dying, like… like I was drowning. I couldn’t breathe. The whole time, I could hear his voice, calling me out. Mocking me.”

Soap listened carefully, taking in every one of your words. He cared, that much you could tell, and the situation weighed heavy on him. The worry lines on his face were proof.

Graves was tormenting with your mind, feeding into your fear. He knew you were terrified, and he enjoyed it. The way he mimicked what he told you, whispering it the same as before, it sent chills down your spine and made your blood run cold.

You understood now why Ghost was always a mystery—because he was scared, too. He just hid it better.

“I am scared,” you confessed shakily. “I do not want to die.”

“And ye won’t,” he assured, but you shook your head.

“You do not know that,” you argued. “None of you do. You have not given me a chance at life. I am stuck in this without a choice, and I am the new target. It’s not fair.”

Soap’s expression dropped into one of guilt. His focus shifted away from you, avoiding your eye, before returning back to you.

“It’s not,” he agreed quietly. “We’ve done to ye what Graves did to Ghost. Treatin’ ye like—like burdening scum, like ye don’t matter. I can’t express to ye how sorry I am for everythin’.”

You didn’t want an apology, but you accepted it nonetheless. It was the first anybody had truly apologized for the mess you were thrown into. Maybe it was something you needed without realizing. You felt a sliver of weight lifted.

“I never had a family,” you told him, staring down at your feet that hung over the side of the bed. The shoes Soap surprised you with stared back at you. “The village did not like my values or my lifestyle. It was hard being an outcast there, but it is even harder here.”

“Yer not an outcast.”

Looking back up at him, you found him smiling, a faint sparkle twinkling back at you.

“Not anymore. We thought ye were a little strange in the beginning, though,” he said, the end of his sentence bordering a tease.

You couldn’t stop your own smile from forming. Despite carrying the crushing weight of the world’s worries, as well as growing a headache with every word spoken from each of them ever since your arrival, you found yourself growing more fond over them the longer you lingered.

It’d been a bumpy road, and there were still miles ahead of you, waiting to unravel. But you couldn’t fully convince yourself that there wasn’t a part of you, yearning to belong with them.

“You are all very strange,” you retorted lightly. “I have never met such people as you before.”

“Thank ye.”

“It was not a compliment.”

Soap snorted, shaking his head at the banter. “The Captain is bitin’ tooth and nail in his quarters, thinkin’ he fucked this all up with ye. Never seen him that worried before, but with Graves bein’ around again, I don’t blame him.”

The statement caught you off guard, and you found yourself curious. “He is worried for me?”

Soap eyed you strangely, as if it had been obvious the whole time. “Ach. ‘Course he is. Cap’s got a good heart, even if it doesn’t seem like it.”

“I did not realize he cared for me after everything,” you confessed.

Soap hummed, looking down at his trousers and picking at a loose thread. “We all do.”

You stared at him dumbly, cocking your head in question when he didn’t elaborate. You had become acquainted with them, surely, you lived with them now after all, but you weren’t aware they truly cared.

When Price had told you they’d grown fond of you, you didn’t quite believe it. You assumed it was his way of convincing you to trust him, but it seemed that wasn’t the truth.

The two of you sat in silence, staring anywhere but at each other. The awkwardness grew, and it felt strange to feel that when the relationships had been too uptight even consider having those moments.

You took the time to weigh out your options. The Captain being worried, especially over messing things up with you, had you in a turmoil.

As much as you wanted to deny the path chosen for you unwillingly, you felt an obligation to please them. Yet, not in the way you initially thought.

You didn’t want to let them down.

Maybe you truly were as strange as Soap thought.

“Is he still in there?” you asked Soap. He perked up, nodding his head.

“Aye. He’ll be rottin’ in there before we know it.”

You pursed your lips, facing that inner battle once more before coming to a conclusion. “Would you like to join me, then?”

Soap raised his eyebrows, watching you stand from the bed. You shot him a warm smile, tilting your head at his confusion.

“For?” he asked.

“You all need a medic,” you said, giving a nonchalant shrug. “And I do not wish to die by the hands of a filthy pirate such as Graves. I am in this now, so I suppose I’ll simply have to deal with it, am I correct?”

Soap’s smile slowly grew at your sudden courage, standing up to join you. He reached out for you, and once you became confused, he looped your arm with his, grinning down at you.

“Sure are, dove. I’ll come with ye.”

The Captain looked a mess when you entered his quarters with Soap. Ghost was beside him where Price sat at his desk, the map and prophecy still scattered on the table. The two of them were speaking hushed to one another, yet when the door opened and you stepped in, they went silent.

“She wanted to be alone, Soap,” Price protested, but you quickly shook your head, taking a step closer to the desk.

“It’s alright,” you assured. “I have had time to think.”

Price’s eyebrows raised and he glanced at Gaz for a brief moment before returning to you. “I see,” he hummed, nodding. “I have as well.”

You cocked your head, eyebrows furrowing. He gestured for Ghost and Soap to step out of the room, requesting privacy, and the sudden realization that you would in fact have to speak after your outburst made your nerves to churn.

Ghost gave your shoulder a light squeeze as he walked behind Soap, catching you off guard. When you looked at him, he stared forward, avoiding your gaze.

The door clicked shut as they left, and you stood uncomfortably in place, shifting on the balls of your feet.

“I owe you an apology,” Price began. “A true one. I may be a Captain, and I know in those regards, I come off rather violent. I can be a brute, I will admit, but I am also a man who knows times when he is right and wrong.”

He stood up from his chair, circling around the desk to face you. He leaned against the old wood, crossing his arms and clearing his throat. Upon quick inspection, you saw the faint smoke of his cigar swirling in its ashtray.

“I should not have treated you so unkindly since the beginning. I should have considered how scared you must have been, how alone it must feel,” he continued, eyes drifting off for a moment as if deep in perplexing thought. “I do not apologize for doin’ what I thought was right in that time to save my own, but I do feel sorrow for what transpired in your time bein’ here.”

You couldn’t help but wonder if Ghost had been the reasoning for this. He wasn’t a man of many words, but you knew the respect him and Price had for one another. It was safe to assume he’d speak with him privately regarding everything.

“I’d like to apologize as well,” you began, but Price stood up straight, quick to raise his hands in protest.

“You have nothin’ to apologize for—”

“I am sorry for lashing out the way I did earlier,” you cut off. Price stopped, lips pressing together. His gaze remained stuck on you, now that you had his attention. “It does not excuse what you have done to me, and I see you have realized that. If this is to be my life, I wish for compromise rather than seclusion.”

Price didn’t say anything at first. His eyes darted over your face, taking in your features. He saw the calmness you held compared to when you were last in his quarters.

You didn’t seem defeated, nor did you seem to simply agree for the sake of him and the others. You wanted this for yourself.

“I will grant you that,” he agreed in a hum, nodding once. “I do not wish for you to feel out of place no longer. You have had enough of that, I believe.”

You took in his words, and they made you smile. It was what you wanted to hear—no angry exchanges, no selfish banter. A simple compromise, one you both wanted.

“Graves came to me in a dream,” you told him. His expression soured. “I believe there will be plenty more instances where he will do that. Based off of what you have told me about him, I do not want to prolong his presence longer than I must. So, I’d like to be of help.”

Just as quickly as Price grew tense at the mention of Graves, he calmed down, shoulders relaxing when he realized your implications.

“Soap has not convinced you, yes?” he asked, uncertain. “This is your call. I may have taken you due to my own selfishness, but I give you the choice now. You do not have to be a part of it if you do not want. You are part of us now, but this is not your battle.”

“It is,” you disagreed, though remained a calm composure. For the first time around Price, you felt at ease in the same room. “If I am to be part of your crew, your family, then your battles are my battles. I may not have had a family, but I am certain that’s how it works. Does it not?”

Price stared at you; expression unreadable. It took mere moments for his lips to slowly curl up, granting you one of his rare smiles that seemed to radiate a certain light you’d never seen before. It caused your heart to pick up, though you were unclear as to why.

“That is how it works with us, dove,” he agreed softly. “Your battles are ours. You can count on it.”

“Wonderful,” you cheered with a smile of your own. “Shall we continue what wasn’t finished before, then?”

Price chuckled low under his breath, his amusement growing the longer you stuck around. He nodded, tapping his desk and calling you to it.

“Come on, dove.”

[nothomegal]

HIII I MISS YOU :(( straight to the point, I need a yandere pyramid head fic!!

I´m sorry for the disappearance ;v; Can't post much due my studies.

Anyways, I ADORE your suggestion! And boy if our little (Y/N) is going to have a rough time with a yandere creature like Pyramid Head ._.)

Welp, let's start the story!

"Innocent lamb"

(Yandere!Pyramid Head x GN Reader)

Summary: the entity's realm was hell for some, heaven for others, and an inconvenience for the rest... But when one of the creatures encountered you, he made it everyone's problem, even the entity's that brough him there in the first place. But he meant no harm to you. He likes you. He wants you. He needs you. And he wͦ̀ͯi̸ll̩ͩ have Y̛̗̰͇͚͓͈̣͕̰͓̗͛ͤ̀̇̍ͥ͒̓͝Ơ̵̔_̰̅U̵̷̡̧̡̨͖̟̹͙̙͓̥̗̫̣̙͉͕͉̣̬̇ͭ͗̉͂̅̍͗̇̇́́̈͟͞

Warnings: yandere/obsessive behavior, violence and violent acts, quite angst(y) mood in general, (understandably) terrified reader darling :(.

Word count: 4.2k

The moment they entered the trial, all four survivors knew right away who the killer was. Either its the dread they all felt as soon as their feet made contact with the ground that gave it away, or the fact that the entity had placed all of them in the same spot next to two generators just to have any chances to make it out alive.

But they know it's in vain, they know they're doomed for a long long death by bleeding out.

They know it... Because (Y/N) is with them.

Said survivor had to bite their lip to avoid crying, as guilt and terror embraced them. Just because the monster had this unholy obsession with them it didn't mean they were okay with it, if anything it scared them more.

He, Pyramid Head, the Executioner... Or however you want to nickname him, is said to be one of the most powerful creatures the entity had the pleasure to bring, so powerful in fact that the spider-like being had to make a deal to bring him.

So it's not surprising that they are absolutely horrified, but who wouldn't? This monster, an embodiment of pain and punishment, almost a god, has been hunting them relentlessly ever since he laid his gaze or... Helmet? On them.

At first it was all jokes and gags;

'Aww look, (Y/N) has a boyfriend!'

'Watch out, here comes your crush (Y/N)!'

'Uh-oh, the triangle man seems jealous, look how pissed he is at Nea for healing you!'.

But the jokes stopped when it got clear how truly messed up and sinister said 'crush' is.

They still remember it, it was a regular match against that one masked knife wielding guy that runs a lot, he's called 'Legion' they think. The trial was going relatively well, just like many previous ones. Until it suddenly got an 180° turn when one of the walls to the realm was literally destroyed by a hulking mass of muscle and a giant knife. To say both (Y/N) and the killer nearly had a cardiac arrest was an understatement, things got so ugly that the entity had to intervene and cut the trial short.

That incident could be a fuel for a new wave of jokes, could... If it didn't happen again. And that next time was even worse, the beast nearly made his way into the survivor side of the realm, somehow bursting through the barrier the entity had created to keep the survivors separated from the killers to avoid any pity fights after trials.

Ever since that event, Pyramid Head was strictly kept in 'his' realm, aka Midwich Elementary School.

Sometimes, after escaping through the gates and running back into the camp through the fog, (Y/N) could swear they can hear the monster roar in the distance. Loud, distorted and fierce howls resonating somewhere behind the dense fog, as if the creature was desperately trying to yell out their name. Either to let them know how badly he wants them or a promise to break free and get them... Both possibilities giving them chills.

The entity of course wasn't okay with this, it was pissed! But it also could do so little... The great deal now had turned into a major curse. If the deal is broken, the Executioner won't hesitate to damage the realm to get what he wants. But if it remains, the monster will find new ways to bend the rules and make it everyone's problem.

Why the entity doesn't just give (Y/N) to the beast or gets rid of them ones for all? No one really has the answer. Some think it's due the entity's pride, or the possibility of the executioner going ballistic. For now, it's more of a silent (and petty) battle between two stubborn beings, each of them refusing to back away from their goal.

Goal. The entity's goal, though still confusing, is more or less clear; force people and creatures to play these twisted games and feed on those who get sacrificed. But the executioner's goal? It's straight up a mystery. (Y/N) know it has something to do with them, but... Why them exactly? Why not Cheryl? Didn't she come from the same place as that beast? What the monster even wants them for?

What will he do when he finally gets his hands on them? Wh-

A rough shake snapped (Y/N) out of their internal break down.

They blink a couple of times, tears of fear nearly sliding down their cheeks as their body shivers. They were scared, more than the other three survivors combined.

The survivor holding them by their shoulders, David, sighs when he finally notices them react.

—"Look, I know you're scared..."— he starts talking, his voice surprisingly calm.

—"I'm-... I- I'm sorry, I'm s-so sorry-..."— you choke out in a weak wobbly voice, guilt eating you from inside.

—"No no. Just listen for a sec. I... Well, we all can tell that you aren't enjoying it neither. So, let's not break down into a soap opera, okay? Don’t think of this as hopeless match, but as another chance to woop that asshole's ass and escape."—

—"And also leave him empty handed!"— Feng announces from her place while already working on a generator.

—"Yeah, screw that triangular piece of shit! Let's try out Dwight's strategy this time. You remember it, do you?"— he asks you, not letting go of your shoulders yet.

The surprisingly positive and reassuring words of their teammates towards them really soothed and even cheered (Y/N) a bit. With a small smile they quickly wipe their eyes before nodding.

—"Good, see? We're already starting on a good note!"— he lets go to then pat your back, basically pushing you forward. —"Now go help with a gen before putting the 'plan' into work."—

Though the push hurt a bit, (Y/N) didn't care at all about the pain, too focused on keepings all the negative and pessimistic thoughts away.

