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dollgxtz · 30 days ago

Text

Shattered Birdcage

Word Count: 9.5k

Summary: Sylus loses control due to the Frenzy Enhancer and you don't find the activater in time...causing him to become sexually aggressive and desperate to claim you for himself :3

Tags: praedator!Sylus x fem!reader, predator x prey, noncon, intense choking, rough sex, forced orgasm, degradation, biting, blood, injury, cunnilingus, creampie, threats, mentions of breeding, nicknames like little bird, near death experience (no one actually dies don't worry!!), fluffy ending to soften the blow :33

Taglist: @magpie-the-goblin-girl @sxremmie @lem-hhn @silverbrain @sizzlingtigerkitten @msslytherin00 @letharue @yu-irene @poptrim @monster-effer @ditsynddotsy @size0forhollywood @its-regretti @queenofstresss @reiheis @valentinared

AN: Hiii guys!! Are we enjoying the new banner? I AM! This is literally a dream come true for me. So I decided to write a fic based on it with a little twist hehe. Please heed the warnings guys, this is a very intense fic and I tagged it accordingly. This is legitmately straight up noncon, not cnc. If you asked for a tag and weren't tagged its cause I couldn't find your age on your profile anywhere, sorry! Enjoy!

You exhale slowly, fingers brushing over the edges of the movie tickets still tucked in your pocket before letting them go. The paper crinkles softly, a fragile reminder of something almost normal. But it doesn’t belong to you anymore. Maybe it never did.

Then, the world shatters.

The fire alarm shrills, a piercing, agonizing wail that erupts through the hospital like a banshee’s scream. Panic spreads instantly, as sudden and violent as a tidal wave crashing over an unprepared shore.

The chaos begins.

Screams.

Heavy, frantic footsteps thunder down the halls. The sterile walls of the hospital, once cold and quiet, now tremble with the desperate energy of fear. The mechanical beep of heart monitors, the faint hum of fluorescent lights—all of it drowns beneath the raw, unfiltered sound of survival.

Somewhere outside your room, a woman’s voice splinters the air.

"Fire! Help!"

Her cry is swallowed by the deafening roar of the alarm, by the clatter of overturned medical carts, by the stampede of bodies flooding the halls. A shadow streaks past the glass window of your door, her silhouette vanishing into the growing plumes of smoke curling along the ceiling.

Then—movement behind you. You turn, locking eyes with Sylus. He doesn’t flinch.

He leans casually against the wall, utterly unbothered by the pandemonium unraveling around you. Smoke licks at the edges of his leather top, but he remains still, red eyes gleaming with something sharp, knowing, entertained. The ghost of a smirk plays at his lips.

"They’re right on schedule," he murmurs, his voice smooth, unaffected, like this is nothing more than a carefully executed performance.

He extends his hand toward you, as if inviting you into a dance.

Your pulse kicks up, but you don’t hesitate. You take his hand.

His fingers curl around yours—strong, steady, warm despite the growing heat. With a single pull, you propel yourself forward, slipping past the threshold of the hospital room and into the chaos beyond.

Smoke greets you first, thick and curling, its acrid tendrils slithering into your lungs like a living thing. The air is already changing—heat warping it, bending it, making it heavier. The moment you inhale, your throat burns. You clamp your sleeve over your mouth, but the effort is futile. The stench of burning plastic and antiseptic chemicals invades your senses, clawing at your eyes, your nose, your lungs.

Outside, the scene is worse.

Patients in hospital gowns stumble through the smoke, their movements disjointed, frantic. Some clutch at IV stands like lifelines, others trip over their own feet, disoriented by the blaring alarms and the thick, suffocating haze.

Doctors and nurses shout over the chaos, their voices lost in the hurricane of fear. Someone grabs your arm—a patient, her face streaked with sweat and panic, begging for help—but you pull away. You don’t have time.

You aren’t here to run.

You and Sylus move against the current, pushing past the flood of bodies surging toward the exits. The sheer force of them is overwhelming, a sea of desperation crashing around you, dragging you under. A body collides with yours their fingers tangling in your sleeve—but you break free, heart hammering as you surge toward the stairwell.

"We’ll lead them to the rooftop!" you yell, the words raw in your throat.

Sylus doesn’t answer, but he’s right beside you, his presence like a gravitational pull you can’t escape.

The stairwell looms ahead, doors thrown open as black smoke pours inside, bleeding into the emergency lights like a living shadow. The second you reach it, you don’t hesitate.

You take the stairs two, three at a time, Sylus still close behind you.

The heat is worse here. It rises from below, clawing at your legs, your back, the nape of your neck. Your breath comes in ragged bursts, your lungs searing, aching, screaming for fresh air. Each step feels like an eternity, each turn of the stairwell winding tighter, suffocating.

But you don’t stop.

Then—light.

A final shove against the rooftop doors, and you break through.

The moment you stumble outside, the temperature drops violently.

The cold slaps you across the face, stealing the breath from your lungs, shocking your overheated body into momentary stillness. The wind howls, slicing through the thick sweat on your skin, tangling through your hair, but it does nothing to mute the screams below.

And these screams are different.

Not panicked. Not desperate.

Dying.

A sickening weight drops into your stomach. Sylus steps up beside you, his stance tense, rigid, watchful. He doesn’t need to say it. You already know.

Ever’s assassins are here.

Your skin prickles as you scan the rooftop, the smoke too thick, the night too quiet. You can feel it in your bones—something is waiting.

Then—a shadow moves.

Then another.

Then—

Gunfire.

The first shot splits the air like a knife through silk.

You react instinctively, twisting your body out of the way as the bullet slams into the concrete near your foot, sending a sharp spray of dust and shattered stone into the air.

Another shot.

Sylus shoves you sideways, his movements lightning-fast, the force of it throwing you just out of the bullet’s path. Another impact—a bullet embedding itself into the rooftop behind where you had been standing only seconds before.

A crack split the air, followed by another. Sparks erupted as bullets ricocheted off metal pipes and rooftop vents, spraying embers into the night. Instinct kicked in before thought—you dropped low, rolling to the side just as a round zipped past your ear, embedding itself in the wall behind you.

Sylus moved with effortless precision, dodging fire as if it were choreographed. His jacket billowed as he twisted, reaching for his blade. A flash of steel. A wet gurgle. One assassin crumpled before he even realized he was dead.

You pivoted on your heel, raising your own weapon. A pull of the trigger—a sharp crack through the air. The man before you barely had time to react before the bullet found its mark. His body jerked violently, blood misting into the wind before he collapsed.

Another shot. Another fall.

They kept coming.

More shadows emerged from the darkness, gunfire tearing through the night in an unrelenting onslaught. You both wove through them like ghosts, striking fast, striking first. Your heart pounded as you ducked beneath a swing, countering with a sharp jab to the ribs, twisting your opponent’s wrist until his own weapon turned against him. A single shot. A final breath.

Sylus barely broke a sweat, his movements fluid, brutal, decisive. He drove his blade into one assassin’s chest, twisting just enough to make it agonizing. The man gasped, a short, choked sound before Sylus wrenched the blade free and let him drop.

"Pathetic," he muttered, stepping over the body without a second glance.

More gunfire. More bodies dropping.

Silence.

The last assassin twitched once, then stilled, his fingers curling in the pool of blood spreading beneath him. The night was thick with the scent of gunpowder, metal, and death.

And then—sirens.

A chorus of wailing alarms grew louder in the distance, flashing red and blue bleeding into the night sky.

The battlefield of bodies lay still, the chaos settled into an eerie quiet. The stench of gunpowder and iron filled your lungs, coating your throat with the acrid tang of death. The last spent cartridges hit the concrete, rolling in slow, uneven circles before finally resting among the carnage. Smoke lingered in the cold night air, twisting in delicate tendrils around the lifeless figures strewn across the rooftop.

You pushed out a slow breath, feeling the adrenaline still burning in your veins. Your fingers flexed around the grip of your weapon before you finally holstered it. The police would be here soon, their sirens growing louder in the distance, but they weren’t your concern. These bodies—the nameless, faceless pawns of Ever—would be cleaned up. Their presence erased. Their deaths categorized as classified in some sealed document, buried beneath bureaucratic nonsense.

"Sylus, we're clear! Let's move!" your voice came out sharper than you intended, urgency overtaking you.

He didn’t respond right away.

He was standing unnervingly still, his usual cocky demeanor replaced with something unreadable. His expression was neutral, but there was an intensity in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, a glint of something dark that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. His movements were slow as he wiped away the smear of blood on his cheek, his fingers leaving faint streaks of red against his skin. The way he stood—too relaxed, too quiet—set off alarm bells in your mind, though you couldn’t yet pinpoint why.

Something in his expression made your gut clench. His usual amused arrogance was absent, replaced with something darker. His pupils were slightly blown, the faintest edge of something feral lurking in his gaze. The air around him felt charged, electric. Wrong.

Then a sound.

A wet, strangled cough.

You both turned.

The last assassin—one you had assumed was already dead—was still moving. Barely. He lay twisted on the ground, one arm stretched toward you, his fingers twitching, curled like claws. His chest rose and fell unevenly, each breath rattling, wet, his lungs failing him.

But his lips—coated in blood—were curled into a grotesque smile.

"Even though..." he wheezed, a broken chuckle rattling out from somewhere deep in his ruined throat. "We can't kill you or him..." He spat a thick glob of blood onto the ground, his grin stretching wider, his yellowed teeth bared like a rabid dog. "Both of you...can rot in hell!"

His fingers twitched, curling weakly around something small, something you hadn’t noticed before. Then, in one sharp motion, his fist clenched, and a sudden crack rang out. Glass shattered, the sharp snap almost lost in the cool air, but the moment you heard it, your stomach dropped. A dark, viscous liquid seeped between his fingers, mingling with the blood pooling on the rooftop floor.

Then you caught the scent.

It was faint at first, nearly masked by the coppery stench of death, but the moment it hit the back of your throat, your entire body locked up in realization. The chemical tang was sharp, bitter, something that curled into your lungs like acid. It was distinct. Familiar.

Your body reacted before your brain fully processed the danger.

"No—!"

Your pulse thundered in your skull.

The Frenzy Enhancer.

A biochemical compound designed for one thing: triggering an uncontrollable transformation in Praedators. The LCBI had confiscated hundreds of these vials from underground labs, tearing them away from illegal deals before they could be sold to the highest bidder. But no matter how much of it was taken off the streets, more always surfaced. It was unpredictable. Uncontrollable.

It worked fast—too fast.

You turned, heart pounding in your chest. Sylus had gone rigid, his muscles locking as though every nerve in his body had seized up at once. His breathing was deep, too deep, pulling in the scent like his body was craving it against his will. His head tilted slightly, nostrils flaring, a shudder running through him from head to toe.

A low, guttural growl rumbled from his chest, barely human.

Your blood turned to ice.

His pupils dilated until the irises nearly vanished, red pools swallowing the color in his gaze. His lips parted slightly, sharp, elongated canines catching the dim rooftop lights. He was salivating. A slick sheen of moisture gathered along his lower lip, his body trembling with the effort to hold himself together.

But he was losing the battle.

The Frenzy Enhancer wasn’t just a stimulant—it was a detonator. It bypassed control, restraint, morality. It didn’t just enhance what he was—it unchained it.

And right now, it was unraveling him.

"Sylus," you said carefully, your voice firm but measured. He twitched at the sound of his name, his head snapping toward you with a sharp, unnatural movement. His muscles trembled as if barely keeping himself together, but his gaze was locked onto you now—not as a comrade.

As prey.

You had seen this before as an Enforcer, watched it unfold in others who had been exposed to the drug. The Frenzy Enhancer didn’t just bring out what they were—it unchained them. It severed the link between logic and instinct, driving them into a state of raw, uncontrolled bloodlust. But this wasn’t just any Praedator—it was Sylus. He was already dangerously close to the edge even on a normal day, always teetering between control and destruction. Now, with the drug coursing through his system, you weren't sure how much time you had before he lost himself completely.

You had to move.

Reaching forward, you grabbed his arm, fingers locking tight around his wrist. His skin was hot, too hot. His entire body was trembling with need, his breath shuddering against his clenched teeth. The growl rumbling in his chest vibrated beneath your palm, every muscle in his arm wound taut like a spring waiting to snap.

"Come on," you gritted out, pulling him forward with force. He resisted, his stance firm, as though something inside him was battling whether to follow or attack. Your pulse thrummed in your throat.

Then he staggered.

It was slight, barely a misstep, but you used it. Yanking him forward, you dragged him across the rooftop, forcing his unsteady body toward the stairwell. His breath hitched in a ragged snarl, his movements twitchy, erratic, but he followed.

For now.

Each step was a battle. He stumbled against you, his balance skewed, his instincts fighting him at every turn. By the time you both reached the underground corridors of NightStrix HQ, his breathing had become ragged, his body burning up from the inside out. His restraint was slipping fast.

You shoved open the heavy steel door, dragging him inside. Deep within the base, hidden away from the rest of the world, the reinforced cage ready to hold the beast that was about to be unleashed.

Sylus grunted against you, his breath coming in hot, ragged bursts as you dragged you both into the containment cage. His body was burning up, his muscles twitching violently under your grip, every fiber of him trembling with the overwhelming need to break free. Each second that passed was a countdown to catastrophe. The Frenzy was about to take full hold, and if you didn’t restrain him now, you might not get another chance.

You fumbled with the heavy iron chains, fingers slick with sweat as you worked to loop one around his thrashing limbs. The muzzle. You needed to get the muzzle on first. Your heart pounded as you grabbed it from the steel hooks on the wall, forcing it over his mouth while he snarled, his body lurching violently against you.