For the first minute and a half everything was going well, (Y/N) and Feng were working on one generator while David and Jonah were working on the other one. The four of them were dead silent, straining their ears for any of the sounds the creature makes, such as heavy footsteps, the scraping of his gigantic knife or their own heartbeat. Weirdly enough, everything was calm... Too calm.

(Y/N) nearly choked with air when a cold chill ran through their spine.

Spine Chill. The beast... Is watching them.

They attempt to subtly alert Feng by carefully tapping her leg, but as soon as their fingertips touched the other girl’s skin, their heartbeat started to get louder and louder, until…

—“WATCH OUT!”—

(Y/N) exclaimed as they pushed Feng, just in time to dodge a bunch of sharp and rusted metal pieces coming out the ground.

—“Holy-...”— she mutters.

Now that the monster is here, the four survivors decided to put in action the mentioned strategy.

They all let go of the generators and run away in different directions, (Y/N) being the most desperate while running since they know exactly who the beast is targeting.

His pattern is always the same; chase after until sending them into a cage to then down all of their teammates and then come straight back to all caged and helpless (Y/N) and then… Stare or touch them until the others bleed out or the entity has enough.

The difference in the current case, is that (Y/N) is not playing just cat and mouse. In fact, chasing them is the worst the killer can do. All of their abilities are chase oriented, another teammate lurking around has all the boon ones, while the last two have all is needed to rush through the generators. If everything works out, the monster will get himself in a situation where he's be forced to leave (Y/N) alone.

The chase was intense, at least for (Y/N). Despite never catching a clear view of the Executioner, they could feel him close behind, following them methodically like a wild animal on a hunt, waiting for the right moment to strike while keeping up the tension.

It was hard to maintain the focus, every single hallways in The Game looked the exact same. Did they vaulted that window already? Didn't they pre-dropped that palled over there? Did Feng placed it up again? Are the other two working on the generators? Have they taken this left path before?

So many questions where swarming their mind as their legs kept carrying them on, only momentarily relaxing when two generators finally made that distinguish noise.

Two done! Tree left.

A breathless laugh escaped from them. Great! This is already going better than all of their previous encounters with the Executioner, which would always end with the first generator barely reaching 30%.

However, their smile was quickly swept when they realized they no longer hear their heartbeat or thundering footsteps tailing behind. It was silent, dead silent, with no other sounds that their own breathing.

A wave of anxiety flushed through (Y/N) like a tsunami wave and started to drag and drown them deeper into their own worries.

What the?... Okay, this was not part of the plan. The Executioner had never left the chase with them, never. So the fact that he finally did, and apparently a while ago, made them shake.

With nothing else to do, they gather the courage to start moving again. Where? Somewhere! Anywhere but to stay in place and be an easy target to the beast that so desperately wants them.

They keep running, stopping only for a brief moment before turning a corner, making sure they don't hear any muffled breathing that at times resembled growls. They learned the hard way with the Shape that some killers like to wait around corners, and they don't want to commit the same mistake right now.

Their heart jerked when they heard a scream resonate from their left, and a faint reddish aura in the shape of a human gleamed for a second before disappearing.

David is down.

And it seems like he's not getting picked up, which could either mean that the monster is setting up a trap or chasing someone else. Whichever the case is, they shouldn't go-

They hear a bunch of footsteps come their way, and in a set of panic they crouch behind a bunch of boxes, silently praying that their disguise is mildly good.

They can't see much from their spot, but they can clearly recognize the shape of Jonah running away from something massive.

As soon as the two figures passed by, (Y/N) gets up and takes off running towards David to check on him.

After some wondering around the labyrinth-like place, they finally reach their injured teammate, who was still on the ground and groaning from pain.

—"{David!}"— you whisper-yell as you start running towards him.

He weakly lifts his head just enough to see them. When he recognized who it is, he starts to frantically shake his head.

—"NO! GET THE FUCK OUT!"—

Huh? What-

As (Y/N) is about to reach David, a path of sharp metal pieces and razor wires had emerged right in front of them, just when they're about to make contact with the floor again, making in impossible to dodge.

The second their leg got tangled into the sharp metallic mess, everything went too fast. They don't even have time to pull away as something sliced them on their side, sending them directly on the ground.

They send a guilty and ashamed glance to David, who had an frustrated expression.

—"{Sorry...}"— you mouth.

(Y/N) has no chance to see David's answer as a massive hand suddenly curled around their throat and forced them to look away from the other man.

Their eyes wide at the sight of the beast menacingly hovering over their helpless form, holding their body in place between him and the ground. The muscles of his extended arm were tense, his breathing heavy, almost like he's holding back the anger and displeasure caused by them giving attention to someone else.

Their heart skipped beats, their breath uneven, their eyes watered as they tightly closed them, not wanting to witness whatever this thing was about to do. They can feel the warmth coming from his body, his breathing slowly stabilizing, as if staring at them and watching them slowly submit was enough to calm the monster. Ironically, it did the complete opposite to (Y/N), as their own heartbeat raised from the anxiety of having to face the unknown, attempt to predict the unpredictable and prepare to witness another massacre unfold around them at any second... Just to then end up caged and at the mercy of this-

—"LEAVE THEM ALONE ASSHOLE!"— David angrily yells from his place, struggling and trying to stand up. —"You're fucking terrifying, of course they don't want to look at you!"—

They can feel Pyramid Head's hand tense and start shaking, his fingers twitching and pressing further into their skin. (Y/N) was beyond terrified now, just a little bit of pressure and the creature could crush their throat like a cardboard tube.

David, though clearly using all of his strength, ended up falling back on the ground, as if some invisible weigh is actively pushing him down.

—“You freak! Absolute sick fuck! Let them go already!”—

As the waterfall of profanities continues, (Y/N) slowly places their hands around the monster’s wrist to attempt to push his hand away, unfortunately he didn’t budge at all.

Suddenly, David’s stops screaming and the very next second (Y/N) feels something warm and slippery press against their cheek.

They jerk in place at the uncanny sensation and shoot open their eyes, a breathless gasp escaping them at the sight of a… Wh-What even is that? A freaking tentacle? A tongue?…

The dark pink muscle wiggles in front of their face for a moment before licking another stride, wiping some of their tears and blood in the process, making (Y/N) shiver in discomfort.

They shoot a confused glance to David, desperately wanting to know if he’s witnessing this too. The man had an expression of pure ‘what the fuck’; eyes narrowed, brows furrowed and mouth slightly gaping.

This eye contact was brief though. (Y/N) got startled for a loud growl that reverbed from the beast's chest and helmet. The hand finally leaves their throat as the beast stands up to his full height and starts making his way to David, leaving them alone, as well as his knife?

(Y/N) throws their teammate a scared look, but David responds with a forced smirk.

—"Ah, now you decide to drag your big ass towards me."— he mutters through gritted teeth.

The monster seem to not react to his taunts. With each step that he takes towards David, his mask of confidence seems to crack.

Nevertheless, the man didn’t back out from his insults, he never does.

—“What’s wrong? Why so pissy, huh?! Jealous that (Y/N) prefers us?!”—

Saying their name was a sore spot to hit, and the way Pyramid Head reacted confirmed that.

The monster roughly grabs David by the neck, completely ignoring the fact that he’s not even holding his weapon. Instead he uses his bare hands to silence him.

Nasty, wet and crunchy sounds resonated through the room and hallways as the creature began to tear the man’s body limb by limb, piece by peace, unbothered by the pained screams of his victim or the low groan of displeasure that resonated from above for again not playing by the rules.

(Y/N) froze in horror at the sight in front of them. Blood, chunks of flesh and bone pieces where flying everywhere, never before they’ve witnessed this type of gore, not even during the ‘mori’.

Though it felt like the massacre lasted hours, it was actually second. The monster threw the whatever remaining he had in his hands and slowly turned back to (Y/N), who was still frozen and unable to look away from what was left from David. They know they will meet again in the fire camp, in one piece and alive, but god they felt sick...

Their shock breaks only when the thundering footsteps began to resonate again, shaking the ground underneath them with each the creature took. He grew closer, and closer, with them being able to do absolutely nothing aside from attempting to crawl away.

But that pity attempt was stopped when the same sharp wires and rusty metal pieces emerged from the ground and wrapped around their body, pulling them slowly underneath and sinking them further into the ground. And before they realize it, their body is already trapped in that rotten metallic cage.

Cold metal spikes just inches away from their flesh, so close to penetrate their skin, a wrong move and they would undoubtedly get hurt. But even if they wanted to move, they couldn't really. The space in the structure was small, claustrophobic even, each spike perfectly adjusted to keep their form in place. In some twisted way, it felt like a hug, a very cold, unwelcoming and unnerving hug.

They flinch when they hear a scream resonate from somewhere, which was cut by a loud slam.

Feng was caught.

It seems like the Executioner didn't bother to down her, rather getting rid of her directly, most likely because he's aware that Jonah is not keen of going for rescues...

And speaking of the man, there is his aura flashing before (Y/N)'s eyes as his body fell on the floor.

He's down... Which means that-

Before they even finish their conclusion, the tall figure of the monster appeared. Just by looking at them his behavior seemed to change; movements more erratic and pace uneven, almost like he's hypnotized.

He makes his way to them, slowly, as if purposely building up the tension.

(Y/N) wanted to look away or close their eyes, but whenever they did so the cage felt painfully small. It hurt, literally, so they stare at that beast grow closer with wide shaky eyes that struggled to keep their focus on him. This is something Pyramid Head was always good at, he could always make you fear, even the toughest bravest ones would inevitably succumb to the terror his presence brings.

Ones in front of them, the creature stops in place and simply stares, like he always did.

(Y/N), though still scared, was a tiny bit relieved that this is what the rest of the trial would be; them being pinned like a butterfly with the monster observing.

It would be just that.

Just this bizarre staring contest.

...Right?

WRONG.

The creature suddenly let go of his weapon and grabs the edges of the cage with both hands quite violently.

Now the little hope and comfort (Y/N) had was thrown out the window, as now they realize they no longer have any idea of what will happen next.

And by what it looks like, the entity is not planning to intervene, as if curious itself to see what will happen next.

Pyramid Head remains like this, his big hands tightly squeezing the imperfect metal bars, bending them slightly and making the already miserable looking material groan from the pressure he was applying.

It looked like he wanted to destroy that cage, rip it apart and get to them, but didn't do it by holding himself back... Why? What's even the point of this build up? What's even the point in wanting them?!

—"{Wh-...Why?...}"— you choke out in a very quiet voice. —"{Why a-are you d-... doing this?...}"—

(Y/N) knows is stupid to ask, Pyramid Head can't even speak! But they can't help themselves, they're too scared, their anxiety is unbearable and their thoughts are too out of control. They need answers, anything that could even hint for a possible explanation of the killer's intentions.

They began to second guess their decision to speak when the creature froze in place, even his breath was now inaudible. This was the first time (Y/N) spoke directly to the monster, but they didn't expect him to react at this fact, not like this, or at all.

But he did, he did acknowledged that little detail, and he will make sure they acknowledge it too.

The creature soon moves again, by slowly leaning closer and slightly tilting his head to the side, almost like trying to get a better look at them.

His breathing got heavier, low huffs and growls resonating from that metallic helmet of his. It really looked like he was actively holding back some major urge or desire, but what it is?

(Y/N) wanted to ask again, but decided against it as there is little Pyramid Head could do to answer, and even if he could, why should he? Maybe it's more amusing to him to see them helplessly wondering in the dark and unable to comprehend what's going on.

Or maybe, there is simply nothing to explain?... Maybe he does what he does just because? Human mind is way too used to seek for reasons and explanations for anything and everything, often forgetting that sometimes the answer is way too simple or straight up null, could that be the case?

The same groan coming from the cage bars pulled (Y/N) out of their thoughts. They forget how to breathe at the sight of the structure slowly collapsing as the monster starts to rip the bars with his raw strength.

A scared yelp escaped them as they try to back further into the cage as much as they can, ignoring the sharp edges that scratched or pierced their body. They barely felt pain, none at all actually, the adrenaline and basic survival instincts keeping their body resilient and ready to run. The sad part is, is that there is nowhere to run, nothing to do. It's sweet that their body tries so desperately to keep their hopes up and reassure their survival, but their mind is more than aware of the cold desolated reality...

The front part of the cage was eventually ripped off and thrown against the floor violently. (Y/N) can only cover their eyes with their hands and quietly sob as they wait for whatever the monster had planned to do next.

Even when no further actions are made, they refuse to look. They no longer want to face this thing, they no longer want to suffer this torment. Regardless if they believed in any religion or no, they mutter silent prayers under their breath, but not no save them, but to make it end and to know how sorry they are for any evil or harm they've did in their life that leaded to such tragic conclusion.

But this is where the catch is... They've committed none. At least from the Executioner's perspective.

Despite their whispers being so silent to a non-existent point, Pyramid Head heard them loud and clear. And the more he heard their voice, the more he felt the inside of his chest burn and the desire for them grow even more. (Y/N) is not perfect, they're human after all, and all humans have their fair share of flaws and defects... But unlike the rest, (Y/N) has the ability to acknowledge said imperfections and genuinely try to make up for them, to fix them... Regardless if they get something in return or not.

This, this is the true purity in a human being. An innocence and kindness so genuine that it would be a sin not to worship and protect... And who is a best fit to take care of it other than the fearsome Pyramid Head?

(Y/N)... So pure... So innocent... So kind... He must keep them save.

He must keep them...

He wants them...

W̴͕̳͈͔̭̝͠ͅ a̶̩̰̲̎̓͊̈̓̕ ǹ̴̢͇̬̘̗̯̜̍̋͊͠͝͠ ṭ̶͇̃̔͝ s̶̭̩͔̹̝̼̅̍̆̉͌͝

As the monster is about to reach them, a spider like legs burst out through the floor and wrap themselves around (Y/N).

The trial... Is over.

And while the absolutely livid roar gets overshadowed by the groans of the entity as the black fog surrounds the whole place. (Y/N) only keeps quietly sobbing as they cling to the spider leg sticking out of their chest. And though they knew the entity is the main responsible of their current torment, they were too overwhelmed with emotions to properly process their actions.

Surprisingly, the spider-like being didn't disappear right away, probably feeling pity for their situation and allowing them to cry for a brief moment, most likely to compensate this unplanned mess they have to deal with.

To everyone's surprise in the camp, when (Y/N) finally arrived they where unconscious, either passed out after such emotional roller coaster or the entity wants them take some genuine rest. Whatever the case it, it didn't matter, what matters is that their fellow friend is back save and sound, right?

As one of the survivors decided to take them closer to the bonfire for warmth and comfort, they could swear they heard some weird noises from afar.

It resembled a demonic cry filler with rage, so distant yet menacing. Everyone instinctively shivered.

And though (Y/N) successfully 'survived' yet another trial with the executioner, almost everyone had the gut feeling that the next encounter they have with the beast, it will not end good...

They all take a glance at their still unconscious form.

Poor (Y/N)...

[eringobragh420]

➔ Pairing — Damian Priest ❤︎ f!Reader ➔ Summary — Damian’s fiancée receives a head injury during a match resulting in amnesia. (Part 1/5) 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 ➔ Word Count — 3.4k ➔ Warnings — Head injury, hospital setting ➔ Notes — Spanish translations are at the end of the story provided by Google Translate.  ➔ Taglist — If you’d like to be added, please click here!  ➔ Support — Buy me a coffee! ☕ ➔ MASTERLIST

THE INJURY

The atmosphere in Gorilla was cool, calm, and collected, as that’s the way Triple H preferred to work. Everyone had a job, a place, and they were all in position for the upcoming match. Your match. Tyson Kidd was just getting seated at his spot in front of a monitor一as the producer of your segment with Liv Morgan, he would oversee the timing of the match and, through the headset he donned, prepare the cameramen for where you both would be and what shot would be best. Tyson gave you a thumbs up and a comforting smile, as he was quite familiar with the nerves you’d built up over the past several weeks of working with him and Liv. You were confident in your skill set, you were optimistic about your growing number of fans, and you deserved to be here.

That last sentiment had been drilled into your head by your fiancé, who stood before you now. Looking up into Damian’s sparkling eyes, you momentarily lost your edge and your fiery competitiveness, replaced by the melting of your heart and the softening of your soul. You stopped bouncing from one foot to the other when he cupped your face in his warm, rough hands and pressed a tender kiss to your forehead.

“I love you,” he said, voice so deep it was almost inaudible over the various conversations being held around you.

You clutched his wrists, and your foreheads came together. “I love you, too,” you said.

Damian quickly kissed your lips, knowing if he lingered, neither of you would be able to pull away. “Be safe,” he told you. “You got this.” Pulling away, he initiated the intricate handshake known only to the two of you—the simple act giving you butterflies every single time—which ended with your pinky fingers wrapped around the other’s, and the two of you shared an intimate, knowing smile, saying everything, but speaking nothing.

Your music hit, the crowd cheered, and your heart began to pound. After a few deep breaths and the cue from production, you made your way through the curtain, revealing yourself to the sold out audience. The roar became even louder as you skipped down the ramp, slapping hands, high-fiving fans, and even snapping a few selfies with some of your younger fans. You promised to revisit the little girl dressed nearly identical to you, having it in your mind to gift her a souvenir of some sort from your gear at the end of the night. 

After rousing the crowd for a few more minutes, Liv’s music chimed through the speakers of the arena, and you thought the roof might come off. Liv was incredibly popular, heel or not, so you’d expected her reception to be much grander than yours, but you couldn’t help but imagine yourself standing in the middle of the ring, holding that beautiful Women’s World Championship title above your head proudly. Your star was on the rise, and those words had been spoken first by Shawn Michaels when you were on NXT, then by Triple H when you’d made your first main roster appearance on Raw. Unfortunately, you would take the pin tonight, and there was no way for you not to feel a little jealous, but, you were assured, it was all part of a bigger plan.

The first half of the match was flawless. You and Liv worked well together, anticipating each other’s moves without much need for whispering what the next run would be. As per the plan, you suplexed Liv onto the canvas before scrambling for the nearest ring post where you climbed to the top rope. This is where you were supposed to perform your finisher, which Liv would kick out of, but something went wrong, and suddenly you were falling. Falling wouldn’t be a big deal if you had landed on the canvas, but you fell backward, and your loss of equilibrium beforehand sent you head and neck first onto the padded floor. Your light blinked out, and the world was black and silent.

Damian watched you fall on the television monitor in Gorilla, and he uncrossed his arms to grab at his head. The entire arena became deadly quiet, and Damian waited barely two seconds for you to get up or move or do something, and when you only laid there, he started for the entrance ramp.

“Priest, wait,” Triple H commanded, standing and removing his glasses. Nearby Jey Uso slipped an arm around Damian’s waist to keep him from exiting Gorilla. “Just give her a second.”

“She looks fuckin’ dead, are you kidding me?” Damian shouted, making a second attempt at escaping. Jey held tight, and Damian looked down at him. “If it was your girl?” he rasped, brows knitted, fighting tears.

Jey tilted his head, offended Damian would bring up such a valid point, but he rolled his eyes and let the taller man go. 

Minutes later, when your eyes sluggishly opened, your vision was blurry and your head felt like it was in a vice. So many different voices were shouting around you, but they seemed far away. Were they yelling at you? What happened? You tried to sit up, but dizziness overwhelmed you, dropping you back to a floor that wasn’t as hard as it should have been, and your eyes closed in an effort to slow the spinning. 

“Baby, can you hear me?”

“Where’s the gurney?”

Gurney? Your eyes opened again, this time both a little less blurry and a little less dizzy, but the pain in your skull continued to worsen. So many people surrounded you, none of whom you recognized. One face, however, stood out—a handsome face, you noticed, despite the excruciating hammering in your brain, with the most concerned expression tugging at his tanned features. You didn’t know him, though, never seen him before in your life, so you weren’t sure what he was so upset about. And you weren’t sure why you cared, considering you knew exactly nothing else: why you were on your back, why your head threatened to explode, why you seemed to be the center of attention. And why were you dressed in a pretty costume, and why were there thousands of people staring at you from every direction of a crowded arena? Why?

“Can you tell me your name?”

You looked up at the man questioning you, and he shone a bright light directly into your sensitive eyes, which snapped shut as you shied away from it. “What?” you whispered.

“Your name,” he repeated. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Yeah, it’s …” You trailed off, eyes sluggishly searching everywhere, looking for nothing, and finding just that. Your name. One of the easiest questions in the world, if not the easiest, but you couldn’t answer. You opened your mouth, hoping the name would simply come spilling out, but nothing happened. Your name. Of course you know your name. “It’s …” The man looked at you expectantly, just as every single other person encircling you was doing, and it suddenly occurred to you that something was wrong. Really wrong. But then your eyes found those concerned ones, and they were still worried, even more so now, but they were lovely, dark and deep, and for some reason, you found comfort in this complete stranger’s gaze. “I—I don’t know …”

“Let’s get her strapped in.”

Strapped in? Your heart raced and you couldn’t catch your breath because you had no idea what that meant or who anyone was or where you were or who you were. Maybe if you looked into those chocolate pools again, everything would go away. Maybe this was a dream. Maybe you were dying. 

“Move! She doesn’t know what the hell is going on and she’s scared to death!”

Those ochre eyes suddenly found yours, and your sigh of relief was audible. He fell to his knees beside you and took your hand in his, and just a bit more relaxation dulled the edges of your nerves. You wished it could do the same for your pain, which was quickly becoming blinding. His skin was coarse and hot, his grip strong and soothing, and your own hand reflexively returned the squeeze.

“Hey there, pretty girl,” he said, and his voice was as rich as his irises, and his smile was like staring at the sun, and the pet name had to bear some significance, but for crying out loud, you didn’t know him from Adam. “You can hear me, right?” You nodded, wincing at the pain. “Good. Now listen—” He seemed hesitant to continue, and that ramped up your heart rate. “—you fell, okay? You hit your head, and it knocked you out for a few minutes. With me?” He spoke slowly and clearly, and the appreciation you felt for his patience was immeasurable. You nodded again. He went on to explain that you would be placed in a neck brace before being buckled to a backboard, which would then be lifted onto a gurney, and the gurney loaded onto an ambulance, because you were being taken to the nearest emergency room.

As each step took place, you were a lot less terrified now than you would have been had he not told you what was going to happen. The handsome man never let go of your hand, even when he was advised to by the medics, because your grip tightened every time you thought you might lose the connection. Once on the gurney and completely strapped down, you were wheeled through a narrow corridor between the crowd and the ramp, passing a crying little girl who was dressed similarly to you, the handsome man at your side.

“Priest, where are you going?” an older, bald man asked as they headed down a hallway toward a red exit sign. Priest. Now he had a name, but you didn’t recognize it.

“Where do you think I’m goin’?” Priest asked. “I’m goin’ to the hospital with her.”

“Come on, you can’t do that,” the bald man chuckled. “They’ll take great care of her, and you still have a promo to cut tonight.”

“You okay?” Priest asked you, his tone much softer than when he’d been speaking with the bald man, who clearly was a superior of some kind. You couldn’t nod or speak with the neck brace, so you squeezed his hand. He smiled. 

“Damian.” The bald man stepped in front of him, hand to his chest. Another name? Priest Damian? Or maybe Damian Priest? Neither rang any bells.

“Boss, fire me or get the hell outta my way, because I’m not leavin’ her alone!”

You certainly didn’t want anyone to lose their job over you, but you selfishly refused to release his hand, looking up at him with tears overflowing. Dozens of people, it seemed, surrounded you and apparently knew you, but Priest—or Damian—was the only one you felt like you should know. There had to be a reason he gave you such comfort, a reason he was fighting so hard for you. The bald man relented, however, offering his permission that Priest obviously didn’t need or want, and he and the medics lifted you onto the ambulance. After the medics climbed in after you, Priest followed, helping to close the doors, and he remained seated on the bench near the doors and out of the way of the men assisting you. He kept his hands on one of your glittering boots, though, never once breaking contact as the ambulance activated its lights and sirens feature. Your head felt like it was splitting apart right down the middle and the sudden loud sirens and flashing lights did nothing to help the situation.

Once at the hospital, you had to be separated from Priest in spite of your silent protestations. You held onto the hand of the only person in the world you felt even the slightest connection to, refusing to let go, until he bent down, lips to your ear.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he promised, “and I’ll get back there as soon as I possibly can.” You felt those lips press a warm kiss to the shell of your ear, your body relaxing just the tiniest bit, but it was relief just the same. “I love you, mi vida.”

Your eyes met his, unsure of how to respond. It was plain to see that you and Priest had an intimate relationship, but you didn’t feel a need to respond in kind to his declaration. You didn’t know him—how could you love him? Maybe it was even an unrequited love—maybe he had feelings for you, but you had none for him. That really didn’t seem likely, but the neurons in your brain were firing in every direction and you couldn’t control what kind of thoughts you had, or how many, and you certainly had no clue which ones were correct. If any were correct at all. Fuck, you were so confused.

You were taken to Radiology where they placed you inside the CT machine to assess what kind, if any, of head injury you had. The neck brace was eventually removed when it was determined your spine was intact from brain to base, and you were finally, finally, given medication to help with the pain. Your nerves were frayed, though, especially after all the questions the doctor asked you that you didn’t know the answer to. Like your name, or the year, or the President of the United States. The meds helped to relax you a bit, but you still found yourself looking for Priest. Every time the door opened, you hoped it was him, and every time you were let down when it was just another member of the medical team. You asked for him several times, for Priest, and at one point, an actual priest knocked on your door, ready to pray with you. The longer you were apart, the more anxious you became, and you couldn’t explain it. It was a strange sensation to miss a complete stranger. You sighed, resting your sore head against the uncomfortable pillow. 

Maybe they can’t find him because he left.

At the same time, down the hallway, Damian stood towering over your physician, sinewy, tattooed arms crossed in front of his chest, unintentionally intimidating anyone who laid eyes on him, the doctor included. All talent in the WWE signed paperwork for consent to be treated in the event of an emergency, as well as a form giving the facility permission to share your medical information with anyone you listed, provided that you were unable to do so. Damian Priest was the only name you’d written down. So after you were informed of your current condition, Damian was given the same report.

“She’s obviously severely concussed,” the doctor explained. Damian nodded, listening closely. “But there’s no brain damage, bleeding, or fractures, and when you take into account the height she fell from and the angle … she’s pretty lucky.” Your fall had already been plastered all over social media, so it hadn’t been difficult for Damian to show the doctor exactly how you’d come to be injured.

“She doesn’t know her own name, doc,” Damian snapped, stepping just a bit closer to the smaller man. “How’s that lucky?”

The doctor put up his hand, and Damian chewed his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. He sucked it into his mouth as he stepped back. “Yes, there’s amnesia. But it should resolve in a few days, maybe a few weeks.”

“Maybe a few months? A few years?” Damian was angry about the situation and taking it out on the wrong person. He should have been there to protect you, catch you when you tumbled off the turnbuckle—what the hell kind of husband would be if he couldn’t save you? And would he ever be a husband at all? What if you never regained your memories, despite the doctor’s confident assurance that it would take less than a month for you to recover? Damian put his own hands up in an effort to pause the conversation before it got out of control, and he scrubbed his hands over his face. “When can I take her home?”

“We’re gonna keep her overnight for observation, so probably tomorrow, possibly the next day.”

Maybe a week from now! Damian wanted to scream at the doctor who seemed to know precisely nothing for certain about your recovery. He bitterly thanked the small man before asking to be shown to your room. Taking a deep breath, he knocked gently, and your tiny voice granted him entrance. He stepped inside immediately, forgetting to take a moment to prepare himself for how you might look. You wore a generic hospital gown now, hair and makeup a mess compared to a couple of hours ago, and Damian’s heart sank like the Titanic, his stomach sloshing as if it were a half empty bottle of liquor held by a drunken sailor. He started toward you, fully prepared to gather you in his arms, tell you everything was going to be okay, that he would never stop loving you, and if you ended up like Drew Barrymore’s character in 50 First Dates, he’d love you and take care of you just the same as Adam Sandler did in one of your favorite movies.