"Sylus, stop—!"

He thrashed hard, nearly knocking you to the floor. His strength was unnatural, monstrous, and it was only getting worse. With a final shove, you managed to secure the muzzle around his face, locking the metal straps tightly at the back of his head. But before you could reach for the second chain, he bucked with terrifying force, sending you stumbling backward. You barely had time to clasp the restraint around one of his legs before you were forced to scramble out of the cage.

The second you slammed the heavy door shut, he lunged.

The impact rattled through the metal bars as his shoulder slammed into them, the force sending vibrations into the floor beneath you. You jumped, heart hammering in your ribs, your breath coming too fast. He slid down slightly, panting, his chest rising and falling in heavy, uneven gasps.

Then, without warning, he laughed.

A dark, guttural chuckle, low and mocking, twisted through the air like poison. His pupils were blown slightly wide now, black swallowing the color of his irises as he tilted his head toward you. Even through the muzzle, his teeth gleamed, sharp and lethal.

"Won’t you help me?" he rasped, his voice thick with something twisted—half-growl, half-seduction.

You froze.

He was still partially unrestrained. That single remaining chain wasn’t enough—if the Frenzy fully took hold, he could snap it in seconds. If you waited too long, he would be too far gone.

You had to finish restraining him now.

Swallowing the tight lump in your throat, you slowly stepped forward into the cage. Your pulse roared in your ears, your body screaming at you to run, but you forced your limbs to obey. You kept your eyes on him, watching every twitch of his muscles, every flicker of movement. You knelt, reaching for the second chain, moving with deliberate slowness so you wouldn’t startle him.

"I’m not going to watch you turn into a monster, but I—"

You never got to finish.

Sylus lunged.

A blur of motion—heat, strength, raw power.

You barely had time to react before white-hot pain exploded in your neck.

A strangled scream tore from your throat as his teeth sank into your flesh, piercing deep, his jaws locking down like a predator making its first kill. Agony shot through your nerves, the sharp burn of torn skin flooding your senses. Your vision whited out for a second, pain so intense it nearly stole your breath.

Then instinct took over.

You snarled, swinging your fist up hard, your knuckles cracking against his cheekbone with enough force to send his head snapping sideways. The impact jarred his teeth free, a sharp burst of pain ripping through you as he tore away from your skin. Blood dripped from the wound, warm and wet, seeping between your fingers as you clutched your neck in blind panic.

For a moment, all you could do was breathe through the pain.

The air was thick with the scent of your own blood, sharp and metallic, mixing with the sweat and heat that clung to you both. Your hands trembled as you pulled them away from the wound, your fingers smeared crimson. The realization sent a sickening chill through you.

He had bitten you.

Not just attacked. Bitten.

Your gaze shot back up to him.

Sylus was licking his lips.

He ran his tongue slowly over the blood staining his mouth, eyes fluttering shut for a brief second as though savoring it. Then his pupils snapped back open, razor-sharp hunger gleaming in them.

"You taste delicious." His voice was thick, dripping with need, his words slurred with the edges of something inhuman. His breath came in heavy, fevered bursts, chest rising and falling as his restraint frayed further.

A shudder ran through his body, muscles twitching beneath his skin. His fingers flexed, nails digging into the concrete floor as his entire frame shook with the need to consume more.

"Come...just a little more..." he purred, voice dropping to something low and lethal.

Then he lunged again.

You dodge just in time, barely avoiding the brutal force of his lunge. The heat of his breath scorches the space between you as he snarls, his entire body moving like a coiled beast just barely restrained by human skin. The instant he gets too close, you strike—your fist colliding with his cheekbone in a sharp, jarring impact that sends a jolt of pain radiating up your arm. The force of the hit knocks his head to the side, his body twisting under the sudden blow, but even as he stumbles, something in your gut tells you it isn’t enough.

Your heart pounds wildly, your breath coming in uneven gasps as you prepare yourself for whatever comes next. But Sylus doesn’t fall. He doesn’t even cry out. Instead, he slowly turns back to face you, a sluggish, almost lazy motion, as if he’s savoring the sting of your hit. And then—he smiles.

“Oh…I like when my prey puts up a fight,” he purrs, his voice slithering through the air like something alive. His eyes gleam with raw, unhinged hunger, pupils swallowing what little color remains. The way he tilts his head, the way his lips curl over the metal of his muzzle—it sends a sickening chill down your spine.

The Frenzy has him now. Completely.

You swallow hard, trying to suppress the shudder threatening to wrack your frame. Every inch of your body is screaming at you to run, but you plant your feet firm against the cold concrete, refusing to let fear consume you. If you let him see weakness, if you let him smell it, you’ll lose control of the situation entirely.

"Sylus! Stop it!" you shout, willing your voice to be strong. "Please, I know you're in there somewhere! I just need to—"

He lunges again.

The movement is blindingly fast. One second he's still and the next, he’s twisting, lunging toward you with a violent, predatory force. You barely manage to throw yourself to the side, feeling the rush of displaced air as he snaps at the space where your throat had just been. You seize the opening, grabbing hold of the second restraint with trembling hands and slamming it onto his other wrist. The sharp clank of metal follows as his chains yank him back, keeping him from reaching you—but only barely.

Your pulse slams against your ribs. If you don’t finish this now, he will get free.

His body writhes violently in front of you, hot with fever, drenched in sweat, trembling with animalistic hunger. He’s caught. Fully restrained now, arms suspended in place, unable to do anything but snarl and thrash.

Your arms shake as you stumble backward, breath ragged. You barely register your own hands drifting to your neck, fingers pressing against the torn skin where his teeth had sunk in only moments ago. The wound is deep, hot, raw, but you won’t die from it. Your body is immune to a Praedator’s venom—it’s one of the only reasons you’re even still alive right now. But that doesn’t stop the sick wave of nausea that rolls through you as your fingertips come away stained with more blood.

Sylus laughs.

The sound is low, rough, and dangerously amused.

"You scared?" he murmurs, voice still ragged with the aftershocks of his transformation, his breath coming in heavy, uneven bursts. His eyes flicker over you, roaming your body from head to toe, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing every tiny tremor in your stance.

Your stomach tightens. You don’t answer.

His gaze lingers at your neck, at the place where his teeth had torn you open. His lips part slightly behind the muzzle, and his tongue flicks out, running along the bloodied edge of his mouth as if tasting the remnants of you still clinging to his skin. His chest rises and falls heavily, as if trying to restrain himself, but there’s something else lurking behind his eyes. You watch as his eyes roam up and down your body, seemingly lost in thought. He's thinking about something.

Something dark.

"Your idea of help is heartwarming," he muses as he staggers towards you a bit, his voice softer now, mocking, but no less dangerous.

You force yourself to hold his gaze, even as your breathing refuses to steady. Even as something deep in your gut tells you that Sylus isn’t as trapped as he looks.

Because despite the chains, despite the restraints keeping you apart, he’s still in control.

And he knows it.

"When you approach your prey, you must ensure your own safety first. You taught me this, Sylus."

Your voice is calm, controlled, but the pain radiating from your neck betrays the lie. Each breath you take feels like a blade dragging against raw flesh, a sharp pulse of heat throbbing beneath your skin. You try to ignore it, pushing past the discomfort, pushing past the rising tide of fear that threatens to anchor itself in your chest. There’s no time to waste. You need to find the activator—now. It’s buried somewhere in his body, a trigger designed to override the Frenzy and pull him back from the brink. If you don’t locate it soon, he’ll break free, and there will be no reining him in after that.

Sylus lets out a low scoff, but there’s no real amusement behind it. His breathing is heavy, uneven, his chest rising and falling in quick bursts as though he’s barely holding himself together. Sweat beads at his temple, strands of hair clinging to his skin, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if there’s any part of him left fighting from within, if the Sylus you know is still buried somewhere beneath all that raw, seething hunger.

"Prey?" he murmurs, rolling the word slowly across his tongue like he’s savoring the taste of it. His voice is hoarse, thick with something not quite human, something that sends an instinctual shiver down your spine.

You don’t answer. You can’t. The way he said that definitely indicated that he is not the prey here.

Instead, you move carefully, methodically, circling behind him. His arms are still suspended above his head, iron restraints locking him in place, but you know better than to let yourself feel safe. Chains mean nothing to him. They’re a hindrance at best, a mere delay in what will happen if you fail. Even now, his muscles flex, the sharp ripple of movement beneath his skin a silent warning of what he’s capable of. The heat coming off him is unnatural, feverish, almost suffocating.

You steel yourself, steadying your breath as you press your fingers lightly against his back. Your touch is slow, deliberate, barely there as you search for the small, embedded activator. It should be beneath the skin, nestled somewhere between the shifting planes of muscle. But finding it means keeping your composure, means moving carefully enough that you don’t trigger a reaction.

Your fingers glide along the ridges of his spine, trailing lower, feeling for anything out of place. Every shift of your hand feels like balancing on a razor’s edge. Sylus flinches under your touch, his body tensing hard before he exhales, a low, guttural sound vibrating through his chest. You feel it under your fingertips, the tremor of restraint, of struggle.

A bead of sweat slips down your temple. Nothing. No scar tissue, no ridge of foreign anything beneath the surface that you can find.

“It’s not here…” you murmur under your breath, your stomach twisting as unease settles deep inside you.

Sylus lets out another breath, but this time, there’s something different about it. A chuckle—slow, deliberate, curling like smoke in the thick air between you.

"Do you think I’m putty in your hands?" he asks, his voice low, teasing, laced with something dangerous.

The sound sends a flicker of unease racing up your spine. He’s getting antsy. The patience he had been holding onto—if he had any at all—is unraveling quickly. His muscles are shifting beneath his skin again, his fingers twitching, testing the strength of his restraints. You don’t need to see his face to know he’s smiling.

Your heart stutters. You need to hurry.

Just as you reach toward his ribs, he jerks violently.

A metallic snap rips through the air.

One of the restraints—one of the goddamn chains—breaks free.

Your breath catches in your throat, eyes snapping up just as Sylus rolls his newly freed wrist, fingers flexing as if he’s testing how much control he has left. Slowly, his head tilts toward you, his eyes burning like fire in the dim lighting.

The smile he gives you is chilling.

You don’t think. You react.

With a burst of adrenaline, you tackle him, shoving him hard enough that it sends you both tumbling to the ground. A low, reverberating growl rumbles through him, his chest vibrating beneath your hands as his body tenses against yours.

The struggle between you and Sylus is a mess of tangled limbs and desperation, your bodies locked in a frantic battle against the cold, unforgiving floor. Every shift of his body beneath yours is like wrestling with something barely restrained, a predator on the verge of breaking free from its chains. Heat radiates off his skin, far too intense, far too unnatural, as if his entire body is burning from the inside out. The feverish warmth seeps into your own skin, making it harder to focus, harder to breathe.

Your hands move over his chest, urgent, searching, pressing against the hard muscle beneath you in a frantic attempt to find the activator. It has to be here somewhere—it has to be. Your fingers skim the ridges of his abdomen, feeling for anything out of place, a small foreign lump beneath his skin, a sign that the override switch is still there. But the longer you search, the more panic digs its claws into your ribs.

Your wound throbs, a dull and persistent ache pulsing from your neck, sending sharp spikes of pain through your senses with every movement. The smell of blood—your blood—is thick in the air, mingling with the scent of sweat and something deeper, something primal that radiates from Sylus like a caged animal ready to tear through steel.

"Tell me—" You swallow hard, ignoring the dryness in your throat, trying to suppress the fear that’s creeping into your voice. "Is the activator here?"

Sylus doesn't answer immediately. His breath is coming heavy, uneven, his chest rising and falling in sharp, controlled bursts beneath you. Then, slowly, he grins.

The sight of it sends a ripple of unease down your spine.

"Don’t…" he growls, his voice low and guttural, slipping between clenched teeth. His body tenses beneath you, coiled muscle flexing, veins prominent beneath the sweat-slicked skin of his arms. His hands twitch rhythmically, fingers curling like claws ready to rip you to shreds.

"Don’t press it."

You ignore him.

You have to.

You shift, dragging your hands lower, pressing over his ribs, smoothing your fingers down the hard planes of his stomach, searching for any change in texture, any break in the muscle that could indicate the activator. Your fingertips glide over his skin, past the deep ridges of his abdomen, dipping lower—

A sharp, ragged exhale.

Sylus’s entire body jerks beneath you, his spine arching suddenly, pressing into you before falling back against the ground. His breath stutters, his hands clenching into fists as a sound rumbles deep in his chest—low, guttural, something between a moan and a growl.

Your movements falter for the briefest second.

Did you find it? Did you hurt him?

Your heart pounds violently against your ribs. Your hands remain pressed against him, frozen mid-motion, fingers still splayed across the hard muscle of his lower abdomen. You can feel the way his body shudders, tense and coiled, every fiber of him locked in place, the warmth of his skin searing against your palms.

You don’t know if the reaction is pain or something else, and the uncertainty sends unease coiling in your stomach.

Sylus exhales another uneven breath, his chest vibrating beneath you. His head tilts slightly, red eyes flickering open, dilated again and dark, and he looks straight at you. Not through you, not past you—at you.

The grin he gives you is slow, deliberate.

"That-," he murmurs, voice edged with something dark, something lustful. His lips curl at the corners, his teeth flashing between parted lips as his gaze flickers lower, trailing over the places where your hands are still pressed against him. "That feels...good".

Your breath caught in your throat as the realization hit you like a freight train barreling down the tracks. Your eyes widened as you lowered your head and took in the unmistakable bulge of his erection, straining against the confines of his pants, a tangible proof of the pleasure you were unwittingly providing.

This isn’t pain.