“Hey,” he finally greeted you, closing the door behind him before pulling a nearby chair next to your bed. He slowly sat down with a sigh, smiling at you, but you could tell the gesture was forced. He looked exhausted, if you were being honest, and you wondered if that was because of you.

“Hey,” you softly replied, idly picking at your nails in your lap.

“The doctor told me … you got some memory loss.” You swallowed, nodding. “So then before, when I kissed you and told you I love you … that was probably weird.” Despite the situation, you smirked, but it was erased quickly by the anguish tugging at the beautiful man’s features. “Well—” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “—my name is Damian Priest. You and I have been together almost four years, and we’re getting married in about five months.”

Surely that would jar loose some memories, you thought, closing your eyes and searching your brain’s files like a goddamn card catalog—dress shopping, cake-tasting, guest lists, invitations—but your investigation turned up nothing. You had no recollection of this man or any of the nearly four years you’d apparently been together, and all you could do at this point was cover your face with your hands and let loose all the tears and sobs you’d been holding inside since being strapped onto that backboard.

“Don’t do that,” Damian begged, “don’t cry.” Because he couldn’t fucking do anything about it! “Look at me.” The desperation in his voice had you taking several deep breaths, calming the hiccuping in your throat, and once you were sure the crying wouldn’t continue, you dropped your hands from your face. It took you a few moments to actually open your eyes and meet his gaze, though. Familiar, like an acquaintance from many years ago, is all you felt when you locked eyes, and you thought this was a fate worse than death. “Everything is gonna be okay. I swear to you, everything will be okay.” You wanted to believe him, but that was a tricky path to follow.

“I guess they’re keeping me here tonight,” you said, because everything was just too much and all you wanted to do was sleep. Surely when you woke up, all of your memories would be labeled and in their proper brain files and you and your fiancé would drive off into the sunset together. Damian looked at you for a moment before nodding. “Um—” you stammered. “Will you please stay with me?”

“Of course, querida,” Damian replied, instinctively reaching for your hand until he was reminded of the situation, and he locked his hands together between his knees. “I’ll be wherever you want me to be.”

When finally you fell asleep, and Damian clicked the light off, he sat back down, delicately taking your tiny hand into both of his where it disappeared between them. He leaned forward so he could kiss the back of your hand, one kiss after another, then he pressed his forehead there and closed his eyes. You would be okay, he told himself. You had to be—he’d sworn to you that you would be, and he wasn’t about to break his second promise to you.

જ⁀➴°⋆ Mi vida — My life જ⁀➴°⋆ Querida — Beloved/dearest

[itsnesss]

𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐬 | charles leclerc × fem!reader

summary | after a secret night of passion, charles promises everything—but gossip spreads, silence follows, and you're left wondering if it ever truly meant something

warnings | smut, explicit content, p in v, unprotected, power dynamics, emotional tension, risk

word count | 2.2 k

🖇 more cl16 🖇 f1 masterlist

The roar of the engines still echoes in your ears as you cross the paddock for the first time. It’s overwhelming. The heat from the asphalt, the smell of burnt rubber, the constant motion of important people who move as if they’ve been synchronized for years… and there you are. The new one.

Physiotherapist for the Ferrari team.

You repeat it like a mantra as you clutch your folder of recovery plans for the drivers tightly to your chest. You can’t afford to hesitate for a second. It took everything to get here, and you know one mistake, one misplaced word, or one misinterpreted glance could cost you everything.

And that includes Charles Leclerc.

Especially him.

"Bonjour," he says with a mischievous smile when you're introduced.

He’s tall, but not imposing. His presence doesn’t scream—it whispers. He greets you with a brief but firm handshake. His eyes flicker from yours to your mouth and then back, like he’s allowing himself the indulgence. You nod with professionalism, even though your stomach flutters.

From that day on, Charles doesn’t stop seeking you out. A passing comment, a visit to the massage room without any real reason, jokes that make you smile even though you try not to. He never crosses the line, but he dances dangerously close to it.

And you… you do too.

The rules are clear: no relationships between drivers and team staff. You could lose your job. He, his image. But when you're alone with him in a closed room, those rules seem far away. Almost unreal.

Like today.

"You have ten minutes before the team meeting," you say as you help him lie on his back on the mat. You’re in the physio center of the garage, right before qualifying.

"With you, I’d take a full hour," he replies, wearing that smile you already know by heart.

You don’t answer. You just roll your eyes and begin the protocol. First his arms, then his neck. Always focused. Always professional.

Until it’s time to stretch his leg muscles.

"You’ll feel some pressure in your quadriceps," you warn, gently bringing his leg toward his chest.

He nods, but his eyes aren’t on his leg. They’re on you. On your lips. On the bead of sweat running down your temple.

Your hands are on his warm skin. His team shorts don’t leave much to the imagination. You try to keep your focus, but the tension between you two is thick enough to cut with a knife.

"Do I make you nervous when you touch me?" he whispers.

You freeze. You look at him, serious. "Don’t say things like that."

"Why not? Don’t you feel something when we’re this close?"

Your breathing quickens. He notices. Of course, he notices. Your fingers press harder than necessary, like you're trying to punish him for making you feel this way.

But he doesn’t complain. Quite the opposite.

"You shouldn’t," you say softly.

"But I want to."

Your gaze locks with his, and this time, you don’t pull away. You say nothing.

There are just his eyes on yours, your hands on his leg, your body dangerously leaning over him.

"If you kiss me, I won’t stop you," he says, so quietly you barely hear it.

Your heart pounds. Do you want this? Do you really want to risk everything?

He lifts his torso effortlessly, now only inches from you, lying there on that mat that suddenly feels more like a bed in disguise.

"You’ve got five more minutes," he reminds you, his voice rough.

"Enough," you murmur.

Your lips crash into his in a desperate kiss. It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s feral. Urgent.

Charles groans into your mouth, his hands on your waist, pulling you on top of him like he needs you to breathe. Your legs fall on either side of his without a second thought, and he feels so firm, so real, so yours in that moment that the world fades away.

Your hands move over his chest, his neck, his damp hair. He bites your bottom lip and laughs against your mouth.

"You’re playing with fire," you say between kisses.

"That’s exactly what I want."

He flips you over with such ease it knocks the air from your lungs. You’re beneath him now, on that mat that holds no innocence anymore. His body presses into yours, his arousal undeniable between your legs.

Your nails dig into his back as his tongue traces a burning path down your neck. You bite your lip to keep from moaning too loudly. The walls are thin. Anyone could walk in.

"Charles…" you whisper, your voice barely there.

"Tell me to stop and I will," he says, but you don’t.

Because you don’t want him to stop.

Your hands travel down his back to the edge of his clothes. He understands. With swift, practiced movements, he removes the last barriers between you.

There’s no time for games. Not now.

But there’s no need for them anyway.

You feel him enter you, fill you, stretch you, and your body arches into a perfect curve that begs for more. Each thrust is like a crash, like a whip of pleasure shooting through you. Your nails dig deeper into his back with every movement, and your lips seek his with desperation.

"I have to be quick," he whispers urgently. "I have to be perfect."

And he is. Every move he makes is a masterpiece of control and passion. His hands grip your hips with a force that makes you moan louder, and you realize the pleasure isn't just about the speed or the need… it's about the moment.

"You're so deep inside me…" you moan, but there's no time to say more. His lips seal yours in a hungry, devouring kiss while his body both demands and gives at the same time.

"You're mine," he whispers in your ear, and you believe it, because in that instant, you are.

"God… Charles…" you pant, and he turns you over again, but this time he places you face down on the mat, your back to him. One hand holds your neck gently but with authority, while the other guides your hips backward with each thrust.

"This… this is how I want you," he pants against your ear.

And you do. You surrender to his rhythm, his strength, his passion. Your moans mix with his, forming a symphony that echoes in the small room, and you don’t care who might hear. You just want more.

"Don’t stop… please," you beg, and he responds with more intensity, as if your voice fuels him to go beyond.

"Yes… yes… like that…" you moan against the sweaty mat, and he makes you arch more, take him deeper, fuller.

"You’re perfect," he whispers, and those words push you to the edge of pleasure.

"I’m gonna… I’m gonna…" you try to say, but the words are lost in a choked scream that he captures with a wild kiss.

"Wait for me," he pleads, and you try, but your body is a volcano ready to erupt.

"I can’t… I can’t…" you beg, and he gives you everything—every part of him, every heartbeat, every whisper.

And when the end comes, it’s like a blaze that consumes you completely. You let go, give in, surrender, and he keeps going, relentless, perfect, until pleasure shakes you to your core and makes him cry out too, with your name on his lips, his body collapsing over yours.

"God…" is the last thing you hear before he’s there, holding you, kissing your forehead gently.

"Are you okay?" he asks, concerned.

"More than okay," you smile, and he smiles too, a smile more sincere than all the ones before.

"Just in time," Charles says, looking at his phone. "I have to go."

"I know," you reply, but you stay in his arms a few seconds longer.

"What was this?" you finally ask, honestly.

"Something that should’ve happened before," he says, looking into your eyes. "Something I want to happen again."

And for the first time since you arrived, you allow yourself to believe that maybe the rules can bend, that maybe the risk is worth it. Because when you look at him, you don’t see the Ferrari driver, you don’t see the superstar… you see Charles.

And he sees you.

The air vibrates between you as you dress in silence, glances exchanged, sighs held in. You know the clock is still ticking, that each second brings you closer to reality and further from the moment. But you’re not ready to leave yet.

"We have to talk about this," you say finally, breaking the spell.

Charles nods seriously, his eyes already more focused, more aware of what’s happened. "As soon as I’m back from the track."

"Yeah," you agree, though part of you already fears that conversation.

"Trust me," he says before leaving, and you almost believe you can.

The rest of the day is a blur of activity and adrenaline. Every time you see Charles walk by, in his racing suit and helmet in hand, your stomach flips. You don’t know if it’s fear or anticipation, but you do know nothing will ever be the same again.

When the race ends and the paddock starts to empty, you receive a message on your phone. It’s from him.

"Where are you?" Just that. No emojis, no jokes. Just a question heavier than all the words he hasn’t said.

"In the massage room," you reply, knowing it’s already empty. It’s the most private place you can offer him without raising suspicion.

"Coming now."

The minutes before he arrives feel like hours. You wonder what he’ll say, if he’ll apologize, if he’ll pretend it was a mistake. But when the door opens and he walks in, his hair messy and eyes bright, you know he didn’t come to apologize.

He closes the door behind him with a click that sounds like a gunshot. He doesn’t say anything, just walks toward you with confident, determined steps. Before you can speak, he grabs your waist and kisses you like he hasn’t kissed anyone since he left you on that mat.

"Charles…" you try to say between kisses, but he doesn’t let you speak.

"Let’s not talk," he whispers against your lips. "Just know I want to be with you. No one else matters."

"The rules…"

"To hell with the rules," he says with a passion that makes you tremble. "I want this. I want you."

"But the risk…"

"I’ll take it," he interrupts, looking so serious it silences you. "For the first time in my life, I’m willing to risk everything for something that isn’t four wheels and an engine."

"What if we get caught?"

"Then we get caught," he says like it’s the simplest thing in the world. "But I’m not letting this go. Not when I know what I feel."

His words hit you with the force of a high-speed crash. You’ve never heard anyone speak like that, like love was more important than success, more valuable than gold.

"And you?" he asks, eyes locked on yours. "What do you feel?"

"I’m scared," you admit, because it’s the truth. "But I want this too. I want… I want you."

"Then there’s no problem," he smiles. "We’re on the same team."

And in that moment, you believe it. You believe you can overcome anything, be stronger than any rule. Because when he’s in your arms, the whole world feels possible.

But reality is cruel, and the paddock has eyes and ears in every corner. Monday morning, while you’re reviewing the drivers’ performance data, you feel a presence behind you. Before you can turn around, you hear a voice that isn’t Charles’s.

"I see why you’ve been so cheerful lately," says the technical director, his tone laced with irony. "But remember, we all have our roles here. And yours isn’t to distract our drivers."

The ground seems to disappear beneath your feet. You don’t know what to say, how to defend yourself. The words die on your lips as you watch the boss nod slowly before walking away.

"Are they together?" asks an engineer walking down the hall, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Rumors?" another one responds, like he’s talking about a crash on the track. "There are always rumors around here."

But it’s not just rumors. They’re seeds of doubt planted in the heart of the team. And you know in this world of high speed, doubt can turn into disaster faster than a blown tire.

Charles doesn’t come looking for you all day. No messages, no stolen glances in the strategy room. It’s like he’s disappeared, like yesterday’s race never happened. And that hurts more than any words.

"Something wrong?" one of your coworkers asks as you pack up to head home.

"Everything’s fine," you try to smile, but you know she won’t believe it.

"It’s him, isn’t it?" she insists, her voice low but pressing. "I heard rumors. Don’t get involved. He’s not worth it."

That night, you fall asleep with your phone in your hand, waiting for a message that never comes. The silence says more than any conversation ever could. And when you finally drift off, it’s with the feeling that you’ve lost something you didn’t even know you had.

[towriteloveontheirarms]

Take it slow (Gale Dekarios x Reader)

synopsis: Gale and you share a tent for the night. The forced proximity is the perfect circumstance to explore each other more.

warnings: drinking, smut adjacent, reader is the first person to be with Gale after Mystra, heavy petting, dry humping, afab reader

word count: 1.8k

taglist: @hopelesswritergall

(If you want to be tagged for a specific character/fandom or in general let me know in my asks, comments or DMs)

A/N: Thank you to my darling @legitalicat for beta reading and also for listening to my honestly unhealthy Bg3 obsession. I love you💕

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

The whole party sits around the campfire, drinking, celebrating another small victory. Spirits had been down lately, so this was more than needed and a night of light-heartedness feels only appropriate. You sit around in a big group until well into the night, when the first folks start retiring, leaving only a handful of people. Among them Gale, who after wishing everyone a good night, comes back to join you rather quickly. Garnering a few questioning looks.