The second he senses your moment of shock, Sylus strikes.

With terrifying ease, he yanks you upward, your feet leaving the ground for a brief, weightless second before he drives you downward. The world tilts violently, your stomach dropping as you’re thrown forward, your body twisting midair before—

Impact.

The breath is knocked from your lungs as you hit the cold, unforgiving floor, your stomach smacking against the hard surface with enough force to send a sharp shockwave through your ribs. Your arms instinctively splay out, palms slamming against the ground to steady yourself, but the weight that follows keeps you from moving.

Sylus presses down against you, his entire body covering yours, his hands locking around your wrists before pinning them flat against the floor beside your head. His hips press firmly into yours, locking you in place, trapping you beneath him.

Panic seizes your chest.

You try to twist away, to jerk free, but his weight is unmovable, pressing down hard enough that every shift only grinds you further against the floor. The heat of his body seeps into your back, feverish and all-consuming, the ridges of his toned chest molding against your spine.

You thrash, breath coming hard and fast, struggling against his grip, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t budge. Doesn’t even react—except for the slow, deep inhale that shudders through his chest.

Then, he breathes against your skin.

"You smell like fear," he murmurs, voice low and silken, curling around your ear like smoke.

Your entire body locks up.

His lips are too close.

The warmth of his breath ghosts along the side of your face, his nose grazing the edge of your jaw before dipping lower, hovering over the sensitive skin of your throat. Your pulse races, hammering so violently beneath your skin that you know he feels it.

His grip tightens.

"And something...sweet," he muses, dragging the words out slowly, tasting them like something decadent.

Your struggles escalate, knowing exactly where this is going.

"Sylus! Stop! No!"

Your fingers claw against the floor, legs kicking, desperate to throw him off, but Sylus doesn’t move an inch. If anything, his hold only grows firmer, heavier, more absolute. The pressure of his body against yours makes it impossible to move, to breathe properly, to think.

Then—he lowers his head.

The brush of his lips against your ear is featherlight, teasing. A sharp contrast to the overwhelming, inescapable strength of his grip.

And then—his teeth sink in.

A sharp, precise nip to the outer shell of your ear, quick and fleeting, followed immediately by the slow, deliberate glide of his tongue. He slides all the way down to your neck, lapping up the still dripping blood from your wound. He alternates between licking and nipping, as if feeding himself and claiming you all at once.

You flinch violently, a shudder ripping through your limbs as heat explodes beneath your skin. Your breath catches, fingers digging into the cold floor as a rush of pure, primal panic flares through your nerves.

Sylus hums. A deep, satisfied sound.

"Something very sweet," he repeats, his voice edged with amusement, hunger, something else entirely. His fingers flex against your wrists, nails pressing into your skin—not enough to break, but enough to remind you of the power imbalance.

"Makes me want to devour you whole."

A violent shiver wracks through you, your entire body locking up in terror.

Move. Move. MOVE.

Desperation surges through you like wildfire. You snap your leg back, aiming a blind, vicious kick toward his leg, his thigh—anything that will make him falter, make him let go—

But he’s faster.

Before you can even make contact, he moves. His weight shifts, his grip flexes, and suddenly—you’re being crushed, pressed even harder into the ground.

Your breath chokes in your throat as his body presses flush against yours, one of his hands releasing your wrist only to grip your hip, pinning you down even harder. His fingers dig in, securing his hold, ensuring you have nowhere to go.

"Nice try," he murmurs, voice dipping into something thick and sultry, rich with amusement. The warmth of his breath trails lower, sweeping along the side of your bloodied throat, down to the nape of your neck.

A slow, wicked grin spreads across his lips, and you feel it—feel his smirk against your skin, feel the way he’s drinking in every panicked breath, every tremor, every racing heartbeat.

"You should know better," he murmurs, his voice a low, teasing growl. "Prey that struggles only makes the hunt more exciting."

His fingers flex against your hip, nails pressing in just enough to send a sharp, prickling sting through your nerves.

"Why resist me now? You made your choice when you stepped inside," Sylus taunts, a dark chuckle rumbling from his chest. Tears prick at your eyes, threatening to spill over as the harsh sound of ripping fabric echoes ominously in the confined space. Your skirt! You cry out, trying to lunge forward, to escape, but his grip is relentless, fingers suddenly tightening around your throat with a firm command.

"Stop. Moving." His growl is a sharp command in your ear, his weight pressing down on you, pinning you to the ground with an unyielding force. The air is forced from your lungs in a rush as he yanks the remnants of your skirt away, tossing it aside carelessly. The room's cool air brushes against the exposed skin of your legs, and you shiver, fear and vulnerability intertwining as you plead with him.

"Sylus...this isn't you. Please—" Your words are abruptly silenced as he tears your underwear away, his actions speaking louder than any words could. The chill against your bare skin draws a sob from your lips, a desperate sound swallowed by the room's oppressive silence.

He's going to take you right here on the cage floor. Claim you. And there's nothing you can do. This isn't Sylus you know anymore.

"My my...this was what you were hiding underneath that skirt?" he growls, a feral edge to his voice. He leans forward, trailing his tongue along your back, the sensation a disconcerting mix of heat and cold that leaves you trembling beneath him.

"Please...snap out of it! Don't do this...!" you scream, your voice raw and desperate as you squirm helplessly beneath him. Your pleas are met with a soft, almost soothing "Shhh..." as if he's trying to calm you, but the sharp sound of his zipper coming undone is a jarring counterpoint, a grim reminder that he's too far gone.

This is it, you think, swallowed by a tide of helplessness. It could be worse...right? A gasp escapes your lips as you feel something large, hot and throbbing press against the middle of your ass. Sylus moans, a deep, primal sound that reverberates through you, sending shockwaves of dread and involuntary ache coursing through your veins. He spits, the wet warmth landing on your skin, slicking the path as he rubs his cock between your cheeks, each movement deliberate and unhurried.

"You looked divine in that uniform when we met again," he murmurs, his voice a silken thread of temptation and threat. "Would it be awful of me to say that I've been wanting to tear you apart with my cock ever since I saw you again?" His words are accompanied by a deep chuckle, a sound that seems to vibrate through your bones.

You squeeze your eyes shut, fighting against the warm, wet sensation that overwhelms your senses. No...this isn't the real him, you remind yourself, clinging to the hope that somewhere beneath the Frenzy Enhancer's influence, the true Sylus still exists. He's still in there, right? The question echoes in your mind, a desperate mantra as you hold onto the sliver of hope that the man you know will resurface, that this nightmare will end.

The moment of hope you had was shattered in an instant as you felt a sharp, piercing pain between your folds as he grips the skin of your ass, a large intrusion attempting to force its way inside you. You screamed, your voice raw with agony, as you tried to pry his hands away, your nails digging into his skin. "It hurts! Stop, please!" you begged, your pleas desperate and frantic.

Sylus grunted and moaned, his body a contradiction of pleasure and annoyance as he struggled to push his cock deeper into your tight folds, his tip breaching your entrance only to retreat, the pain searing and hot. "Hmm..." he growled, his voice a mix of frustration and desire.

You shook, your body trembling from the pain, your lower half throbbing, the intrusion gone but the ache still spreading. Suddenly, your hips were gripped and your lower half was raised up, your ass raised in the air, your hands bracing against the floor, your body now positioned for his taking.

"You just need a little...preparation," Sylus whispered, his voice low and dark, belying the wicked intent behind his words. Before you could protest, his hot tongue was sliding down your cunt, his skilled mouth working to prepare you, his touch both electrifying and unwittingly arousing, a wicked precision that left you trembling, your body betraying your mind's resistance.

"Mghn! S-stop...please, Sylus!" you pleaded, your voice hoarse and desperate, your fingers clawing at the floor as you tried to escape the pleasure-pain he was inflicting. But his death grip on your hips was unyielding, holding you firmly in place, his tongue a relentless force, licking and slurping at your folds with primal hunger. Like a beast that hadn't eaten in weeks.

If he doesn't stop soon you'll definitely-

"Those cute noises you make drive me wild" Sylus growled, his voice a low, guttural sound. You can't see his face, but you can feel his eyes roaming up and down your now soaked cunt, no doubt wishing he was deep inside you right now. "Reminds me of the sound a rabbit makes just before its eaten."

You gasp and shiver at the depraved sentence that leaves his mouth before something wet and long enters your hole, making you cry out. Sylus's tongue, hot and insistent, buried itself deep within you, his mouth working in a rhythm that sent waves of pleasure through your core.

Sylus's grunts and moans escalated into a primal chorus as he delved deeper into your folds, his tongue a relentless force, his hands digging into your hips with increasing urgency. Your body was a tempest of sensations—pain, pleasure, and ecstasy—a melting pot of conflicting desires. You tried to hold on, to keep yourself from succumbing, but your body had a mind of its own, and you went limp, surrendering to the pleasure he was delivering.

"Mghn!" you cried out, your body shaking, your hands gripping the floor as you fought against the overwhelming pleasure. "Don't cum... don't cum..." you pleaded, your voice hoarse, your lips bitten to stifle the moans that threatened to escape.

But Sylus found that sweet spot, that spongy part inside you, and twisted his tongue, sending you over the edge. You bit down harder on your lip, trying to muffle the sounds of your climax, but it was no use. The pleasure was too much, and you came undone, your body shaking, your cries echoing in the cold cage as waves of pleasure washed over you.

Sylus lapped up your essence, his tongue working feverishly, his grunts and moans a testament to his own pleasure as he reveled in the taste of your orgasm, his primal satisfaction evident as he continued to lap up your juices like a thirsty dog.

"This taste..." Sylus groaned, his voice thick with greed, as he brushed his tongue against your inner thigh, catching the drippings of your pleasure, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. You gasped for breath, your body still trembling from the orgasm, your mind racing for a way out of this predicament.

"Your scent has filled the room now...its driving me mad. I can't wait any longer".

Your thoughts turned to the activator, the key to your freedom. You needed to get turned around, to find it somehow. "Sylus, w-we should—" you started, but your words were cut off by the sudden, sharp intrusion of his cock slamming into your cunt with a force that sent shockwaves of pain and pleasure through your body.

"Agh!"

The initial penetration was rough, but easier than before, his cock sliding into your wet hole, stretching you, before he pulled back slightly and sheathed himself completely inside you, his grip on your waist tightening as he began to thrust, his hips pistoning in a relentless rhythm.

"Ahh...it hurts..." you whimpered, your body writhing in his grip, trying to escape the pain of his thrusts. But Sylus chuckled, his voice dark and amused. "Keep squirming, little bird. It only makes it feel better."

His words were a taunt as he continued to plunge into you, his cock pistoning in and out, his body a cage of pain, his grip on your waist unyielding, his thrusts relentless, driving you to the brink of ecstasy and agony, your cries and moans filling the cold cage with a symphony of raw, primal sex.

You begin to try and dissociate from everything by focusing on the concrete floor, but Sylus primal grunts and growls as he slams into you, using your body for his own pleasure, makes it hard to escape reality. Think! Just think! You've been in worse situations before, what can you do to get turned around?

A lightbulb goes off inside your head. Its risky, but at this rate...

"F-for a Praedator...I honestly expected this to be much better. A little disappointing after waiting all these years Sylus" you spat, trying to sound more confident than you truly felt. Sylus momentarily slows his thrusting, not completely stopping but definitely enough to ponder your words. You shiver as you hear a deep chuckle.

"Is that so?"

Your entire world flips around as he grabs you, spins you around and pushes you roughly against the concrete floor. Before you can continue speaking, his hand slams into your throat, squeezing slightly. Not enough for serious harm, but its a clear warning.

Sylus's gaze is dark, beastly and terrifying as he leans down to your face, as if trying to look deep into the depths of your soul. Your heart aches as you recall your last encounter with him earlier that day, when he gave you the movie tickets. He had looked so soft...unlike the beast that was in front of you now.

"I can give you rougher, if that's what you crave," Sylus purred, his voice laced with dark humor, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous light. "I quite like you in this position, that look of fear in your eyes turns me on" He began to laugh, a low, menacing sound, as he pushed his still-hard cock back into your aching hole, his hand never leaving your throat.

Sylus's other hand, strong and sure, reached out, tearing your top with effortless ease, the fabric ripping as he exposed your breasts to his hungry gaze. Your nipples hardened in response to the sudden exposure, the cool air on your sensitive skin a stark contrast to the heat of the moment.

Your breasts bounced with each powerful movement of his hips, the motion causing a mix of pain and fear, your body a canvas of sensations, your mind struggling to process the whirlwind of physical reactions.

You whimpered as pain, pleasure, and fear mingled within you. His hand squeezed harder with each thrust, cutting off your air supply, and you clawed at his fingers, desperate for breath, your nails digging into his skin.

"C-can't...breathe..." you gasped, your voice hoarse, your heart hammering in your chest, sensations blurring together. Despite your struggles, your body began to respond to his relentless thrusts, your muscles squeezing around his cock, a reaction you couldn't control.

"Oh, you like this, don't you?" he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. "Gonna cum while you can't breathe, little bird? I could've given you this pleasure sooner if I'd known. I'd have gladly delivered your demise, one way or another."

His words sent a shiver through you as your body betrayed your mind's resistance, succumbing to the pleasure he was inflicting, your climax building despite the pain and the fear, a testament to the twisted game he was playing with your body and mind.

Were you truly going to die this way? After everything, after fighting for so long to see him again? This is how things end between the two of you? You look into his eyes. His rabid, feral eyes and feel tears begin to prick them. You look past him, your eyes resting at the revolver still strapped to your leg.

You still have one more option.