“It seems like I am out of a tent for the night.” He explains his sudden return, one hand scratching the back of his neck sheepishly.

You are about to ask what happened, when from the side Karlach loudly gives her own opinion.

“You should share a tent.” She laughs and wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.

The suggestion garners a few drunken snickers around the group, but it also serves well to make your cheeks grow warm at the thought of sharing a space with the wizard for the night. Your nervous demeanour only furthers their giggles.

Gale however quickly lifts his hands in a defensive motion. “It´s quite alright. I don´t mind sleeping with- I mean sharing a tent with you. If you do not mind it either.”

His slip of tongue immediately produces more heat on both of your faces and gives the others a hard time not to burst out into roaring laughter.

“I do not mind it at all.” That secretly you had wished for this moment for a while now goes unsaid, though when he helps you to your feet your eyes linger on each other´s for just a second too long to still be platonic in nature.

Gale leads you away from the amused group by the hand and holds open the tent for you to enter before him.

Now alone with the wizard the tension in the rather confined space grows thick. The two of you lay stiff beside each other on the considerably too small bed roll, desperately trying to find something to say to lighten the mood somehow, to make each other more comfortable. Luckily for you, as you lay there so far away from the campfire, the cold seeps into your bones and makes both of you shiver.

“Would it be alright if I laid closer to you? Just to fight the cold a bit.” you ask in a croaky voice. Your fingertips drumming against the ground with excessive energy.

“Yes, yes naturally.” Gale replies fast, almost all but pulling you into his arms.

 Silence settles yet again as you lay your head on his chest, though it feels a bit less stiff than before. The scent of black tea, parchment paper enters your nostrils, accompanied by an undercurrent of sea salt and something citrusy to all mix for a scent that is so uniquely Gale. You can feel his chin rest against the crown of your head and instinctively bury your nose further into his chest. His hand runs up and down your arm with feather light touches, to warm you some more. The laughter from outside subsides to leave only the singing cicadas behind and the tension inside shifts to something much more than not being used to being so close so suddenly. Until you break under the weight of it.

Your lips tingle as they finally brush against his neck. Your heart is beating on your ears at how exciting it is, leaning in to repeat the motion over and over again. Sucking and nibbling at the skin ever so lightly. Gale’s skin warms up under your ministrations and his adam's apple bobs under a heavy gulp. Right as you pull away, he lets out a shaky breath. However, the two of you can't stay away for long, crashing your lips together. Hands grabbing at the other´s cheeks, necks and hips, anywhere they can reach for purchase. Your lips press together hesitantly at first, yet as they grow surer in what they are doing, stay slow, but crushingly passionate.

“Gods you’re such a good kisser.” You rasp against his lips. “I will never get enough of the way you taste.”

There is not a single trace of your initial bashfulness left as the kiss lingers longer and longer. Your hands wander over Gale´s arms to his chest, feeling his heartbeat drum against his chest to match the rhythm of your own. His fingers hook into your pants as your hands claw into the collar of his shirt pulling you into his lap and each other close until there is no air left between you. Nor is any breath in your lungs. The kiss is the only thing keeping the two of you alive in this moment. Savouring the sweet remnants of wine on his stained lips and the feel of their softness.

A guttural moan falls from his lungs, getting swallowed by you immediately. “Keep tasting me then.”

It's something he doesn't have to tell you twice. While you continue to breathe life into each other, you let your hands wander over the fabric separating each other’s bodies. Roaming the length of it repeatedly before they dip underneath. You gently drag your nails down his sides and back. Not enough to leave a sting but for a shiver to follow along with them. Ending with your hands running over the bulge between his thighs.

“Wait…” The wizard suddenly pulls away to stop you by laying his hands over yours.

You pull back as well at the sound of his voice, eyes fluttering open to gauge his reaction and the cause of the sudden stop.

The sight of his tousled hair, the shiny, swollen lips and the flushed skin. The heavily moving chest, in the dim light it's all so intoxicating.

“What is it?” You ask worriedly, taking hold of his hands and guide them to rest against your chest.

It takes a while for him to collect himself. “Yes, quite alright. I am not used to people touching me like this anymore. I…”

The frustration coming from him is palpable in his aura, but you on the other hand are filled with relief that he isn't shutting you out.

“We can take it slow. There is no harm in that.” You cup Gale's cheek in your hand and nudge his nose with yours.

A shaky sigh escapes his lungs in response to it. “I´m sorry. I must be so boring. You are probably used to more adventurous partners. You must think I don't want you now.”

“Hey, hey listen to me. There is no need to apologize. It is so exciting just to be with you. It is true I want you so much, but more than that I want you to be comfortable. So, if you do not feel ready to go all the way just yet, l am fine with that.“ While you coo at him reassuringly, eyes set on his, your fingers run through his beard.

He leans into your touch, practically purring at the soothing motion. He can´t help but nuzzle further into your palm. “Do you truly mean it?”

You don't mean to chuckle at him while he is being vulnerable, but the way he looks at you with those wide, dark brown eyes, you can't fight back the sound.

“Yes. Of course I mean it. I could never live with myself knowing I forced myself on you.” A chaste peck finds its way from your lips to his temple.

Gale seems taken aback by your understanding, though the confusion in his face doesn´t stay for too long.

“I have an idea. How would you feel about being the one to guide my hands over your body until you feel more comfortable with them wandering on their own?” You purr, biting your lower lip in excitement at the prospect of exploring him more.

His eyes glow up at the proposal and he slowly nods his head. “I think I would like that very much.”

Your hands, still holding his, find Gale´s chest, resting against it without moving. That alone has his heart beating faster an embarrassing amount, but so does yours as his own digits carefully begin to guide them. Shaky breaths mingle, your eyes stay on each other securely, meanwhile you feel the soft indigo fabric and the contrasting rough silver accents under your palms. Roaming over his upper body once more, caressing his neck and running through his hair. Every now and again your lips meet his to share a kiss or to press some chaste affection to his jawline or the column of his throat, which draw soft whimpers from both of your lungs. It gets the warmth in your stomach to swirl hotter than ever before and when you least expect it, Gale leads you underneath the shirt again. The feel of his still heated skin is exhilarating, but he still has a surprise left for you.

Gale lightly lifts one of his legs and flexes the muscles to rub against the bundle of nerves at the apex between your thighs, making you draw in a sharp breath.

“Fuck, Gale…” You breathe out, beginning to tremble just as much as he does. “That feels so good.”

The wizard is only able to hum in agreement, too focused on your fingers carding through his chest hair and teasing his nipples under his guidance. In search of more stimulation, your hips begin to move on their own. Rubbing your pleasure centre against his thigh, ready to stop at any moment. Yet as you do so, Gale groans and meets your stagnant motions. Your lips meet once more and just like this kiss your movement against each other´s bodies grow heavier and more passionate fast.

Before you know it, the wizard has left your hands at his hips to lay his own on yours to guide them instead. A tight winded knot builds in the pit in your stomach quickly, prompting your hips to grow more erratic.

“I am so close.” Gale barely manages to part barely far enough to moan into your mouth and is immediately met with the sentiment being very much reciprocated by you.

“I want to reach my peak along with you.” You whimper right back, desperate for the release that is threatening to take over the two of you.

The confession alone makes Gale´s hips falter and the hardened length in his pants twitch before erupting with his climax. A drawn-out moan fills the space that was otherwise only filled with your heavy breathing and pulls you right over the edge with him, your body weakly collapsing against his chest, while you bathe in the glow of your shared pleasure.

“Perhaps this might not be the perfect moment to confess this, but I think I have been in love with you since the moment I pulled you out of that portal.” You whisper weakly, eyes falling close at regular intervals already.

“On the contrary I believe there is no better time for this confession. I have felt similarly for a long time as well now. Though I have never dreamed of speaking my feelings out loud.” Gale answers in just the same quiet, intimate tone.

[marvelstoriesepic]

Like a Phoenix (10)

Pairing: Mercenary!Bucky x Princess!Reader

Series Summary: An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.

Word Count: 10.4k

Warnings: mentions of knives, dead parents, death; talk of arranged marriage; suggestive themes; heated make-out session; self-doubt; small mention of kidnapping

Author’s Note: Omg we are nearing the end here. Only the epilogue is left. Thank you for sticking with me! Hope you enjoy! ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

Your wrist tingles from where Bucky’s fingers had pressed too gently against your skin.

He has soothed the bruise left by Lord Ward, but there is nothing to be done for the ache settling in your chest.

It’s been silent for a few moments between you two. It’s thick and charged with some kind of electric buzz you can’t quite make sense of. But it makes you feel shy all of a sudden.

“You should probably go,” you state weakly, barely able to force the words past your lips. “They will be here soon.”

Bucky lets out a slow, unreadable breath. He gets to his feet, shaking the water droplets off his hand. The one he used to dip your hurt wrist into the cool water of the fountain. “Then we’ll have to be quick.”

Your head snaps up and you quickly get to your feet yourself. Something frigid curls down your spine. “What?”

His expression is blank, but his jaw is set.

“We leave. Now.”

His words rattle through your ribs, and for a moment, you forget how to breathe.

“We? Bucky I- We can’t-”

“Can’t what?” he cuts in, almost flatly, but with a determination underlying it. “You think I’ll walk away and leave you to that prick? You think I’ll let them lock you in here and make you play queen to some bastard who doesn’t deserve you?”

Your throat is thick and you swallow hard. “I don’t have a choice.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “You do have a choice, princess.” He says the title like it’s a curse, something wretched and wrong, something that shouldn’t be wrapped around your throat like a noose. “And you damn well know it.”

You narrow your eyes. “I never had a choice in anything.” Your voice is rough.

“You do now.”

A sharp breath pushes out of your lungs. “How?”

Bucky leans forward, eyes forcing yours to stay locked together, looking at you with the precision of a man who is hoping for something again after a long time.

“You come with me.”

Something wild careens through your ribs, something intoxicating and terrifying.

He says it so easily. As if you could just go ahead and say yes, grab his hand, and run off into the woods again.

And god help you, you want to say yes.

But it is not that simple.

You shake your head slowly, fingers digging into the fabric of your gown. “This is not about me.”

Bucky’s jaw works hard. His lip twitches “Like hell, it ain’t.”

“I just- I want to help those people. The townspeople. I want to help them.” Your voice is breaking, twisting into something unfamiliar. “They deserve it. They-”

“-don’t need another noble locked in a fuckin’ tower, paraded through halls built on their backs,” Bucky snaps. His tone is not rising but it is low, carrying an edge.

Your breath hitches.

Bucky presses on, voice not unkind, but still strong with sharpness. Coiled with something he’s barely keeping in check. “You think you’ll be helping them in here?” He throws a deliberate glance at the castle. “Sitting and rotting on a throne built by a man you don’t love?” He scoffs. “C'mon, darlin’, you’re smarter than that.”

Your pulse roars in your ears. “And what do you think I should do then? Run away? Disappear?” You bite out the words, frustration bleeding through your fear. “How does that help them?”

Bucky exhales through his nose, the breath fanning over your face. He shakes his head, running a hand along his stubble, but keeping his eyes on you.

“I don’t have all the answers, princess,” he says then, softening his tone but not the intensity of his voice. “But I know this - staying here, being his wife, playing their game - it won’t fix a damn thing. And I know that if you let them take you, you’ll never get out.”

The churning in your stomach deepens, turning around in slow circles only to leave you stranded and feeling helpless. Again. You hate it. You hate feeling helpless.

Bucky is considering you, looking at you so closely, you can’t hold his gaze anymore.

“You really wanna stay here and marry that bastard?” Bucky’s voice is rough, quiet, edged with something that might be disbelief. Might be anger. Might be hurt. Might be disappointment. Might be something else entirely - something sharper, something that writhers in your gut and mind.

Your breath comes out shuddering. “It’s not about wanting to.”

Bucky exhales a low breath. He swallows. “That’s not an answer, princess.”

You look away. Sweeping your eyes over the many flowers around you. Perhaps you’ll catch a glimpse of forget-me-nots to pretend they are Bucky’s eyes so you would not have to look at the actual ones.

His gaze does not sway from you. He watches you carefully, too carefully, eyes tracing your face like he is searching for every smallest twitch of your features.

There is no expectation in his eyes, no demand. But there is something else there. Something sensitive. Hopeful. Unsure. But still so unwavering. A belief that you can make this choice. That you should.

But it is crushing you.

Because no, you do not want to marry that man.

But what if it is the right thing to do? What if, in time, you could make a difference from within the castle? You could be queen - a good queen. You could pass laws that bring food to the villages, mend the wounds your father never cared to see. If you stay and play their game and become the ruler like how you should, then maybe you could make their lives better.

But would they let you?

Or would they mold you into something unrecognizable before you ever had the chance?

They would see to that. Lord Ward would see to that.

Your husband.

The thought might as well break you.

You see it too clearly now - the life you would have under this thumb. His queen. His prize. You’d be draped in silks, painted and polished to be something pleasing, something obedient. Your words, your thoughts, your very breath would be dictated by men who see you as nothing more than a means to an end.

It is basically the life you’ve always lived, only worse.

Would you be locked away in golden rooms, paraded in pearls and brocade, expected to smile while they rule through you?

Would they let you make a difference?

Or would they hollow you out until you are nothing but a puppet? A shell?

Bucky is still watching you.

“Think you’ll be happy with that guy?” he asks, quieter than before. There is something pained in the way he says it.

It’s an absurd question. Happiness. What does that have to do with any of this? You made yourself believe that you were happy once. Even before the forest, before the lies, before knowing of your father’s sins that made your ribs crack open and bleed. Before Bucky.

You always forced yourself to believe you had been happy.

But even if you weren’t, there still is no point in that question.

“It does not matter if I am happy.” Your voice sounds hollow. Rehearsed even.

Bucky’s expression doesn’t shift, as if he expected you to say that. But something about him goes still. Too still.