"I-it won't be me succumbing to my d-demise" you choke out, staring into his eyes. He doesn't stop thrusting into your body, but his eyebrow does raise. "Even if you make it out of here, what do you think they'll do with you when they realize the only immune person is also pregnant with a Praedator's baby?"

Your eyes widen at his words, your brain barely processing their meaning as your vision begins to blur. No! No! You begin to thrash as the sounds of his evil laughter fills your ears, and his thrusts pick up relentless speed.

"D-don't cum in me! Please!" you choke out, your voice hoarse and gravely as your forced to continue take the relentless pounding of Sylus's cock. He's ignoring you, he doesn't care. He only has one goal now. You feel your lower half begin to ache and pulse, evident that you just orgasmed beneath him. But you barely register it, as your top half begins to hurt.

Your lungs burn as if set ablaze, the oxygen in your body dwindling, your chest seizing with every desperate attempt to inhale. A thick, suffocating haze fills your head, making your thoughts sluggish, disjointed, slipping between the cracks of fading consciousness. Your body betrays you, limbs losing strength, muscles growing weak as an unbearable heaviness creeps into every inch of your skin. Your fingers, once clawing at the iron grip around your throat, are failing you now, slipping away, no longer able to fight against the pressure stealing your air.

A dull ringing overtakes your ears, growing louder, drowning out the world around you. Your vision narrows, dark spots creeping into the edges, threatening to swallow everything whole. A strange lightheadedness overtakes you, a weightless, dizzying sensation that makes it hard to remember where you are, what you’re doing. Your body is shutting down, giving up, preparing to surrender to the void clawing at the edges of your mind.

No. No, no, no. It can’t end like this.

A spike of panic jolts through your fading awareness, but your body refuses to listen, sinking deeper into helplessness. You strain, forcing your head up just enough to look at him, to plead, to beg, but the words won’t come. Your throat is locked, crushed beneath his grip, and no matter how much you try, no sound escapes past your lips. Sylus barely seems aware of you now, his expression dazed, half-lidded, his breath uneven as he lingers on the edge of his own orgasm. His fingers twitch slightly, tightening then loosening, but he isn’t paying attention, isn’t thinking, isn't entirely here. He’s too close to the edge, too lost in wanting to finish inside you.

That’s when you see it.

A flicker of red, faint but undeniable, flashes in one of his eyes. It’s barely noticeable, a fleeting pulse of color in the red of his irises, but it’s there. Your slowing mind struggles to process it, to make sense of what it means, until the realization slams into you like a shock of ice water.

The activator?!

Adrenaline floods your veins, shoving back the creeping darkness threatening to pull you under. The sheer, primal will to live surges through you like a lightning strike, reigniting every dying nerve, forcing your limbs to respond even as they scream in protest. With the last of your strength, you move.

Your fingers twitch, barely managing to form a fist. Gritting your teeth, you summon every ounce of energy left in your failing body, pull your arm back, and slam your thumb directly into his eye.

A guttural, animalistic roar rips from Sylus’s throat as his grip on your neck vanishes, his entire body jerking back in raw, instinctive pain. The instant pressure is released, air floods your lungs, rushing in so fast that your entire chest seizes from the force of it. A sharp, shrill gasp tears from your throat as you suck in a desperate, wheezing breath, the burning relief almost as unbearable as the suffocation had been.

Your vision, once clouded and swimming, sharpens in an instant, the murky haze lifting as the world snaps back into terrifying clarity. Every nerve is raw, every muscle trembling, but you’re alive. You can breathe.

Sylus's eyes widened for a moment, a brief flicker of surprise as all the Frenzy enhancer seemed to leave his body, and then, just as quickly, the feral intensity left his gaze, his face softening. But it was too late for his body to catch up, as his hips froze mid-thrust, his cock twitching inside you, releasing a hot flood of cum against your womb.

You gasped, your body trembling from the unexpected climax, the sensation of his release filling you, an intense mixture of warmth and fullness.

Sylus’s eyes met yours, the fire in them flickering unsteadily as the weight of what just happened crashed over him. The frenzied hunger that had gripped him moments ago had drained away, leaving behind something raw—horror, confusion, and something close to regret. His breath came fast and uneven, chest rising and falling as he struggled to process what he had just done to you.

His lips parted slightly, but no words came at first. His red eyes, now normal, darted across your face, lingering on the deep red imprints, blood, and bruises his fingers and teeth had left on your throat. His grip, once unrelenting, had been torn away, but you still felt it there—the phantom sensation of his hands crushing the air from your lungs.

“Are you…” He swallowed hard, voice hoarse, like it physically pained him to speak. “Are you okay?”

You coughed, your throat burning, the rush of oxygen still too sharp, too overwhelming. But you managed to nod, your limbs still weak, your entire body trembling from the shock. You could feel the marks he had left, the lingering ache that pulsed in time with your heartbeat, but you were alive.

Sylus was still staring at you, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his eyes now—guilt, realization, something heavy and unspoken pressing down on him. His hands twitched at his sides, fingers curling like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know if he should.

“Why didn’t you press it sooner?” His voice was quieter now, filled with something vulnerable, almost desperate. “The activator… you could have stopped me before—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head, frustration with himself evident in the tightness of his jaw. “Before I did this to you.”

The look on his face—haunted, shaken—was so unlike him, so different from the Sylus you knew, that something in your chest ached. He wasn’t just horrified by what had happened. He was horrified by himself.

You forced a small, reassuring smile, even though your throat still ached, even though your entire body was still reeling from the ordeal. “Because I couldn't find it. But I knew you were still in there,” you whispered, voice raspy but steady. “And I was right.”

Sylus let out a slow, uneven breath, his gaze locked on you like he was trying to convince himself you were telling the truth. Then, without another word, he moved.

Before you could react, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, the warmth of his body pressing against yours in a way that was nothing like before. This wasn’t dominance or power. This was desperation. He was still inside you, but neither of you cared to address it at this moment.

His grip was strong, but careful this time. His hands, which had moments ago been your greatest threat, now held you like you were something fragile, something breakable. His fingers curled against the back of your head, as if grounding himself, as if he needed to feel that you were real, that you were still here.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured against your hair, voice rough, low, and laced with something unspoken. “I wasn’t…I couldn’t—” He exhaled, tightening his hold. “I didn’t want our first time to be like this.”

You closed your eyes, allowing yourself to sink into the embrace. Tears of relief slipped from the corners of your eyes and dripped to the concrete floor. Your hands gripped the leather of his top, grounding yourself in him, in the fact that he was back now. His heartbeat, still fast, thrummed against your own, and for a moment, neither of you moved, neither of you spoke. The silence was thick, but not empty.

“It’s okay,” you whispered finally, resting your forehead against his shoulder. “You’re back now.”

And then you kissed him.

It was slow at first, hesitant, but the second your lips met his, Sylus shattered.

His grip on you tightened even more, arms pulling you flush against him as he kissed you back like he had been waiting for this, like it was the only thing tethering him to reality. There was nothing controlled about it—it was desperate, messy, full of every unspoken thing he couldn’t bring himself to say over the years. His fingers slid up your back, then tangled into your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, to claim more of you, to drown in you.

You could feel his pulse beneath your fingertips, still racing, still alive. You weren’t sure who was shaking more—you or him—but neither of you pulled away. Neither of you wanted to.

When you finally parted, both of you were breathless, your foreheads still pressed together. His lips hovered just over yours, his hands still holding you like he couldn’t bring himself to let go yet.

It was all going to be okay.

For the first time since this nightmare had begun, Sylus let himself believe it.

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incendiorum · 1 year ago

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tag dump #2

#⌜❝ 𝚃𝙱𝙳. so long. good luck. goodbye. ❞ ⌟#��❝ 𝙻𝚄𝙲𝚁𝙴𝚉𝙸𝙰 𝙸𝙲. and after each midnight begins a new day. ❞ ⌟#⌜❝ 𝙸. we are never what we intend or envision. ⟩⟩#𝙼𝙰𝙸𝙽 𝙸𝙲. only a copy of a compromised creation. ❞ ⌟#𝙼𝙰𝙸𝙽 𝙰𝙱𝙾𝚄𝚃. and if you make it out alive hold that bloody head up high.❞ ⌟#⌜❝ 𝙰. is this what the resurrection feels like? ⟩⟩#𝙳𝙴𝚄𝚂 𝙸𝙲. and when the sun comes up you’ll find a brand new god. ❞ ⌟#𝙳𝙴𝚄𝚂 𝙰𝙱𝙾𝚄𝚃. slept in a murder scene last night. ❞ ⌟#𝙳𝙴𝚄𝚂 𝙰𝙴𝚂 / 𝙸𝚂𝙼𝚂. it’s a little bit heavenly. a little bit sick. ❞ ⌟#⌜❝ 𝙸𝙸. i’m the world ender & i’m back from the grave. ⟩⟩#𝚂𝙴𝚁𝙿𝙴𝙽𝚂 𝙸𝙲. i am the burning temple. a throne of tooth and nail. ❞ ⌟#𝚂𝙴𝚁𝙿𝙴𝙽𝚂 𝙰𝙱𝙾𝚄𝚃. this little beast was nature’s own error. grew like a tree; born to spread terror. ❞ ⌟#𝚂𝙴𝚁𝙿𝙴𝙽𝚂 𝙰𝙴𝚂 / 𝙸𝚂𝙼𝚂. got high from a holy vein. crashed down in a hurricane. ❞ ⌟#⌜❝ 𝙸𝙸𝙸. i wait on you inside the bottom of the deep blue sea. ⟩⟩#𝙼𝙴𝚁 𝙸𝙲. just a memory left for dead and gone forever. ❞ ⌟#𝙼𝙴𝚁 𝙰𝙱𝙾𝚄𝚃. lie where i land. let my bones turn to sand. ❞ ⌟#𝙼𝙴𝚁 𝙰𝙴𝚂 / 𝙸𝚂𝙼𝚂. abyssus abyssum invocat. ❞ ⌟#I'm posting these and also tentatively poking tumblr to see if it remembers them :skull:

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delusional-day-dreamer · 3 months ago

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Sleepy Girl - p.b.

‣ paige bueckers x gf reader!

‣ wc: 2k of smut 😛

‣‣ synopsis: waking up in the morning horny and ur girlfriend is right there tbh (ending is kinda rushed and the fic is not yet edited so please bear with me)

‣‣‣ a/n: hey guys... i know i completely ghosted this app for a good while but thank you for all the support even while i was MIA. this idea came to me at 11pm on vacation and i figured i should grind it out and make a return. i have a lot of drafts and ideas i came up with but no idea if i'll be able to write them all. in the meantime enjoy and happy holidays!

The warm sunlight spilling in to your bedroom and directly onto your face from the small gap in your curtains seemed to have it out against you.

It was one of the incredibly rare weekends of the season, where your girlfriend, Paige, didn’t have morning practice, lifting, or any PT sessions for residual pain after coming back home late from a basketball game (UConn won, obviously) and the two of you planned to make the most of it.

Having been in a relationship for almost a year now, the two of you had gotten to know each other pretty well over time. From working with the basketball team as a photographer to sharing a class with Paige, to running into each other literally everywhere every single day, metaphorically and physically, the universe seemed to have an intricate plan to bring the two of you together. And with such insistent force, who were the two of you to rebel?

The past ten months dating Paige had been a small roller coaster, the days spent together blissfully were obviously accompanied by the occasional argument of time management or messy rooms or even slight jealousy, but it was nothing the two of you couldn’t work through.

And of course, it was all accompanied by the mind blowing sex you couldn’t stop having. Bent over the kitchen counter, in the shower, in the living room, standing up, from the back, you name it.

But, there was one thing you and Paige had discussed exploring, but never gotten the chance to pursue, and it seemed like this morning was the perfect chance to test it out.

Depending on who woke up first, the two of you often liked to wake the other up with gentle kisses, roaming hands, and sweet nothings. But your synced ovulation cycles brought on a new possibility: morning head.

Although the concept of fucking your girlfriend while she was asleep seemed… well, odd to say the least, the two of you had discussed consent extremely thoroughly, and you weren’t going to sit (or lay in this instance) here and pretend that the sight of Paige laying in your bed right now wasn’t actively turning you on.

She had come to your off campus apartment immediately after her game at XL center and crashed pretty fast, only stopping to shower change into an old, oversized yet cropped off the shoulder sweatshirt of yours and a pair of boxers she left in your drawers.

Currently, she was conveniently splayed out on her back, her left arm stretched above her head raised the hem of your sweatshirt upwards, exposing the curve of her chest and the slightest glimpse of her pink nipples, which were already slightly peaked from the cold air radiating from your fan.

It didn’t take long for you to make up your mind, softly crawling over to rest in between her legs as you leaned over her sleeping figure, using your left hand to gently lift the fabric over her perky tits, exposing her creamy skin to you. You slowly peppered kisses on her boobs, not wanting to create too much stimulation that would wake her before you got to the more exciting part. Although, you weren’t sure you would have to worry about that. Paige could sleep through a hurricane if she was tired enough.

You nipped and sucked at her chest, making sure to pay special attention to her nipples before beginning your descent down her toned abs, bringing your hands to rub at her thighs simultaneously.

Paige groaned softly in her sleep, unconsciously spreading her legs out wider as your fingers danced over the waistband of her boxers.

Deciding that there was no reason to be a tease, especially with the growing ache in between your own legs, you hooked your fingers in her boxers and pulled them downwards, being extremely careful when taking them off her body fully and throwing them off into a corner of your room.

You shift lower, aligning your face with Paige’s already wet cunt as you grip her thighs and blow into her folds lightly, gently arousing her.

You start softly, small kisses and hickeys leading inwards before you finally allow your tongue to lick a long stripe from her entrance up to the sensitive bundle of nerves that made her breath slightly hitch.

Even in her sleep, Paige’s body was actively reacting to the growing pleasure as you circled her clit with your tongue and hummed into her, sending shockwaves running through her body, legs spreading, mouth dropping open with low moans, and back arching.

And yet, she was still asleep. You had no interest in waking her up forcefully, it would defeat the whole purpose of morning head. So, you dutifully detached your lips from her clit, opting to replace it with your thumb as you run your fingers through the slick she had accumulated before inserting your middle finger into her, curling it upwards in the way you knew she loved, which seemed to do the trick.

Her eyes began to flutter open the moment you added in your ring finger, mouth dropping with a groan as her right hand reaches out to cup the side of your face.

"Good morning," you rasp out, your breath hot against her sensitive cunt as you smirk at the already fucked out expression on her face.

"Fuck baby, God I didn’t think it would be this good when we talked about-”

Her sleepy whines were cut off with another loud moan as you reattached your lips to her clit, pressing into her g-spot with your fingers while simultaneously sucking her clit, small laughs vibrating through her core as you watched her body shudder at your actions. Her hand immediately moved up to your scalp, placing a firm grip in your head as she secured your spot deep between her legs, anchoring you in place.

"Aw shit ma, fuck you're so good at that, right there just like that, such a good fucking girl for me, don't stop mama you're gonna make me cum," her breathless rambles were endless as she used her left hand to play with her already exposed nipples.

The added stimulation pushed her closer to the edge, and it wasn't long before her muscular thighs began to shake around your head, closing around the sides of your face as she began to grind her hips into your mouth, chasing every second of her orgasm as her mouth hung open with cries.

She eventually let up after you finished licking her clean, even making a show of pulling your fingers out of her and sucking her juices off of them. Her gaze darkens as she pulls you up and over her body once again, capturing your lips in a deep kiss.

She nips at your bottom lip before pulling away, feigning annoyance in her tone. "As much as I loved the little stunt you pulled just now, shit pissed me off too. Brought this up in the first place cause I wanted to surprise you."

"Actin' like it's that big of a deal P, you can just do it a different morning," you teased, hand running up and down her side.

"Mm, whatever. All I care about right now is gettin' you right ma," she mumbles against your lips, reconnecting your lips as she slips her tongue into your mouth, grabbing your ass and rolling your hips into her at the same time.

"Nuh uh, it's your day to pillow princess. Lemme spoil you a little bit. You're still tired and sore from your game yeah? Besides, I have a better idea," you insisted, rising up and straddling her waist.

You shoved your sweater off her body before Paige's large hands pulled your grey tank top up and over your head, tossing it somewhere either of you couldn't be bothered to check. Her hand pressed into your mid back, forcing you to arch over her, conveniently placing your perky tits right over her mouth.

Her teeth scraped against your stiff peaks as her other hand, which had quickly returned to its place resting on your ass, began rocking your hips back and forth over her abs, drawing out deep sighs of pleasure from the multiple sources of friction and stimulation.

"Fuck Paige," you whined out, "why you gotta make it so hard for me to take care of you sometimes," you half-heartedly reprimanded, pinching her nipple roughly as you tore yourself away from her, shimmying your basically non-existent thong off as you resettled yourself in between her legs.

"Crawl up to the headboard," you demanded, raising your eyebrow at her inquisitive expression.

"Please," you added in with a soft pout, satisfied when she complied with your request. You eagerly followed her body, stationing your hands on her shoulders as you draped your right leg over her left, maneuvering her right in order to rest over your own left before gently lowering yourself down, hissing the moment your cores met.

You rolled your hips forward tentatively, moving your left hand down to Paige's right thigh while you sank forward, circling your other arm around her neck as you moaned against her lips.

The kiss was a needy, open mouthed mess of saliva and moans as you continued to roll your hips into Paige's with the help of her guiding hands, shocks of pleasure licking your spine every time your clits aligned.

As you approached closer to your orgasm, your head tipped back, mouth hung open with desperate, borderline pornographic whines constantly spilling out, impairing your ability to kiss Paige back. Though, she would never complain and simply kept her mouth busy by sucking hickeys along your neck and chest, whispering filthy words of encouragement into your skin.

"My girl's such a slut for me, huh? Riding me so good, pussy so wet she's dripping all over me, 's basically crying for me ma. You like that?"

Her gravely voice added to the fuzzy feeling that had taken over your brain, driven only by the tight coil threatening to snap any second in your belly. From the feeling of yours and Paige's warm slickness coating your entire cunt, to the deep throbbing you clit was experiencing.

You moved your left hand from Paige's thigh up to the headboard, using it to grind down harder against Paige's center, and the pressure on your clits had moans ringing out from both of you.

"God, Paige. So close baby, fuck I'm so close," you whined near incoherently, eyes screwed shut from the way your entire body was on fire, on the edge of immense pleasure.

She moved her mouth to the sweet spot behind your ear, nipping at the skin as she her fingers deftly began tweaking your nipples. "Cum for baby, give it to me. Please need it so bad."

You cry out as a freight train of an orgasm hits you, Paige's words and hands sending you over the edge, and the sight of you coming undone, not to mention the sounds you were letting out, left Paige no choice but to follow your lead.

Your body shuddered against hers, the pleasure slowly washing over you, leaving you breathless and extremely sensitive. You untangled your legs from Paige, collapsing on the bed next to her and pulling her down with you.

You kissed her sweetly, intimately, a far cry from the sex you were just having.

"I love you so much you know that?" You muttered against Paige's lips, cracking your eyes open to see the lazy smile set on her face.

"I love you too, even though I'm pissed you stole my surprise," she whispered defiantly.

"What you don't think those two orgasms made up for it? We can go for round two if you really insist," you smirked, knowing that there was no way your body could handle another orgasm immediately.

Before she can even answer, your stomach growled loudly, inciting loud laughter from both of you.

"How about we take care of that first yeah? We can go for round two in the shower after breakfast," she responded slyly, pulling you up and out of bed with her to get dressed and have breakfast together. To you, nothing in the world could beat mornings like these with Paige.

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siempre-bucky · 16 days ago

Text

existence

Joaquin Torres x Fem!Reader

summary: There's a rumor at the base that MRs. Torres doesn't exist. No birthday parties, no drinks at the bar after a mission, no base run functions. Sam crashes at the Toress' after the White House incident and sees if she actually exists.

wc: 1457

a/n: Spoilers for CA:BNW

His ears were still ringing.

Echos of gunfire and police sirens shrouded his mind, Sam’s body was on autopilot with his eyes burning holes into the dirty apartment complex carpet and his sore feet dragging along it. He still doesn’t comprehend how Joaquin could be in a chipper mood after that. Sam noticed the limp in Joaquin's step and the bruise on the back of his neck. It could have been worse, the President could have died, Cap reminded himself.

“Wait till you meet her, Sam! Ugh, I have been waiting for this for the longest time!” he cheered, clearly forgetting the late hour. Right, Sam blinked, he was finally meeting Mrs. Torres. After working together for three years, he thought this mystery woman didn’t exist. The younger man would make excuses “She’s working overseas,” or “She has no service.” But after catching a glimpse at his lock screen which proudly displayed a photo of the pair at a Hurricanes baseball game he changed his mind. The rest of the base thought it was AI-generated.

“I’ll believe it when I see it, man,” Sam forced out a chuckle, ribs screaming back at him.

Joaquin stopped at the door, digging his key out of his pocket and turning the lock. The echoes disappeared once Sam took a step into the small DC apartment. The smell of baked goods and a soft “We’re home, Amor” coming from the other man was enough to silence them for a moment, the pain in his ribs dulled with the feeling of anticipation rising.

She was real. His brown eyes discreetly widened as she appeared in the doorway that divided the kitchen and living room, wiping her hands with an orange and green rag. He didn’t take his eyes off her, she examined Joaquin up and down before giving herself the ok to crash into him. “I’m so happy you’re ok,” She muttered against his neck, his arms holding her against him.

The soft interaction made something in his chest ache, and the way Joaquin then cradled her face and whispered reassurance in two languages almost made him tear up. Almost. He’d be sure to make fun of him for this later.

“Sam, this is my wife.”

The woman smiled softly, aware of the situation at the White House, and introduced herself, outstretching her hand. He noticed her firm grip, but he could feel the tremble. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Sam. I can’t get him to shut up about you,” she chuckled, leaning back into Joaquin’s embrace.

“Nice to meet you too,” he said with a small smirk.

“There’s a pillow and blanket on the couch for you along with some clothes. Half his closet is just U Maimi stuff—I hope you don’t mind the colors.”

Sam turned around and glanced at the neat pile resting on the arm of the couch. “It’ll do fine. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome anytime. I’m going to get him cleaned up, let me know if you need anything else.” She patted her husband on the back and ushered him into the kitchen, dismissing all of his protests.

Sam walked towards the couch and ran his fingers over the plush olive green material of the blanket before picking up the vibrant green t-shirt. He snickered and tossed it over his shoulder.

“Shit!” a shrill curse came from the kitchen followed by soft apologies. It was instinct for the hero to look over and check out the scene. Joaqquin was fine, sitting on the counter with a piece of gauze covering his eyebrow. She stood between his legs, a look of sympathy on her face while she dabbed at the wound.

Love looked good on the kid. In their line of work, there wasn’t much room for love or even just the look of it on someone's face. He remembered the first night he saw it on Joaquin’s face; it was at a bar somewhere in Europe and Sam had been counting on his fingers how many girls the other had turned down for a dance.

“Five,” he laughed wiggling his fingers in his face.

Joaquin rolled his eyes and playfully shoved his hand away, “Yeah, yeah.”

“Wanna go for six or do you wanna tell me why you’ve said no to every pretty girl in this place.”

The curly-haired man took a swig of beer for confidence, letting out a deep sigh as he put the bottle back on the table. “I have someone back home,” he finally admitted.

“You got a little girlfriend!”

There was a small blush on his cheeks and a smile so soft and sweet it was sickening. “A wife.”

“Wife,” Sam repeated slowly.

“College sweethearts, I think that’s what it’s called.”

Yeah, love looked good on him. Sam snapped out of his memory and opened the blanket his eyes watching her press her hand against Joaquin’s chest with his wrapped around her wrist, his thumb swiping along the bone. His heart was beating, he was alive. Sam wondered if that was something they did after he came home from deployment, or now when he returned from a mission. Tonight was just supposed to be a fun night celebrating their mission, not stopping an assassination attempt.

“Sam…bro, you good?”

The couple stood in front of him, a red first aid kit in her hands. “Go get changed, I’ll patch up Captain America,” she smirked. Joaquin smiled and kissed her on the temple before retreating to the bedroom down the hall.

“I’m fine,” Sam laughed it off.

Her eyes flickered down to his arm, wet crimson staining a patch of his forearm. “Sit,” she told him firmly.

He took off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeve. Well, I’ll be damned, he thought as he looked at the sliced skin, it shouldn’t need stitches. She popped open the kit and got to work in silence. He should say something, the gears in his brain working overtime to come up with something appropriate.

“You know, I was starting to think you didn’t exist.” He settled on that. Nice going, Sam.

Thankfully she laughed, pouring a clear liquid over the cut that made him wince. “We get that a lot. We have a tally of all our friends who’ve said that.”

“Sorry to add another. Work keeps you away?”

She smiled and nodded, “I work for a charity. Helping communities rebuild after the blip. Some places haven’t been as lucky as we have. I was away a lot—it worked out when he was deployed.”

A sadness began to loom over her as she gently wrapped his arm with a white gauze. She missed him, and he missed her just as much. “Was?” he narrowed in on the past tense of her words.

“I requested a transfer to a desk job as soon as he finished those wings. I need to be here if something happens.” There was a tremor in her voice, “Him being Falcon puts him in even more danger. I want—need to be closer to him.”

“He’s a good man,” Sam told her gently, “a damn good Falcon, he learned from the best.” He got a smile and a small chuckle out of her relieving her of some of the nerves she carried.

She put her hand over the gauze and looked at him dead in the eye. “Keep him alive, Sam.” It was a gentle command. “He means everything to me.”

His lips parted and glanced down at the silver wedding band around her finger, thinking of a way to tell her that he might not be able to in this line of work. Joaquin saved the day, strolling into the room with a signature toothy smile. “Have you been talking about me this whole time?” he joked.

Her smile instantly brightened. “You wish,” she laughed, collecting her things from the couch and rose to her feet.

“She’s a miracle worker.” Sam raised his arm to show his partner the neatly wrapped gauze.

“Looks good, Sam!” The other man cheered, leaning forward to get a better look. “We don’t have a well-stocked medicine cabinet for nothing.”

“Yeah, I learned after too many scraped knees from the basketball court back in Maimi.”

Joaquin winced and wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close to his side. “Let’s let Captain America get some sleep,” he suggested, pressing his lips to the side of her head.

“Let us know if you need anything, Sam,” she told him.

“Will do, Mrs. Torres. Thank you for everything.”

“Anytime. We’re here or you.”

Sam got comfortable on the couch, and surprisingly he felt like he could fall asleep instantly. Pulling out his phone, he sent a quick text to his friends at the base: ‘Mrs. Torres exists.’

#joaquin torres x reader #joaquin torres #captain america #captain america brave new world

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pretentious-blonde · 4 days ago

Text

offically

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: steve panics as he has never had that talk with you, and staying true to form, he overthinks the situation entirely

warnings: 18+ this contains smut, m oral reciving, thigh riding, steve being a nervous sweetheart <3

a/n: idk if i'm happy with this BUT i had to get it out of my mind. also this could be counted as switch!steve so do with that what you will!

series masterlist

A low rumble of thunder echoed outside, and the rain tapped steadily on the classroom windows as Mr Harrington huddled on the floor with his group of second graders.