“The fuck it doesn’t.” His voice is low. Convicted. Almost hard.

Your eyes sting.

“Look at me.”

You do.

“You wanna stay?”

You don’t.

“It’s not that simple,” you whisper.

“It is. It can be,” Bucky counters, stepping even closer, and suddenly he is too close, heat rolling off him and slapping you in the face. He is a gravitational pull you could never hope to resist. His forefinger lifts your chin, to gradually tilt your face up to his. “Look, I'm not tellin’ you to come with me, alright? I'm askin’ you. That’s all I can do. I’ll get you the fuck outta here if that’s what you wanna do. But I kinda need you to want that. Not tryna make any decisions for you. You get the last word here, darlin’. You choose. And we’ll figure out the rest.”

Your ribs are closing in on themselves, locking the air away. Each inhale you try for is a struggle, a climb up a steep, endless slope. Your lungs are reaching, grasping, but never quite filling up the way they should.

A stinging heat rises in your limbs. It’s a weightless feeling, but so without rest. You feel like your body is hovering just outside itself, adrift in shallow air.

Bucky asked you to come with him.

Your father never gave you choices. The crown never gave you choices. The kingdom never gave you choices. Nobody did.

But Bucky does.

Could you do it? Could you walk away from everything expected of you? From all the years of conditioning, the training, the expectations? Could you defy your old self like that?

Could you leave it all behind - forsake the crown, the court, the man you are meant to marry? And go with him?

You told him it doesn’t matter if you are happy.

But looking at Bucky now, feeling the heat of him, the sincerity of him, the way he waits patiently for a choice that is completely your own, even though it seems to edge him.

And it makes you wonder, why not?

Why shouldn’t it matter?

You have spent your entire life serving something larger than yourself. A kingdom. A crown. An idea of duty that never asked if you were willing. That never cared what it cost you.

You’ve never been selfish. Not once.

And the thought of saying goodbye to Bucky a second time-

You can’t.

The first time was barely manageable. And it wasn’t even for a day. You left him standing there, walking through that gate, feeling his eyes on you. It had felt like watching your own heart step away from you, leaving nothing but a cavernous, painful emptiness behind.

You don’t think you could survive a second time.

Your father sent you here to be traded. A bargain to be struck.

But Bucky really looks at you. He looks and he sees you.

Not just a princess. Not just a duty-bound daughter of a king.

A person. A woman.

And when you think of the life you would have at Lord Ward’s side - cold, controlled, strangulating - you know.

You know.

You can’t be certain of what is going to happen no matter what you choose to do.

Maybe you could help the kingdom as his wife, but at what cost? Your voice? The freedom you only briefly glimpsed? Your soul?

Bucky is right. You can’t fix a broken kingdom from inside a cage. You can’t lead if you’re shackled to a man who wants to own you.

But if you leave, if you go with Bucky, you might find another way. A better way.

One that doesn’t require you to give up every piece of yourself in the process.

It means stepping into the dark with no safety net. No crown. No title to protect you. But considering it all, you never felt more protected when walking by Bucky’s side.

It would be just your own mind. Your own choices.

And Bucky.

Bucky, who has never been a guarantee. Bucky, who has always been on the run, just like you are now. Bucky, who might leave again someday.

But right now, he is here. And he is offering you a chance.

You meet his unrelenting gaze again. Just studying, watching each other.

And then his eyes light up. Ever so slightly. But it still manages to blind you.

Because he sees the nod you are about to give him in your eyes before your head can go through with the motion.

He doesn’t look triumphant. Not smug. Only grateful. Relieved. Almost exhilarated.

And he doesn’t hesitate.

His fingers brush against yours delicately, before taking hold of your hand completely. Your fingers tremble slightly in his hold and he squeezes gently, reassuringly, but keeps his eyes on yours to watch your reaction. You try not to let him know how much his touch affects you. But your pulse thunders against his skin.

And then he moves, tugging you along.

And just like that, you leave the castle behind.

****

Your hand stays in Bucky’s. His grip is firm but not crushing. His pace is quicker than before, less careful, less measured.

You have no time for slow steps now. Because you are no longer just traveling. You are running.

Shadows are spilling over the narrow path ahead as the trees rise above.

You should be afraid.

And you are, in a way.

But the fear is layered, jumbled in something deeper - something more complex than simple terror. It is not the fear of leaving. Not the fear of the darkening woods enclosing around you again.

It is the fear of what comes next.

You cannot organize the thought properly. Your mind tries to tuck it into a neat little space, into a box labeled decisions you have made, but the corners are too notched. The lid won’t close. You have done something irreversible. You have stepped across a line that you cannot redraw.

But there is still excitement coursing through your veins.

The thrill of it burns hot in your chest, unfurling like flames reaching for parched leaves.

It is not just the rush of escaping an arranged marriage, or a life you would have spent as a marionette with strings attached for your so-called husband-to-be to move you around with.

It is not just about the fact that you slipped from the grip of a fate that was never truly yours.

It is the realization that you have finally done it.

You have finally chosen yourself.

You have chosen to do what you always wanted.

For years, you have watched the forests from your balcony, their darkened outlines distant, unknowable, untouchable. You imagined them wild and free, the kind of place where the rules of the court could not reach, where names and titles had no bearing whatsoever. And you dreamed so big about running into them, of escaping a life that didn’t feel meant for you.

And now, here you are.

Running.

Fleeing.

The very thing you have wanted since childhood is finally happening.

And it is happening because you wanted it. Because you chose it. Not because you were thrust into it.

You are doing it for yourself.

No more palace halls, no walking in pre-measured and composed steps across marble floors for show, no more of that expected display of poise and beauty.

You are running towards something unknown. Something yours.

And it might not just be freedom. It is uncertainty. It is fright and exhilaration and the painful, intoxicating realization that you do not know what happens next.

You don’t know where you are going. You don’t know what waits beyond the next stretch of trees, or the next town, or the next day.

And that is - as strange as a thought it might be - so beautiful.

It’s the most exhilarating feeling you ever had.

Because this is what you always longed for. This is what life was meant to be. Full of surprises. Not knowing what comes next. Adventures. Things being uncontrollable.

The air starts to burn in your lungs, but you suck it in and relish it. Everything is sharp - the scent of bark, the sound of snapping twigs under your pounding footsteps, the slashes of light sweeping between the branches above.

You feel alive. Not the careful kind of way, the kind that means staying inside the lines drawn for you, the kind that means breathing only as much as you are allowed to.

You feel truly, wholly, terrifyingly alive.

Bucky pulls you along, always knowing exactly where to step, where to lead. There is a sort of urgency in his steps, the need to put as much distance between you and that castle - Lord Ward - as fast as possible.

But you catch the glint of something in his face when he takes a glance back at you to check how you are keeping up. Something like satisfaction. Something light.

Maybe Bucky doesn’t know where to take you now either. Maybe he doesn’t know what waits beyond the next stretch of trees, or the next town, or the next day.

But the knot of emotion that spins in your gut never hardens into panic.

Because there is adrenaline.

It flows through you, loosening the tangled thoughts before they can squeeze the air from your lungs completely.

And Bucky is still holding your hand.

He slows then, his boots crunching against the forest floor. And he stops entirely. Right in front of the thick trunk of a tree.

It catches your attention. You believe it to be a sycamore. The shape of its leaves, the curve and texture of its bark, the way its roots snake over the ground.

Your eyes follow the trunk up into the branches. You have seen it in books. You have read about trees like this, pored over their descriptions in dusty tomes stacked high in the royal library.

You have knowledge of them - so much knowledge. Their wood, their uses, the way their bark was once ground into remedies for fevers and infections, the way their roots pull deep into the earth, older than the stone walls of that castle.

But you have never really seen one for so long.

Not growing tall before you, unbound by pages and ink.

You have been walking through forests for weeks, been surrounded by trees, running, traveling, living in the very world that was once kept away from you.

But have you ever really taken a second to look at one? To observe it? To study it?

You do now. And you relish it.

Every tree. Every warped root. Every low-hanging branch and every bramble that has snagged at your skirts.

You begin to learn to cherish it. To drink it all in. To see it for the first time even though it isn’t and never take those things for granted again.

Bucky turns to look in the direction where the castle is standing. But it’s not in your eyesight anymore. Its looming towers are smothered by thick canopies and winding trunks.

He exhales, long and slow, shoulders rolling back. And then his eyes sweep to you.

Studying. Analyzing. Making sure you are holding up.

You feel his stare on your skin, but you don’t meet it.

You are too busy averting your gaze from the tree to the path behind you. The one you will not walk back.

The certainty of that fills your chest with something delightfully bright. It starts deep, looping in your ribs, growing warm and soft, spreading across your body like the first rays of sunshine in the morning.

And before you can catch it, before you can smoother it into something quiet and contained - you are smiling.

Panting, breath hitching from the fast pace, lungs burning with exertion - but smiling.

It feels strange on your lips. Unprompted.

Not the practiced smile of a princess performing her role. Not the polite, close-lipped curve you have been taught to wear in court.

This smile is real.

Bucky watches you, something wary in the way his gaze sharpens, like he doesn’t quite know what to make of it.

His fingers brush your arm. “You okay, princess?” His voice has a gravelly quality, laced with subtle concern.

You clutch at your side, chest rising and falling with quick, uneven breaths, your body still trying to catch up to the choice you have made - but God, yes.

“Yes,” you gasp out, chest heaving, and something bubbles up inside you, something so unexpected, it startles you. A laugh. It is light and breathless, spilling past your lips just like that.

Bucky eyes you like you are something unfamiliar. Like you are something he’s never quite seen before.

Not in all the weeks he’s spent with you, sleeping beneath the same stars, traveling the same roads, moving through the same dark woods, and with only each other’s presence to fill the spaces between heartbeats.

It’s the smile. Your smile.

The way it breaks across your face so out of control. The way your shoulders loosen. The way your eyes glint - not with fear or helplessness, but with something else entirely.

Something like freedom.

He wasn’t expecting it. That much is clear.

His brows twitch like his body is catching up on what he’s seeing, instincts warring between amusement, relief, and just that little bit of caution he has never quite learned to shake off. His lips part slightly, but no words come, no sharp-witted remark or gruff warning. Just a pause. A heartbeat’s worth of simple observation.

Then, he exhales.

It’s quiet, him trying to make it subtle. But the breath visibly enters deep through him, dragging off some tension from his shoulders, softening something rigid in the line of his stance.

He chuckles. It’s so low and so rough that it seems to have been held in his throat forever before it came out.

“What?” His voice holds something unreadable. A touch of humor. Warmth. A hint of curiosity.

His head tilts, eyes still flickering across your face still tracing the way your lips are curved, the way your constricted chest is rising and falling from the effort of running - of choosing to run.

“You laughin' princess?” He drawls, and there is something unreadable in his gaze now. Not quite teasing. Not mocking. More like he is testing something. Prodding at it.

You shake your head, still breathless. Still grinning. Unrepentant. “No.”

Something is soaring through your chest. You can’t control it. It is uncontainable. And it makes your legs burn to push forward anyway. It makes your heart feel too big for your rib cage.

It makes you want to sing. To shout. To throw your arms out and feel the wind bite at your skin and know, for the first time in your life, that you are truly free.

He huffs amused, smirking. “You’re smilin’,” he points out.

“Am I?” The smile is still in your voice.

Bucky snorts, shaking his head, but there is something almost fond in the way he does it. A breath of laughter slips through his lips.

His eyes then immediately flicker back to the woods, as though he doesn’t know how to do anything else. Back to the reality of your situation, of what comes next. His fingers flex at his side.

“We should keep movin’,” he says, but there is a rasp in his voice. Something contained.

And just before he turns wholly, before he takes hold of your hand again to tug you along gently, his gaze catches yours another time.

He is smiling.

****

Bucky made you walk longer into the night this time.

It’s important to put as much distance between yourselves and the castle before dawn.

You didn’t ask how far he meant to go.

Didn’t ask if he thought they were already after you.

“They’re gonna think you were taken,” he had told you. So flatly. So unbothered.

But it made your blood turn to ice. And you had stumbled over a root. His hand shot out to steady you.

Well, but why wouldn’t they think that?

It made sense. Lord Ward had seen you with Bucky, had held your arm in a vice grip, had looked upon you as though you were his to command. His to marry. Now, with you missing, with Bucky’s name already tainted by whatever past he had with your father, whatever history existed between them - who would believe otherwise?

You imagined Lord Ward pacing in front of the king, spinning lies like fine silk. So he wouldn’t be standing in the picture of a fool who left his betrothed alone.

You felt your knees threaten to buckle, but Bucky caught your arm before you could stumble fully into your thoughts. He had stopped, standing in front of you, his head tilted, watching you carefully.

“Breathe, darlin’,” he had ordered. He didn’t coddle, didn’t tell you that everything would be fine. But he squeezed your arm gently and waited for you to compose yourself.

And after you calmed down your breathing, he was walking again with a simple “we’ll deal with it.”

Now, It is nearly dawn and Bucky finally decides to stop. But you just know that he is not going to get any sleep.

You know it before he sweeps your surroundings. Scanning. Watching. You know before he sits, back against the rough bark of a black oak, one knee bent, hand curled over it. Knife in his grip.

It is like you came to know the lines of determination set in his shoulders.

You want to sit down yourself. Lay down. But you hesitate.

It has nothing to do with the dirt, the inevitability of mud streaking across the fine fabric of your skirts. That’s the last thing on your mind. You couldn’t care less about the ruined luxury of your gown.

Actually, it is quite ironic that you started this the same way as before - fleeing into the woods in silks and embroidery, escaping something tragic.

But this one hurts.

Not just the meaning behind it. The physicality of it.

You attempt to sit down, but the boning sharpens its hold, the laces biting, tightening, restricting. A band of steel and lace and force that does not yield.

You exhale through your nose, biting down in the discomfort. You’re used to it. It’s nothing new. The breathlessness, the burn, the way it forces you into stillness and grace. You have worn worse. You have endured worse.

And you manage to compose yourself, except for the barely-there wince.