It was indoor recess—a golden opportunity for this nail-biting Jenga showdown. Steve’s team and the opposing side of giggling kids faced off over a tower stacked higher than it had any right to be, teetering ominously near the top.

Everything else in the room was buzzing with activity—board games and colouring sheets spread out on tables—but the teacher’s full attention was on the wooden blocks in front of him. He was as serious as any professional athlete under stadium lights. Tension thrummed in his chest, and he could swear the kids on the other side were practically holding their breath, too.

“All right,” he murmured, leaning closer and tapping at a lower block. “What are we thinking, guys?”

One of the students on the other team let out a sharp gasp.

“That’s cheating!” She accused, pointing at Steve’s probing finger.

“Not cheating,” he huffed out a laugh. “It’s called strategy.”

He rolled his shoulders back, confidence in his eyes and his heart pounding at the childish competition.

“What does that mean?” A young boy asked with a confused expression.

“Strategy means…” He glanced around the tower, “figuring out how we’re gonna win.”

He sent the kid a playful wink. Instantly, a small chorus of giggles broke out across the table.

“Pick that one!” one of his teammates whispered urgently, pointing to a precariously wedged block near the middle.

“Yeah, bud, I think you’re right,” he agreed, feeling a surge of pride that this little second grader had even braved an opinion in such a pressure-cooker situation.

Without further hesitation, he leaned forward slowly, fingertips tingling with anticipation. The room seemed to hold its breath.

He nudged the block—just a hair’s breadth out of place. It was going smoothly at first, half the block was free—until suddenly, the entire tower swayed and came crashing down with an echoing clatter. Wooden pieces scattered across the carpet as laughter, shrieks, and theatrical groans erupted from all sides.

“That’s your fault!” wailed one of the kids on Steve’s own team, arms flopping in exasperation.

“Mine?” Steve exclaimed, eyebrows shooting up in feigned offense. “You’re the one who told me to pick that block in the first place!”

The child folded his arms, trying to keep a straight face.

“Yeah, but I would’ve done it so it didn’t fall.”

Steve burst into laughter, tossing a block gently back into the box.

“Okay, hot shot. Next time? I’ll let you take the lead.”

He glanced at the clock mounted high on the wall, signalling the end of playtime. With a clap of his hands, he stood tall and called out over the ruckus.

“All right, party people, fun’s over,” he announced. “You’ve got five minutes to get this place looking like it did before we started.”

He fought a grin at the unified chorus of dismayed groans. He raised his brows, crossing his arms in a mock-stern stance.

“If you don’t put it away, next time we don’t play. Got it?”

A smattering of Yes, Mr. Harrington, rang out, and the kids jumped into action. He allowed himself a moment to watch them scatter—tiny hurricanes of energy, racing to scoop up board game pieces, crayons, and Jenga blocks from around the room.

Teaching was his chance to make a difference, sure, but also to indulge in childlike wonder—when everything felt hopeful.

His gaze flicked to the farthest table, the one that always looked like a rainbow explosion had taken place—glue sticks, coloured pens, and tiny scraps of construction paper littered every inch of it.

With a soft chuckle, he strolled over to help. Beginning to collect lids and snapping them onto markers, relishing the simple, grounding routine. One of his quieter students, Alfie, stood nearby, cradling what looked like a small, folded card against his chest.

“Hey, Alfie,” he said gently, tilting his head toward the colourful paper in the boy’s hands. “Whatcha got there?”

Alfie blinked up at him, eyes wide with shyness. He held out the card.

“It’s for Ellie,” he mumbled, voice barely audible over the rustle of paper scraps.

“Oh yeah?” Steve asked. The name tugged at his heart in a different way than usual—he thought briefly of you. Seems like love has been on everyone's minds recently.

Ellie was busy putting them away now, small arms struggling around the stack, and Steve felt a pleasant feeling in his chest at the simple reminder of your first meeting, all spurred on by a simple request for children's reading material. He shook his head as he returned his gaze to his younger student.

“Special occasion?”

The boy’s cheeks pinked as he fiddled with the corner of the card.

“I’m…gonna ask her to be my girlfriend.”

He had to bite back a grin; the pure earnestness was almost too sweet to bear.

“That’s a big step, bud,” he said, tone soft as he screwed the cap onto a glue stick. “You nervous?”

“Kinda.” Alfie’s shoulders lifted in a half-shrug. “I’ve never asked someone before.”

There was such bravery in those words that triggered a familiar swell of empathy. He crouched down so he could be eye-level with the kid, giving the card a closer look.

“Well, you’re doing it right.” He said as he got closer. “A nice card? Thoughtful. Girls like that.”

“What if she says no?” Alfie peeked at the little hearts he’d drawn in the corner.

“Then that’s okay,” Steve replied, voice warm and unwavering. “Just means she wasn’t the right one for you.”

The boy studied his own artwork, as if absorbing some ancient wisdom.

“Go put it with the rest of your stuff so it doesn’t get lost,” he patted him gently on the back. “It’s important, right?”

Alfie nodded, teeth catching his bottom lip in a shy smile before he scampered off to tuck the card safely in his cubby.

Steve straightened, scooping scattered crayons into a box. He was keenly aware of the other children zooming past, arms full of supplies and games, but his mind drifted toward a realisation that made him pause.

He had never actually asked you to be his girlfriend. Not in any official sense, anyway.

His thoughts began that familiar racing which was practically muscle memory at this point.

You and him were clearly together—you spent half your evenings with each other, cooking dinner, stealing kisses around your shop, taking turns meeting the other from work. You even called each other on nights when neither of you could slip away from your busy schedules.

And that other day in your kitchen, on the counter, his head between your—

The memory threatened to flood him with heat, and he cleared his throat, forcibly shutting down that train of thought.

There were children present, for crying out loud.

But still, he couldn’t shake the question. Should he say something? Did you even want him to? You’d always been so content with the small gestures—picking up your favorite snack at the movies, leaving a sweet note behind the register.

He’d been out of the dating game for God knows how long, but this—this felt like a crucial step, one that couldn’t be ignored or fumbled.

Running a hand through his hair, he surveyed the classroom. The kids were nearly done, the once-messy tables now growing tidy. He hefted the box of coloured pencils and returned them to their spot on the shelf. In his chest, the question still glimmered, stubborn and insistent.

Are you his girlfriend?

He exhaled, a sigh that seemed to carry all the pent-up yearning in his heart, and wandered back to his desk. As he sank into his chair, he knew this thought wouldn’t leave him alone. Not until he found the right moment to bring it up with you.

And with his luck, it was sure to be more of a challenge than necessary.

Sunday in Hawkins was supposed to be mellow—just a quick coffee, maybe a grocery run—but alas, things don't always go to plan.

You had somehow transformed this simple outing into a mini shopping spree, darting from shop to shop with that almost pleading expression he could never say no to. And while his arms were definitely beginning to ache, he wasn’t one to complain. Not when he got to watch you light up at the sight of each new treasure you found.

He followed you into a cosy little home goods shop, the kind with shelves stacked to the rafters with mismatched antiques, colourful glassware, and odd knickknacks. You drifted to a shelf with an impressive selection of vases—round ones, tall ones, some painted with delicate flowers.

“It’s… very you.” Steve teased safely as you eyed up a beautiful glass vase, soon holding it up for his opinion.

“What?” you shot back, grinning over your shoulder. “You don’t like my interior design choices?”

He shifted the other bags onto one arm, the lingering weight reminding him just how many stops you’d made that afternoon.

“I didn’t say that,” he replied, giving you a playful smirk. “It’s just…do you really need another vase?”

Your shelves were already pretty cluttered, and he just couldn’t see how you could possibly fit anything else up there. And that’s not to say he didn’t like the eclectic style of your flat, but the practicality was something he was finding difficult to ignore. Even with your excited expression.

“Uh, no?” You didn’t miss a beat, your matter-of-fact tone making him roll his eyes. “I want it. There’s a difference.”

“Sound argument,” he conceded as he followed you to the counter, trailing behind you good naturedly.

He had some experience shopping with women, and he learnt pretty fast that questioning the validity of such purchases was a redundant argument.

But hey, if you're happy, so is he—and it meant getting to spend more time with you.

He watched quietly as you paid. He’d tried to do it himself in the first shop you'd visited, but you'd quickly shot him down—not that it stopped him from wanting to. You were rather insistent when you set your mind to something. But that was alright; he’d just have to get creative in the future.

If he really thought about it, this could even count as market research—practice for when he got you something special himself.

As soon as you finished thanking the young woman behind the till and tucked your wallet back into your bag, he swept in, picking up your purchase before you even had the chance to reach for it.

If he couldn't pay with money, he could at least help this way. Besides, he enjoyed the glances he received from people on the street. The approving looks that confirmed he was doing something right.

“You think I shouldn’t have bought that?” you teased, nudging his shoulder with yours.

“That’s not what I’m saying.” He relied as he pushed the door open with his shoulder, following behind you once again.

“If it’s too heavy, you can just say that.” You smirked, eyes dancing with mischief.

He let out a small, theatrical huff as he shook his head.

“You’re lucky I like you, y’know that?”

Your face softened, a grin blooming so sweet it made his stomach do a small flip. You hooked your arm through his as he fell in step with you.

“I am lucky,” you said, your voice warm and fond. “And hey, you look good carrying my stuff.”

His cheeks warmed at that, a heat spreading as he basked in the little thrill your words always seemed to ignite. And yes, he had to agree—he did look good carrying your things. He looked like your boyfriend carrying your things. Once again, that same nagging thought resurfaced, the question of whether you two were ‘official’ pulling insistently at the edges of his mind, just as it had all week.

Before he had a chance to vocalise any of his racing thoughts, the clouds that had been looming overhead all afternoon finally decided to make themselves an issue.

A single raindrop splattered onto the tip of your nose. Another hit his arm, quickly followed by a deluge that washed over Hawkins in a matter of seconds. You let out a startled squeal, gripping his sleeve in an attempt to dodge the worst of the sudden downpour.

“Shit—this way,” he called, reaching for your wrist and gently tugging you along. Rain pelted the pavement, soaking through his hair and dampening his jacket. His shoes splashed in gathering puddles, and he could feel you stumbling to keep up, breathless laughter tumbling from your lips.

“Steve!” you gasped, half-exasperated. “The car is in the other direction!”

He cradled the bags protectively to his chest, blinking raindrops from his eyelashes.

“Yeah, well, someone decided to go off track with all those extra stops,” he retorted, voice raised above the hammering rain. “My apartment is closer!”

“Seriously?” you said, eyes widening even as you followed him down a side street. The walkway glistened with water, and your shoes squeaked on the slick pavement.

“Yeah, so follow me if you don’t wanna get drenched,” he insisted. Though you were both already pretty soaked, the idea of shelter felt too good to pass up. There was just one small detail that caused a surge of excitement in your chest.

You’d never been to his apartment before. Not once.

You'd spent plenty of time at your place, curled up together on the sofa after closing, or wandering aimlessly around town—giggling in coffee shops and buying far too many pastries along the way.

But his apartment?

This was new.

It wasn’t like he’d intentionally hidden it from you; it had just never seemed to fit naturally into your plans. Whenever you went on a date, he usually just walked you back to your doorstep. After work, your place was conveniently on his way home. And whenever he was in town, you always seemed to be there, somewhere close by.

His place had simply never come up.

The thought of you stepping into his home—into the space where he felt safest—felt like a huge step. He valued it deeply, the one place where he didn’t have to pretend to be anything other than himself.

Inviting you inside meant sharing a significant part of who he was.

When the two of you finally tumbled inside his apartment, the door slammed shut behind you with a dull thud, muffling the roar of the storm outside. Rainwater dripped from the hems of your clothes, creating a small puddle at your feet. Steve, still balancing your many shopping bags, set them down by the door with a sigh. You might've felt guilty about him carrying everything, but the excitement of being inside his flat quickly overshadowed any lingering worries.

He turned to you, taking in your damp hair and the tiny droplets clinging to your lashes, and felt a gentle tug of tenderness in his chest. Without thinking, he reached out, carefully brushing a few strands away from your forehead, his expression softening with concern.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice light, “you’re drenched.”

A delighted laugh bubbled from your lips as you raked a hand through your soaked hair.

“Yeah, well, so are you.” Your gaze swept over his own waterlogged sweater, making him acutely aware of just how chilled he was.

“Point taken,” he conceded, trying not to shiver. He glanced at the window, where sheets of rain still pounded against the glass. “Hang on, I’ll grab you something dry.”

“Steve, seriously, it’s not—” You moved to protest, arms folded beneath your chest.

He shook his head, a firm but amused glint in his eye.

“You’re gonna catch a cold like that.” His tone was teasing, but he meant every word—he couldn��t bear the thought of you being uncomfortable on his watch. “Just—stay here,” he added, vaguely gesturing for you to wait by the couch.

Without giving you a chance to argue further, he ducked into the short hallway that led to his bedroom. As soon as he was out of your line of sight, he let out a soft exhale and ran a hand through his hair, sending droplets flying, nerves building slightly. You were here, in his space. And rather than scaring him, it filled him with excitement.

The last person he'd brought here had been Robin, but that hadn't felt particularly special—she was around so often, comfortable enough to make herself at home without asking. But now you were his guest, and suddenly he was playing host. It made him giddy, his thoughts drifting to fantasies of coming home to find you already waiting, or casual phone calls where he'd simply just tell you to come over.

He flicked on the bedroom light, mentally cursing the scattered laundry he’d forgotten to fold. The room felt lived in, the walls adorned with movie posters he'd sneakily acquired from his old job, and a modest bookshelf tucked neatly in the corner.

He snatched a dry sweater from the closet for himself—quickly changing out of his soaked one—before rummaging for something comfy in his drawers, settling on a soft, oversized number he hoped would fit you well enough.

As he padded back into the living room, tugging his own fresh change of clothes more into place, he caught you gazing at one of the framed photos on his bookshelf.

You couldn't help yourself as you continued to look at all of his photos, each one turning his space into a gallery of vivid memories. Everywhere your eyes landed was something positive, something bright.

It was clear he had crafted this intentionally—surrounding himself with reminders of joy and comfort, so whenever anxiety or overwhelm crept in, happiness wouldn't be far away. And now, seeing you here in the middle of it all, it felt as though he'd included you in that gentle optimism, too.

“Here,” he said, offering you the bundle of clothing. The jumper practically swallowed his arms—he’d picked the largest one he owned. “It’s probably too big, but at least you’ll be warm.”

“Thanks.” You took it, fingertips skimming the worn fabric.

Then, as casually as if you were in your own home, you peeled off your soaked shirt. He froze, his pulse jumping to his throat. You were still wearing a bra, sure—but you might as well have been waving a neon sign because he couldn’t look away.

In the grand scheme of things, you'd both done far more intimate things together, yet this caught him completely off guard.

A surprise, absolutely, but definitely not an unwelcome one.

“You staring?” You arched a brow at him, a cheeky grin playing on your lips.

He cleared his throat, snapping his gaze to a nearby lamp.

“Uh—no,” he lied, feeling heat flare across his cheeks. “Shut up,” he added, but there was no real bite to his words.

Your laughter came soft and sweet, he felt a fierce ache of pride that you were comfortable enough to joke like this around him. Watching you pull on the jumper, he couldn't help but notice how perfectly it fell just past your hips.

He was just about to tease you—some witty remark about how good you looked in his clothes—but then your fingers moved to the button of your jeans, and his heart nearly short-circuited.

You shimmied out of them, leaving you in nothing but his sweater, which barely concealed your underwear. You held out your wet clothes at arm’s length, droplets pattering onto the floor.

“Can you…” you trailed off, offering him an apologetic smile.

“Yeah,” he said, breath catching. “Y-yeah, of course.”

Gingerly, he took the soggy bundle, hyperaware that his brain was racing at the mere sight of your bare legs. He forced himself to turn away, inhaling a calming breath.

“I’ll put these on the radiator.”

Slipping into the adjoining room—an open doorway that led to a compact kitchen and a laundry nook—he carefully spread your clothes over the warm metal. A burst of thunder rattled the window, shaking him from his smitten spiral. He cleared his throat, ran a towel quickly over his hair, and then made his way back to the living room. You were already curled up on his couch, legs tucked beneath you, your attention drawn to the rain hammering the glass.

Something about the sight—you, looking so relaxed and at home—melted the last of his hesitation.

He sank down beside you, the old couch cushions dipping under his weight.

“Better?” He asked, voice quieter than usual.

You turned, letting your gaze lock with his. “Much better.”

He sighed in relief but had to make a very conscious effort not to stare at the bare skin of your legs, no matter how tempting it was. He glanced away quickly, hoping you hadn't noticed, but when his eyes drifted back to yours, he saw that playful glint in your expression—clear evidence you'd caught him red-handed.

His heart jumped, a little embarrassed, but you weren't going to let him off easy; he knew that mischievous look far too well.

“You okay?” he asked softly, his voice already betraying him with a slight tremor.

Instead of answering, you shuffled closer. Closer still, until the thin cushion separating you ceased to exist and you were practically pressed against his side.

What were you planning?

“You still cold?” he teased, trying and failing to keep his composure as you inched even nearer.

Sure, it was a silly question—he was the one who felt like his blood was on fire—but the words spilt out before he could rethink them. His own breath caught in his throat as he began to catch onto what was happening.

“Maybe,” you replied, a playful lilt to your voice.

He was about to muster another snarky comeback, maybe tease you about the goosebumps on your legs, but you swung yourself over his lap before he had the chance. You leaned in to sweep away the stray strands clinging to his forehead. The simple gesture sent a warm flush skittering through his veins.

You clearly wanted to play with him.

“Wh-what are you doing?” he managed, voice just a bit hoarse. The way he looks when he’s flustered only urging you to tease him further.

“Nothing,” you murmured, tilting his chin gently upward until his gaze locked with yours. “Am I not allowed to look at you?”

The words echoed in his mind, and he blushed so hard that he was sure you could feel the heat rolling off his face.

“I mean—yeah, you—” He stammered, unable to form a coherent response before you leaned down and pressed your lips softly against his.

His eyes fluttered shut almost instantly, hands drifting up to settle on your waist as he held you close. You pulled back just for a moment, your breath fanning across his cheek, and he swallowed thickly in anticipation.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, “what are you—”

“I’m saying thank you for today,” you whispered, sliding your mouth over his again. A shiver ran through him at the warmth of your lips, the gentle press of your body against his. His fingers curled in the fabric of his own sweater you were wearing, anchoring you closer.

Your lips trailed a path to his neck then, soft and insistent. His breath hitched, and his mind went blank save for the electric pulse racing through his body. He felt your teeth graze delicately against his skin, and a low groan escaped him, unbidden. The next instant, he was arching up, a rush of heat coursing from his neck all the way down to his toes.

“Gonna let me thank you for real, Steve?” you purred against his ear, followed by a nip that had his vision hazing around the edges.

He was so easy to fluster—it was almost unfair, but you couldn't deny how adorable it made him. Especially when all he could manage was a ragged exhale. The sensation of your lips skewing his ability to think straight.

“Shit,” he mumbled, voice wrecked and hardly recognisable. “I—yeah, yes—please,” he breathed, mind whirling.

Any coherent thought dissolved when you leaned back and studied him, your eyes dark with want.

“Wanna try something,” you murmured, and every nerve in his body lit up at once.

He swallowed, throat suddenly dry.

“Whatever you want.”

And he meant it. He trusted you—completely.

You could take care of him; he knew that deep down.

You slipped off his lap and sank to your knees in front of him. A jolt of pure, dizzying shock flared behind his ribcage at the sight, sending his heart into a frenzied rhythm. He blinked, mind scrambling to keep up.

You brushed your fingers gently along his thigh, your movements deliberate and careful—letting him know without words exactly what you were doing. His breath caught softly, grateful that you were communicating so clearly, even if words escaped him entirely right now.

He vaguely registered your hesitation about undressing him, aware you hadn’t quite crossed that bridge yet. Normally, he'd have appreciated your thoughtfulness, but right now, his mind was struggling to concentrate on anything other than your touch.

Your hands were purposeful, nails grazing the denim lightly, and he nearly jolted at the sensation. When you looked up at him with those wide, doe-like eyes, he felt an embarrassing hitch in his stomach. You were wearing that almost-innocent expression that never failed to make him want to do anything you asked.

“Look so pretty like this,” you said, voice low and soft as you let your hand creep to the waistband of his jeans.

And he did—eyes blown wide, lips flushed and parted—he was a vision, utterly breathtaking. You couldn't tear your gaze away, captivated by how beautifully undone he looked above you.

“Fuck, angel,” he mumbled, fighting the urge to sink deeper into the cushions. “Can’t just say stuff like that.”

“What?” you teased, tugging gently at the button of his fly. “It’s true.”

A strangled sound escaped him, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. You had his zipper halfway down, and he barely remembered to breathe as you began peeling away the damp denim from his hips.

The thought that this is happening looped wildly in his mind, making it impossible to focus on anything other than the smooth press of your palms against his skin.

Some part of him was still spinning—still tangled up in the swirl of half-voiced questions about what, exactly, you and he were. When your fingers found the elastic of his boxers, he felt his pulse spike. You were about to tug them down, already leaning in closer, when a burst of panic fused with desire in his chest.

“Hey, wait, no—wait, stop,” he blurted, placing a hand gently over yours.

You froze, wide-eyed and contrite.

“Sorry,” you whispered, already starting to withdraw your hand as though you’d touched something forbidden, terrified that you took things too far. “I’m sorry, what did I do?”

Fuck.

“No—no sweetheart, you didn’t—” he rushed to reassure, heart twisting at the worried look on your face. He swallowed, willing his voice to cooperate. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

As you stayed there, still on your knees, hand resting on his thigh, he felt heat flush his cheeks. God, you looked so concerned. And he felt utterly ridiculous for choosing now, of all times, to bring up the one conversation he’d been dancing around for days.

“What are we doing?” he asked, voice cracking on the question.

You blinked up at him, confusion knitting your brow.

Wasn't it obvious?

“Um, I was gonna—” and the embarrassment colouring your cheeks made his stomach clench. You looked as though you thought he was rejecting you—which couldn't have been further from the truth.

He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his messy hair.

“Not that—definitely not that,” he clarified, wincing because this was probably the worst way to go about this. “I just…” A groan rumbled in his chest as he struggled to string his thoughts together. “Are we…are we, like, together?”

Silence stretched for a moment, his heart hammering relentlessly in his chest. He watched you carefully, catching the uncertainty in your expression. He knew you weren’t misreading him—you never did. You always seemed one step ahead, taking his hesitation without question and guiding him towards an answer.

Even now, you understood him. You saw past the nervousness, the awkward pause, the apology in his eyes. He was still learning—still figuring out how to put his feelings into words without tripping over them—but you didn’t need him to say it outright. You could read between the lines, pulling meaning from the things he couldn’t quite articulate.

“What do you mean?”

You had an inkling of what he meant, had already pieced it together in the way he looked at you, the way he paused—but hearing him say it, hearing him put it into words, made it all the sweeter.

“I mean…” His frustration with himself flared. He pressed his palms against his eyes, mortified by the timing. “Are we, you know, together?”

There it is.

A knowing smile curved your lips as you leaned in, letting your hand trail just a little higher on his thigh. Slow and deliberate. His breath hitched, and you could practically see the anticipation warring in his expression.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

“Which part, exactly?” you asked, unable to hide your amusement. “The part where you spend all your free time in my shop? Or the part where you fall asleep on the phone with me practically every night?”

He let out a tortured groan, hiding his burning face in his hands again.

“This is so not how I wanted this conversation to go,” he muttered, shoulders tense even as he recalled the soft memories.

“Oh, wait—was it the part where you carried all my bags today?” You paused, as if savouring how flustered he was, before lowering your voice further. “Or maybe it's the part where you ate me out on the kitchen counter?”

Your words snapped something inside him, and his head lifted sharply, heat rushing straight to his cheeks as he desperately tried to silence the sinful image of you unraveling above him—an image that was both utterly filthy and entirely unhelpful in clearing his scattered brain.

“Stop,” he managed, somewhere between a whine and a protest.

“Alright,” you relented, your grin practically lighting the room as you decided he had been tortured enough. “I’m done. Promise.”

“Thank you,” he breathed, relief tangling with embarrassment.

You tilted your head, eyes still dancing with affection.

“So go on,” you urged softly.

“Huh?”

“Ask me what you want to ask me,” you murmured, guiding his hand to rest against yours on his thigh again, your skin warm beneath his touch, letting him know that you’ve got him.

He stared, trying to corral his thoughts into something understandable. His pulse thrummed through his entire body.

“Are…are you my girlfriend?”

He cringed inwardly, mortified at how childish he sounded. Hell, even his students could probably navigate this conversation better than he was currently butchering it.

“Do you want me to be?” you asked, fingers toying with his own.

“Yes,” he said, maybe more forcefully than he intended. “Yes, I want you to be my girlfriend.”

The reward of hearing him finally ask you officially was more than worth the trial you'd just put him through.

In truth, you had already considered him yours. There was no question of where his heart lay, no doubt that his gaze was fixed solely on you. But this uncertainty had been eating away at him, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts for days. Honestly, you were more than happy to put his mind at ease.

Even if you had a little fun with it first.

“Good,” you cooed, then trailed your palm over the front of his boxers. He shuddered at the sensation, heart flipping as you teased. “Because I’d really like to make my boyfriend feel good," you paused, glancing up to meet his eyes, "if he’ll let me?”

He swallowed hard, his throat clicking audibly.

Boyfriend.

The label settled over him like a perfect fit, especially when it came to you. It felt right.

More than that—it felt earned.

After years of therapy, of unlearning, of piecing himself back together, he had finally reached a place where he could be that again. Where he could embody that for you. And God, if he could, he’d shout it from the rooftops—because after everything, he was finally here.

“Anything. Anything you want, just—” His breath came out shaky as he watched you hook your fingers into the waistband and finally ease him free, the sight of your hand on him making his brain sputter out.

He was fully at your mercy, and he knew it.

You freed his cock from his jeans, fingers wrapping around his length with a touch so deliberate it sent a shiver through him. Your strokes were slow, teasing, dragging out his anticipation until he was fighting the urge to buck into your hand. The pace was torturous in the best way, every movement intentional, every flick of your thumb over his tip pulling ragged curses from his lips.

“Please,” he rasped. It felt like an admission—like you’d unraveled him so completely that the only word he could utter was a plea.

The playful glint in your eyes didn’t wane for a second.

“Since you asked so nicely,” you murmured, leaning down to take him into your mouth.

His vision went momentarily white at the initial jolt of pleasure.

“Ah—fuck, sweetheart,” he groaned, voice breaking on the last syllable.

His hand shot out, gripping the couch cushion to keep from tugging you closer too quickly. Every nerve in his body screamed to feel more—to sink deeper into that warm, wet heat of your mouth—but he wanted you in control, you setting the pace. No matter how undone he was becoming.