But of course-

“What was that?”

Bucky's head is turned towards you. His sharp eyes catch everything. The flicker of strain in your jaw, the slight flaring of your nostrils, the way your fingers twitch against your lap, the subtle way you brace yourself against the pressure of the corset.

His brows are drawn together tightly.

“What was what?” You feign innocence, but his stare is already pinned on you, drilling past whatever poor attempt at pretense you think you can manage.

His eyes narrow disapprovingly. His mouth pulls tight. He doesn’t move at first, just watching you.

“You made a face.” His voice is gruff.

You tilt your chin as if you could somehow dismiss the look of scrutiny now cutting through you. “I did no such thing.”

The moon is a thin sliver above, half-hidden behind clouds, barely enough to light anything in front of you, so how in the hell did he even see that? He must have been already looking at you.

Bucky leans forward slightly, exhaling profoundly before he really lets his gaze drag over you with even more intent.

You can feel the assessment in it. The way he pieces things together. He spent too much time learning to read people, to anticipate weakness.

Because it does not take long for his eyes to catch on the bodice. The tight lacing. The pristine white of the gown, too fine, too rigid, too much a thing not meant for this life - your life.

His expression darkens.

His jaw ticks.

And before you know it, he is up.

One second, Bucky is seated, with hard eyes and brooding in the dim glow. The next he’s on his feet, stalking over to you with an intent so firm it makes your breath catch.

Your voice hides somewhere deep in your throat.

You instinctively shrink back - not out of fear, but out of suspicion - and press your palms against the earth.

Bucky is lowering himself onto the ground behind you, his warmth now suddenly at your back, his presence now a barrier between you and the night.

You stiffen.

“What are you-” you start, unsure.

His voice is close to your ear. His tone is gruff. “You want this thing off?”

But his hands are already at the laces before you can even begin to form a reply. Tugging. Loosening. Deftly undoing the knots. There is a strength in the way he does it. As if the very sight of you caged in this gown offends him.

The corset clamps down on your middle, but as soon as he pulls at the first few loops, loosening the strangling fabric, you feel a rush of air finally filling your lungs. The relief is instant. Involuntary. You suck in a deep breath, ribs extending, your chest rising.

Bucky doesn’t miss it.

“There we go,” he coos. His voice is a low rasp at your ear. Encouraging you to take in more deep breaths.

Your own voice comes clambering up your throat again, but you are still shocked by his swiftness.

“Bucky, you cannot just-”

“You’re breathin’ easier, ain’t you?”

“Yes, but-”

“Then you might notice I can-”

His fingers undo another loop. He is not rough. Not careless. Just confident. Certain that this thing needs to go off.

Your hands fly up to hold the slackening fabric together at the front, even as your shoulders sag from the newfound freedom.

You swallow harshly, pressing your lips together.

He tugs another lace free.

Your fingers tighten around the fabric at the front, heart hammering against the boning.

Another lace undone.

Another breath released.

His hands move slower now since you are able to breathe steadier again.

He leans in slightly. You feel the shift of his weight behind you, the way his hands brush your back as he works. He is warm. Warmer than he should be in this night air.

His breath is on your neck. It moves to your ear. Plump lips are almost touching you.

“You gonna tell me to stop?” There is amusement in his tone. But it’s a low rumble, dipped into something rough.

You inhale sharply.

“‘Cause I can.” His words roll out huskily. He is still so close. He doesn’t move away.

He tugs another lace free, but he moves so achingly slow now. You inhale deeper than you have all day, oxygen rushing in so fast it almost makes you dizzy. Or that’s just Bucky.

Your hands are still clasped at your chest. And you can only think of saying the one thing that never really worked when you needed to distract yourself from your current situation, but you still always mentioned anyway.

“I still don’t like you interrupting me.”

Bucky huffs a laugh. It’s a knowing sound and it delicately drags over your skin in caresses. You shiver. Bucky feels it.

You can feel his sly smirk at your ear. Your head stays locked in place.

His voice is a slow drag of heat. And it pierces your core. “You wanna tell me what’s on that pretty mind’a yours, then? Won’t be interruptin’ ya, princess. Cross my heart. Can tell me anything.”

“I don’t have anything to tell you. I just don’t like it.”

“That right?” He’s smirking so wide.

You twist slightly at the way his voice slips through the air. Looking at him over your shoulder, his face definitely is way too close. His eyes gleam with something, something that makes your whole body tingle.

“Yes. I did not miss it!” But it sounds weaker. Too defensive.

“C’mon, princess,” he drones out, a smirk on his lips. His eyebrow lifts almost smugly. But there is more to it. His eyes shine with a fierce clarity. “You missed it.”

“I did not.” It still sounds small in your eyes.

His smirk deepens. “Missed me, then.”

The air seems to grow tense under his stare and you break away from it, turning back around.

Heat latches onto the back of your spine, crawling upwards deliberately.

You feel his fingers resting against the now unsecured laces at your spine, idle, as if waiting for your response.

He is so close. So intense. But still somehow not close enough.

You basically feel everything about him behind you. The heat of his body. The way his breath shifts the air between you, rustling the stray wisps of your hair, rough but deep. The way his fingers stay at your back, poised against the loose laces of your gown.

Your heart fights against the cage of your ribs, pounding with a force that you are sure he can feel.

You don’t know what to say.

Well, that is not quite right. You do know what to say. But you don’t know how to shape it into words, how to breathe them out into the night without choking on them.

But why should you hold back?

You have him back, after all. He is here again. You are with him.

After all the distance and separation and fear, after thinking you would never see him again, never hear that gruff voice again, never feel his presence beside you again - he is here.

You never believed that to happen again.

And there is no universe, no force of fate, no damn destiny that could convince you that that isn’t exactly what you wanted.

So hell, yes you missed him.

You missed him in ways you cannot even comprehend, in ways that have scratched at your walls deep inside, stealing your sleep and making a ghost of you in your supposed new home. It branded your mind, body, and soul, almost scorching every nerve with thoughts of him, his absence something you felt rather than simply noticed. You did not just miss him, you ached for him.

Even when they spoke of your marriage to Lord Ward, even when your fate was sealed with words behind closed doors, you could not think of anything but Bucky. Because you did not want Lord Ward. Not for a second. You do not want a loveless future wrapped in velvet chains.

You want him.

He was the most prominent thing on your mind in the time you were apart.

And he deserves to know it.

Your knuckles turn white. You wet your lips, chest rising beneath the pressure of your next words.

“I did miss you.”

You feel the moment the words reach Bucky because he freezes.

A stillness takes hold of him, so suddenly, so completely. It’s the kind that comes with shock - something having cut cleanly through his composure. Like your words caught him utterly off guard. Like they hit him.

You barely dare to breathe. The corset no longer constricts your middle, but your breaths still grow shallow once more.

He wasn’t expecting you to admit that.

You can feel the disbelieving motion which drifts into the shape of his body, the way his fingers flex minutely at the laces. His muscles lock up and his breath halts. Maybe he tries to ground himself, trying to determine whether or not he imagined it. Whether or not he is hearing things he shouldn’t.

He goes so still as if he had only been joking, believing that you couldn’t have possibly missed him in the first place. As if he thought this was just a game, just banter, just another exchange where you would dodge and deflect and roll your eyes at him.

And the thought of that - of him thinking himself so forgettable, so undeserving of longing - has your stomach slump to the ground.

You turn your head slightly, just enough to catch the barest glimpse of him from the corner of your eye. He’s staring down at you, gaze unreadable, lips pressed into something that is not quite a frown, but not quite neutrality either.

Something dangerous lurks in the air beneath you.

And you don’t care anymore.

You turn fully, meeting his gaze head-on. And whatever he sees in your expression makes something flutter in his own - something dark, something irrepressible, something hopeful.

He exhales. It’s almost cautious. Long. Steadying himself.

When he speaks, his voice is different.

“Say it again.”

Your pulse jumps.

You swear you have never seen Bucky Barnes look like this before. This intense.

There is something so raw in the way he gazes at you, so stripped down, something vulnerable in a way he probably doesn’t even realize. His eyes are stormy and magnetic and full of something.

Your swallow. You feel the muscles in your throat constrict.

“I missed you.” It’s barely above a whisper as you repeat the words.

His lips part slightly. He is still staring at you. So close. Too close. Is he getting closer?

You are turned to him, but his hand is still at your back, fingers shifting just a bit to barely graze you. It’s a tickling touch. But the heat of it, the intent behind it, makes your skin sparkle with sensation. You shiver. He feels it. He sees it.

He shakes his head slightly, exhaling again. “You really mean it, huh?”

You hold his gaze. “I would not have said it otherwise.”

His mouth twitches and his throat vibrates with a harsh swallow.

You inhale.

You exhale.

Again.

You watch him do the same.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Again.

He is moving closer.

Definitely moving closer.

You feel the deliberate press of space folding between you. It’s not rushed. Bucky takes his time.

His hand lifts toward your face, the backs of his knuckles ghosting over your cheek with an intense slowness. A shiver of a touch, reverent and so delicate.

He trails along the curve of your face, down to your jaw, before his palm settles fully against your cheek, warm and firm. His thumb traces a slow, mind-numbing line along your skin.

So slowly.

Agonizingly slowly.

You do not move. You do not breathe.

Your pulse hammers beneath your skin as he tilts his head, his gaze flicking down. Down to your lips. Watching them.

You watch his in return.

Full. Plump. Red.

Poppies.

He pulls you to him and the world disappears.

The first press of his lips is not what you expect. You thought he’d be rough. Like the man who fights with clenched fists and gritted teeth, whose hands are more accustomed to wielding a weapon than offering softness.

But Bucky Barnes kisses like something stolen. Like he needs to be careful with what he is holding. Like you mean more to him than any weapon he’s ever had in his hands.

His kiss is soft where he is rough.

Warm where he is cold.

His lips are gradual in their movement against yours, coaxing rather than taking, guiding rather than demanding.

He tastes like salt. Smoke. Something that lingers. And something that is only Bucky. Like steel and storm winds. Like danger and safety all at once.

And he doesn’t stop kissing you. He rather shifts, and his touch gets urgent, fierce. But never rough. His fingers thread through your hair, his other hand curling around your waist, and his lips part against yours, his tongue sliding past them, sweeping into your mouth and exploring it so boldly, coaxing yours to meet him.

A soft, surprised sound escapes you.

Bucky groans into your mouth. It’s deep and guttural and it sends a hot shiver down your spine.

And he moves again, not breaking the kiss, never breaking the kiss, when his hand slides to your back, lowering you with him until your spine meets the ground and he hovers over you. Not crushing you, never crushing you, but solid and there.

His lips don’t stop moving, don’t stop claiming, don’t stop tasting.

A wall of warmth. A shield. Something that steadies you.

His fingers skim along your side, trailing fire over your ribs as he leans deeper into you, fitting himself between your legs like he belongs there. And maybe he does.

You grip the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, your body answering before your mind can catch up.

You can’t put into words what he is doing to you but you are sure to show him.

And Bucky shows you too. He is kissing you like he has been starving for it. Like he is drowning in it.

And you let him.

He holds you close to him as if he is afraid you might disappear again.

He is kissing you as if he is trying to make up for every second you were apart.

Like he won’t let it happen again.

The heat of him is overwhelming, drowning out the cold of the earth at your back.

Your fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt, desperate for something to hold onto as he goes in stronger, as his tongue sweeps over yours, leaving you dizzy and electrified. His thumb brushes your cheek, soothing even as he steals your breath.

“Say it again,” he roughly pants against your lips.

You breathe against his mouth, struggling to find coherence.

“I missed you,” you whisper.

The rumbled groan that comes out of him is basically a growl. It is something primal. Something torn from the depths of him. It vibrates against your lips, shakes through his body, and you feel it.

The hunger in the way he pulls you closer, one arm locked tight around your waist, locked beneath your body and the earth. The other cradles the back of your head, fingers weaving through your hair with a carefulness that does not match the desperation in his hold. He tilts your head enough, just right, to deepen the kiss, to drink you in, to take more.

And you let him.

Because the contrast of him is addictive.

The softness of his lips. The rough scratch of his stubble. The steel in his body, pressing into you, against you, around you. The warmth of his breath, mingling with yours, melting into you as if he is trying to fuse himself to you.

It is too much but not enough.

The heat inside you grows stronger. It sparks in your belly. Then it floods your limbs, blooming in your chest, thrumming under your skin. Your pulse is erratic, pounding in places you never quite noticed before.

It pools low. Deep.

And instinctively, you move.

Your legs shift, your thighs closing around his, your knees pressing into his hips, pulling him closer to you even though he already is upon you. There is fabric between you, but god, you feel him.

For the first time, you really feel him.

Not just the presence of him, the idea of him. Him. His height. His weight. The hard muscles beneath his clothes, the shape of his body against yours. The way he fits between your legs.

And he shudders.

His breath stutters, catching against your lips. His fingers flex, tighten. His body tenses.

And he groans.

It’s a sound you feel down to your bones, something that rips through you and sends a fresh rush of heat into your bloodstream.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice wrecked, pulling away from your lips to drop his forehead to yours. His eyes are closed. His breath is uneven, his control slipping.

You can’t breathe.

You don’t want to breathe.

Because he is opening his eyes and looking at you like he is a second away from ruining you and you might as well just want him to.

You crave him.

His lips, his taste, his touch, his hands, his everything. The feeling is molten, unshakable, and implanted somewhere deep in your belly, running through your veins, buzzing under your skin.

Maybe it is the adrenaline from running through the woods, from leaving behind the life you have always known. Maybe it is the way he is here, hovering over you, pressing you into the earth, his scent all around you, the taste of him still on your tongue.

Or maybe it’s been brewing inside of you all along.

So you reach for him again.

You tilt your head up, your fingers fisting a buckle of his armor, pulling him down to you. He goes willingly, eagerly, with a hunger that ignites the very air around you. His mouth crashes onto yours like a storm meeting the sea. His lips are hot and urgent, taking and giving all at once.

You arch into him, your body moving on instinct, drawn to him. You shift slightly, rolling your hips up - not much, not enough - but it sends a shockwave through your system, a slow, burning ache that makes you grip him tighter.

Bucky stiffens.

Immediately, his body coils, tension increases. His hand tightens at your waist, his grip suddenly rigid, bordering on restraint. And then, he pulls away.

You chase after his lips, but he stops you with the hand on your cheek, keeping you still, keeping himself from diving back in.

His eyes are squeezed shut, his jaw is tight, his breath is broken. And that makes you pause. Because he didn’t sweat a single drop while running through the forest earlier the day, but now he is panting above you like a man who’s just fought for his life.

He swallows hard, shakes his head, and looks at you.

Really looks at you.

“We can’t, darlin’,” He is breathless. His voice is hoarse. But firm.

His words should be a warning but they don’t sound like one. They sound pained. Strained. Regretful.

You know he wants you. You feel him. Even through the many layers of your skirts between you, he is hard, achingly so, pressed against your hip with a desperation that should be impossible to ignore.

But he is ignoring it.

Even though he wants you. Even though he is starving for you.

“I gotta do this right.” There is something solemn in the weight of his tone. Something real. His fingers twitch against your skin before he pulls away, enough to still hover closely over you.

Your brows furrow.

“I can’t have you like this. Not like this. S’ not right.”

It’s almost funny. Almost.

Because of course, he could. He could take you here right where you are the way he wants. He is stronger than you, faster than you, and he has you beneath him, pliant and willing. And yet, he holds himself back.

He looks down at you with something that almost looks like remorse, but not because he doesn’t want this. No, he does what this. It’s because he started it in the first place. Because he let himself taste you, let himself sink into you, let himself feel what he could have - what he could take - but does not.

“You really care about that,” you whisper, still catching your breath. It is more an observation than a question.

And you don’t mean it cruelly, not at all. You just did not expect it. For him to have this kind of restraint, this kind of morality. He is a mercenary, who kills without hesitation, whose hands are rough and bloodstained.

But you already came to see his caring side. So, really, it should not be all that be surprising.

“I didn’t think I would,” he admits quietly, voice rough, almost holding something amused. But then, just as quickly, a small grimace crosses his face and he looks away shortly.

But then his eyes are back on you and they soften.

“But I do.”

You don’t feel yourself breathing.

“I gotta do this right, sweetheart.”

There is something different in the way he says that. Something gentle. Something warm.

His calloused fingers brush against your cheek, his thumb running along the line of your jaw. It’s such a contrast to the way he has been kissing.

Your hands are still gripping him but your hold has loosened, fingers splayed against his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his it.

Bucky’s arm winds carefully from beneath you, sliding free and making sure you lay comfortably.

You feel his fingers skim along the slackened fabric of your gown, adjusting it across your chest with an absentminded sort of tenderness. He pulls it back into place to keep the fabric from exposing you too much.

His other hand props himself up on his forearm beside your head to keep some of his weight off you.

Calloused fingers stay at your stomach, tracing idle patterns along the curve of your ribs. His eyes move with them. Then, again so achingly slowly, he trails his knuckles up over your chest, following the dip of your collarbone, to the side of your neck, where his palm cups your cheek with a softness that has you lying there completely limp.

A slow stroke of his thumb skims the shape of your cheekbone. His eyes meet your own again. His breath fans against your lips when he speaks.

“You deserve more than this.”

The words are spoken low. Filled with things deeper than regret and heavier than longing. His eyes travel down to the makeshift bed of dirt, leaves, and moss below you. He takes in the tangle of fabric, the stray twigs caught in your hair, the way your body is still half-pinned under him in the darkness of the woods.

His expression sours.

There is an instant flash of frustration. Displeasure. Something unfulfilled.

He wants to give you something better. More than the dirt, more than the forest, more than the running.

His eyes sweep back to yours and you hardly have a chance to suck in a breath before he bends toward you, so leisurely, voice husky and burning with a controlled heat that sends a pleasant shiver down your spine.

“But trust me, darlin’.”

You swallow, shaking slightly.

His lips graze your jaw and he places tiny, but lingering kisses over the curve of it to your ear where his mouth finds the sensitive spot that makes you gasp quietly. He lingers there. He savors it. You feel him smirk.

“M’ gonna make it up to you.”

His voice drops to a sly whisper, only for you, only for this.

“Just you wait.”

****

The world wakes slowly.

The air is still cool, the lingering breath of night remaining in the leaves and the earth beneath you.

But you are warm.

Not because of the breaking dawn.

Because of him.

You are wrapped in Bucky’s arms, his body a furnace against yours. His heartbeat thumbs beneath your palm where it rests against his chest.

You don’t remember falling asleep exactly, only the feel of him, the deep rise and fall of his breath like he is able to get full breaths in for the first time in his life. You only felt the way his fingers had traced mindless patterns against your back until your body had melted into him completely.

Your breaths deepen as your senses slowly come back to you. Stirring against his chest, you feel the way his grip instinctively tightens at the movement, pulling you closer.

You blink against the first rays of the morning.

Bucky is awake.

You don’t know if he ever truly slept at all, or if he simply laid there, holding you, guarding you, letting his eyes slip closed only when he was sure you had drifted off first.

But when you tilt your head to look up at him, your breath catches.

Golden light dapples his skin in shifting patterns. And it paints his smile. His smile.

It is lopsided, lazy, and warm, the kind that tugs at the corners of his mouth like he isn’t used to smiling but can’t help himself right now.

“Mornin’, darlin’.”

A shiver runs through you.

His voice is rough and slow, like gravel smoothed over by honey. You inhale sharply, taking in the scent of leather and earth and him, pressing yourself closer without meaning to.

Bucky notices.

He smirks just slightly, shifting to pull you even closer.

Neither of you moves to get up.

Instead, you melt into him again, pressing your face into the crook of his neck, letting the warmth of him seep into every inch of you. His fingers press you tighter to him.

Carefully, he moves and you feel his breath over your skin, lips touching the corner of your jaw, before he dips lower. He kisses your neck in a slow and unhurried drag of his lips.

He doesn’t rush. He simply tastes you, presses his mouth to the place where your pulse flutters, lingers there, lets his teeth graze just enough to make your breath shudder and goosebumps rise.

Each kiss is softer than the last one and you feel them setting a fire in your belly.

You sigh, pressing further into you.

Bucky smirks against your skin.

“You sleep well?” he asks, voice a low murmur, thick and knowing, his lips brushing against your jaw between words.

You hum, a soft wordless sound that vibrates against his lips, still too caught in the haze of his touch.

He rolls slightly, so that his weight presses more firmly against you, pinning you beneath him. His hand slides lower, fingers skimming the curve of your waist, dipping beneath the loose folds of your gown, calloused fingertips tracing slow and aimless lines on your back, your waist. He is leisure about it, memorizing the shape of you like he never means to forget, and watching your reaction.

Your fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt, gripping it slightly as you try to even your breaths, but it’s impossible when he is looking at you like that. Like you are something he intends to take his time with, something he is in no rush to let go of.

You blink up at him, still drowsy, still trying to process the fact that you woke up like this - with him wrapped around you.

“Am I overwhelmin’ you, darlin’?” he muses, speaking softly, but the smirk is still in his voice.

You let out a huff, tilting your chin up in mild indignation, but your attempt at a glare is short-lived. Because he chooses that exact moment to smooth another kiss beneath your ear, so consciously, his lips barely there, teasing the spot he already knows will unravel you.

The sigh you let out this time is less innocent.

Bucky chuckles, the sound deep and satisfied, vibrating through his chest where it’s pressed against yours. “Mm. That’s what I thought.”

Another kiss. “You want me to stop?” It’s an earnest whisper and he lifts his lips off your skin to look at you.

“No,” you breathe out.

“Good.” He dives back in.

Neither of you seems to be in a hurry to move any time soon.

You stay in his arms, feeling his breaths against your temple.

The world feels so quiet like this. So small. Like it only consists of the space between you.

But there’s that question burrowing in your mind since you left the castle - since you chose him and yourself over everything you had ever known. And as much as you’d like to keep living in this moment, you know you need to ask.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah, darlin’?.”

The comfortable tone of his voice settles over you. His hands come to a halt on the dip of your spine, still lying between the folds to give you his full attention.

You hesitate, tracing small and lacy lines along the ridges of the brown leather strap crossing his chest.

“Where do we go now?” It’s a whisper.

His body shifts and you feel him exhale, his chest rising and falling slowly against you. Almost absentmindedly, he resumes the movements of his fingers at your back, as if weighing his answer in his silence.

“I know a place.”

You tilt your head up slightly, to catch his gaze. He looks back at you immediately. “That does not tell me much, Bucky,” you say lightly, but throw him a small expectant smile.

A corner of his lips quirks, but his eyes remain unreadable. “You’ll see soon enough,” he hums. A kiss is placed on your temple.

Leaning back just slightly, you try to search his eyes for more than his usual cryptic deflections. You study the way the light catches in the depths of his gaze, the way his features still are relaxed but somehow holding a guard up. As if there is more he’s not saying.

“Tell me something,” you plead in a whisper, keeping your tone soft.

His eyes switch between yours, his thumb grazing over your hipbone. He exhales through his nose but it lacks frustration.

“What do you wanna know, princess?”

“Are there others?”

He smiles a bit of a sad smile. Eyes on you “My friends.”

“Your friends?”

His smile falls into a smirk, a twinkle in his eyes returning. “Surprised I got ‘em?”

“No,” you retort quickly. Then softer, “Maybe a little.”

His low chuckle resounds in your own body and his arms around you tighten.

“Who are they?” you continue, eager to learn more. “And how many? Where do they live? Are they all together? Do they know you’re coming?”

Bucky lets out a dramatic sigh, tilting his head back against the mossy ground, feigning utter exhaustion at your curiosity. But his smirk doesn’t waver. “Again with those damn questions.”

You fight the smile threatening your lips, but it lifts your cheeks nevertheless. Shifting to prop yourself up on one elbow, you can see his face better. “Hey, you told me to ask.”

“Right.” He clicks his tongue, tilting his head with the motion. “That was my mistake. Shoulda seen it comin’.”

“I want to know more about you, Bucky,” you say after a beat, quieter this time.

His expression softens at that, eyes falling back to you. Looking at you for a long moment, he studies you the way someone would examine a delicate being. Long fingers trail up to brush against your cheek, his rough-skinned thumb grazing the high point of it before settling along your jaw and mapping the curve of it. He follows his fingers with his gaze before going back to your eyes.

And when he speaks again, his voice is lower. More careful, but sounding somewhat hollow.

“It ain’t no castle,” he says, gaze dropping to his fingers briefly, before returning to yours. “Or palace.”

There is something in the way he says it - like a warning, or an apology. He says it like a man who has been told his whole life that he could never offer something worth keeping.

You don’t believe him to think you might be dissatisfied, or that it won’t come close to any standards you might have. More like that some part of him believes he cannot give you what you deserve. Or what he might think you deserve.

A shadow of doubt.

Your heart clenches.

You don’t want him to doubt. Not even for a second.

You reach for him before you can think twice, letting your fingers skim over the rough scruff of his jaw. He lets you trace the line of his cheek, his temple, as if you could memorize him with your hands alone.

He doesn’t seem to breathe. His stare is piercing.

“Well, it is a good thing that castles suck,” you assess almost flatly.

There is a beat of silence and then Bucky laughs. Out loud. It resonates among the trees like something out of nature. It rumbles out of him, shaking his shoulders and you a little with it. His mouth curls into something wide and almost boyish, so utterly amused. He shakes his head in disbelief.

You grin at him. Can’t stop it.

With a wistful sigh, he fixes his gaze on your lips. “I do like that mouth of yours, princess.” He bites in his lip to suppress a snicker. There is a glint in his eyes, something playful, something teasing, something more in the way his gaze drops even lower still, raking it over the length of you.

His voice is dipped low. “If you keep talkin’ like that,” he drawls, something dark and sweet in his tone, “I might just have to take you right here.”

His words roll off his tongue in an indulgent kind of slowness, laced with something wicked - but not serious. His smirk deepens at the blush that starts to heat your skin, his eyes glinting with mirth. There is a deliberate lightness in the way he tilts his head, gauging your reaction.

He watches the way your throat bobs, the way your fingers twitch ever so slightly against his chest. You might as well have to fight the urge to just grab hold of him and pull him closer. He looks at your reactions so devastatingly patient, reveling in it, it makes your pulse pound against your chest. You can’t meet his eyes.

With a quirked brow, he leans in and leaves a small kiss at your ear before whispering, “Though I can’t have you for myself with that audience all up in the trees.”

A bird calls just as he says it.

And before you can tame the hotness bubbling in your belly, his hands at your waist start moving. Fast. He’s tickling you.

“Bucky-” you shriek in surprise, squirming in his hold, giggles spilling from your lips. He seems to know exactly where to touch, where to press to leave you gasping. He did take his time to memorize your body last night.

“Or would you like that kinda audience, princess, huh? That somethin’ for you?” It’s clear in his voice that he holds back his own laughter, shoulders shaking faintly.

“Stop,” you laugh, cheeks on fire, but you don’t do much to swat his hands away.

With a chuckle so full of smug satisfaction, he relents, easing up and letting you catch a breath. You keep giggling against him, hiding your face in his chest. His fingers stay at your waist, giving you a quick squeeze.

His grin softens and his own breathing evens out. A finger meets your chin to make you look back at him and his gaze traces your face as if he needed this. Needed this excuse to see you flustered, to hear you laugh.

And it takes a moment of regaining your breath before you realize just how light you actually feel.

Weightless.

Unburdened.

Not even as a child, when you ran barefoot through the palace halls, had you felt this way. Even then, you were never truly free.

Even in the secluded spots of the gardens, where you once thought solitude could feel like freedom, there was always a link, a bond encircling your wrist in the form of duty, expectation, obligation.

This.

This is freedom.

It is him.

“And how brave you are for letting go of everything that’s no longer for you.”

- Evan Sanders

Epilogue

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