His heart thundered at the smug little curl of your lips around him, and a full-body shudder tore through him. You’re a fucking minx. The way you thrived off his torment, off every broken sound he made, was downright sinful—and God, he loved it.

“You’re—you’re gonna be the death of me.” He managed to choke out, though there was more desperation than accusation in his tone.

You didn’t answer—only laced your free hand with his, threading your fingers together. That tender gesture clashed beautifully with the wicked rhythm you kept, your mouth sending jolts of pleasure through every inch of him. Intimate and filthy all at once, and the contrast was dizzying.

He squeezed your hand to ground himself, giving another breathless moan that might have sounded embarrassing if he’d been capable of caring about anything other than how good you felt.

When you finally pulled back for air, you looked up at him, flushed and triumphant. The sight knocked the wind right out of him.

“Want you to cum like this,” you murmured, your voice low and sweet as you guided his palm to the side of your face. “Let me make you feel good.”

You settled over him again, lips wrapping around his cock, and his grip tightened involuntarily. This time, he couldn’t fight the broken whine that tore from his throat.

He tried—God, he tried—not to push you too hard, but every brush of your tongue shattered a piece of his self-control. The way his fingers twitched against your cheek and travelled to your hair, urging you deeper and apologising for his urgency.

“You are—” he managed to babble, voice raw. “You—God, always—” The rest of his sentence disintegrated into a choked, needy noise as you quickened your pace. His breathing came in short gasps, and his pulse hammered so fiercely that he felt it in his fingertips.

“Don’t stop,” he begged, the words half-lost. He couldn’t stop the slight thrust of his hips, the heat coiling in his abdomen reaching a breaking point. The blissful pressure threatened to overwhelm him.

“Shit, wait—baby—” His voice broke, hands trembling around you. “I’m gonna—”

“Let go,” you whispered. And then you were taking him even deeper, pushing him right over that dizzying brink.

It was too much, too intense—pleasure slammed through him, wrenching a ragged cry from his chest that he barely recognised as his own. His body went rigid for a moment, and then he felt it all wash over him in waves that left him trembling. Throughout it all, you held him, your hand entwined with his, guiding him through the spiralling bliss until he finally went boneless against the couch.

When the reeling from the blissful high began to dissipate, he glanced down at you, taking in the sight before he dared to move.

He leaned forward, his elbows braced against his knees so he could meet your gaze on equal footing. His heart was still hammering in his chest, and he had to remind himself to breathe steadily, to find some semblance of composure. Yet the moment his eyes absorbed your flushed cheeks and the subtle rise and fall of your shoulders, any hope of calm unravelled.

God, just look at you. By some miracle, you were his—truly, officially his.

“You’re something else, y’know that?” he murmured, voice a little hoarse. There was a soft reverence in his tone, as though he still couldn’t believe his own luck.

A flash of self-satisfaction curved your lips, and before you could respond, he closed the distance. His kiss was as gentle as he could manage, though there was no denying the heat behind it.

You melted into him, arms looping around his neck, your fingertips grazing the hair at his nape. The scent of you—slightly musky from exertion, threaded with the faint warmth of your body wash—made his head spin all over again.

When he guided you onto his lap, you went willingly. The move ended with you straddling his thigh, and the firm press of his denim against your underwear made you jerk in surprise.

He felt the tremor that shivered through you and swallowed down a groan. Despite how tender he was still feeling from his release, an echo of desire began to thrum low in his stomach, and his mind latched on to a new idea—one that had him downright giddy with anticipation.

“Mmm,” you teased, smile dancing on your kiss-bruised lips, “you just figuring that out now?”

He scoffed softly, but the playful glint in his eyes couldn’t be missed. Pulling back a fraction, he rested his hands on your waist, tracing small circles into your hips through the fabric of his sweater—your sweater now, technically, but it bore his scent and that fact made him hum with satisfaction.

Your brows furrowed in curiosity as he edged you slightly backward, enough to slip his palms over your hips. Then—so subtly you almost questioned if it was by accident—he dragged you forward over his leg. The friction had your breath hitching, your eyes going wide with recognition when he repeated the motion.

“Oh,” you breathed, voice hitching, and he couldn’t help the slow grin tugging at his lips.

“Yeah,” he rasped, dragging out the syllable, “oh.”

You braced your hands on his shoulders. The lazy confidence unfurling inside him felt new but exhilarating—after all those times you’d teased him into a breathless mess, it was his turn. He watched your cheeks burn hotter, and the awareness sank in that you’d realised exactly what he was planning.

His girlfriend. Official. Right here, perched all pretty on his lap, pliant enough to shatter on his thigh. A possessive thrill coursed through him at the thought. He wanted to make you feel as incredible as you’d just made him.

And from the look in his eyes—the slow, self-assured fire that glowed beneath his lashes—you knew it too. You might’ve been the one teasing him earlier, but by the gleam in his expression, you could tell he wasn’t going to relent until you were undone.

“Steve,” you started, your voice low and edged with apprehension and want.

He merely grinned, letting his hold on your hips tighten, urging you to move again.

“No, angel,” he drawled, mischief lacing his tone. “Don’t back down now.”

He continued guiding your hips, the gentle pressure of his palms keeping you tethered. When you tipped your head back, exposing the graceful line of your throat, he fought the urge to dip in and kiss every inch of skin he saw. Desire coiled low as he watched the way your body moved with each drag across his denim.

“Feel good, baby?” he asked, voice catching with that newly emboldened edge. His gaze swept over your flushed cheeks, your parted lips.

You only managed a strangled murmur that it felt so good, and he smiled—completely enthralled, slightly smug. He was the one rocking you like this, making you whimper and cling to him, and the knowledge shot straight through him like a jolt of adrenaline.

“Gonna get off like this?” he pressed, flexing his thigh more pointedly beneath you. Your only response was a nod, desperate and unequivocal. “Good,” he murmured. “Use me all you want. I’m yours now, aren’t I?”

It was such a shift from the breathless, near-begging mess he’d been earlier. That single reassurance you’d given him—claiming him—seemed to have flipped a switch inside him.

Steve Harrington never was the type to do anything by halves once he’d given his heart away, and this, right here, was proof he was ready to take care of you just as thoroughly as you’d done for him. He flexed his leg again, and you let out a shaky whine, head lolling back.

“No, none of that,” he chided playfully, giving your thigh a light tap. When your gaze fluttered to his again, he softened ever so slightly. “Keep those eyes on me, alright? Wanna see you.”

Your stomach knotted with need at his command, and you dug your hands into his shoulders for balance. Each roll of your hips sent pulses of molten pleasure through your core, and his steady grip on your body only pushed you closer to the brink. The intensity of his gaze, locked on yours, made it all the more dizzying.

“One day,” he said, breath hitching at your frantic movements, “gonna have you ride me like this.”

“Fuck—Steve,” A quiet gasp escaped you, surprised at how confidently filthy he’d become. Instead of blushing and letting the moment go, he kept going, emboldened by the way your eyes widened.

“Yeah, you like that?” He rasped, “ S’okay to want it, baby, I' know you do.”

You swallowed thickly, clinging to him as you sped up, each stroke of friction bringing you higher, closer. He watched your hands quake slightly where they gripped his sweater.

“Just know you’d take me so well,” he went on, voice rough with longing. His thumb slid across your belly, pressing gently just above the waistband of your underwear. “Gonna feel me right here—can’t wait to see it, gonna look so fucking beautiful, I just know it.”

Your control began to unravel. The pleasure built too high, too fast, and the broken syllables falling from your lips told him everything he needed. He held you steady as you tried to warn him, though it came out garbled, your body tensing in telltale desperation.

“Oh, I know—I know,” he whispered, coaxing you right to the edge. “C’mon, show me, angel. You can let go.”

And with that, you did. Each quiver and wave of your release pulsed against his thigh, the grip you had on his shoulders almost bruising. He welcomed every ounce of it, eyes locked on your face. He wore the raw, awestruck expression of a man witnessing something indescribably precious—like he wanted to imprint this moment forever.

When the tremors finally subsided, you slumped forward, pressing your face into the crook of his neck. Steve’s arms came up around you in an instant, holding you securely, chest heaving with exertion. He skimmed the back of his knuckles along your spine in soothing strokes, dropping a few featherlight kisses against your hairline.

He sensed the flutter of self-consciousness in the way your cheeks glowed pink as you pulled back, and it only made him grin wider.

“Oh? You shy now?” he teased, voice low.

Your immediate no, came out suspiciously soft, which made him snort. He tugged you closer and felt his heart skip at how you pressed against him so naturally, even through the bashfulness.

“So,” you ventured after a beat, a tiny smirk tugging at your lips, “do you feel better now?”

“Which part?” His mouth quirked up as he asked in a mock-innocent tone. “Because the part where you were on your knees—”

“No, not that,” you groaned, heat creeping up your neck. “Jeez, is that all you keep me around for?”

His laugh was unabashed this time, eyes shining with mischief.

“Well, if I’d known you could do that, I would have asked you a lot sooner,” he bantered back, just to rile you up.

You huffed and moved to stand, but he was quicker, shoving his arm out to stop you in your tracks.

“Wait, wait, no—come back here,” and pulled you back onto his lap with a gentle but insistent tug. His fingers drifting absentmindedly as he traced small patterns into your skin. You realised with a jolt of warmth that he was already more openly affectionate, more physically clingy.

Maybe the relationship label was all he’d needed to show this side of himself.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to ask,” he murmured, tone now serious. “I was being stupid.”

You shook your head and looped your arms around his shoulders, fingers playing with the hair at the base of his neck.

“You’re not stupid,” you said softly. “It was…kind of sweet.”

He snorted, a playful scoff, as if unconvinced.

“Yeah, that’s one way to put it.” But the corner of his mouth quirked up, betraying how relieved he was to hear you say it.

Your eyes drifted to the window then, and you frowned. The steady drumming of rain had quieted, replaced by a gentle, sporadic dripping against the glass. He felt you tense in his arms and immediately straightened, concern flitting across his face.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice laced with that newfound protectiveness. He was clearly prepared to fix whatever had put that crease in your brow.

“We should probably head back to the car." You sighed. "Looks like the storm’s over.”

He followed your gaze to the clearing sky, then shook his head.

“We don’t have to,” he said quietly, eyes flicking back to you. “Not if you don’t want to.”

Confusion flickered over your features.

“Steve, you have work tomorrow. It’s Sunday—”

He shrugged, sliding his hands up and down your sides.

“Yeah, but you don’t. And I can…what, pack my bag or something in the morning?” He rolled his eyes in good humour. “It’s not like I need much time to check I got my stickers.”

A small giggle escaped you, and your fingers toyed with the neckline of his sweater. He could tell you weren’t truly convinced, though he also sensed your reluctance came more from courtesy than disinterest. He smoothed a hand over your spine, trying not to beam too much with how badly he wanted you to stay.

“Please?” he added softly, his eyes bright and earnest. “I’m asking nicely.”

A warm flush spread across your cheeks; you chewed on your lower lip as though mulling it over. He recognised you were almost certainly going to agree, so he threw in one last incentive for good measure.

“I can order pizza for dinner.”

That sealed it.

“Sold!” you exclaimed, the tension in your body dissolving instantly.

With a sudden rush of affection, you flung your arms around his neck and buried your face in the crook of his shoulder. He laughed, the sound light and filled with relief, cradling you to him as if you were something precious.

He was really going to have a sleepover with his girlfriend.

His heart fluttered with excitement he didn’t even try to hide. Visions of you sprawled on his couch, rummaging through his secret stash of Family Video flicks, drifted through his mind. He pictured your socked feet propped up on his coffee table as you dozed against his arm. Maybe you’d share a blanket, occasionally sneaking kisses during the slow scenes.

His arms tightened around your waist. Leaning his head against yours, he allowed himself to revel in the moment. Because this was exactly the thing he told himself he would never achieve again.

But here you were—in his arms—proving his theory entirely incorrect.

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emmkayyy03 · 3 months ago

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✨ How Your Dominant Planet Secretly Shapes Your Teenage Brain ✨

Have you ever looked back at your late teens and wondered why you were so obsessed with certain things? Like, one friend was glued to their guitar and poetry journals, another was training for their fifth marathon, and you? You were probably neck-deep in your thing. Here’s the deal: your dominant planet was pulling the strings behind the scenes, shaping how your mind worked and what you gravitated toward without you even realizing it.

Let’s break it down:

🌞 SUN Dominant: "I need to shine—what’s the point otherwise?" Late teens for Sun-kissed folks are like a personal hero’s journey. You’re obsessed with figuring out who you are. Your brain’s constantly asking, Am I good enough? Do people see my worth? You might’ve been the captain of the debate team, the drama club star, or just that person who somehow made walking to the cafeteria look like a runway. How your mind works: Everything feels like a stage, and you want to perform your best—even in front of yourself. You seek validation, yes, but deep down, it’s about finding your inner confidence.

🌙 MOON Dominant: "I feel… everything. Is that normal?" For Moon folks, the late teens are an emotional hurricane. You’re all about understanding feelings, whether it’s yours or everyone else’s. You probably overthink texts (why’d they only reply with “k”?), cry over movies you’ve seen a million times, and have deep, borderline-therapeutic convos with your bestie. How your mind works: You process the world emotionally first, logically second. You’re learning how to handle your empathy without drowning in it.

🔥 MARS Dominant: "Let’s go! But… where are we going?" Mars kids are powered by action and passion, and your late teens are when you’re learning to channel that fire. Your brain thrives on challenges, so you probably signed up for every sport, pushed yourself in the gym, or got way too into proving someone wrong in an argument. Impulse control? We’ll work on that later. How your mind works: You process through doing. Sitting around theorizing makes you twitchy. You need action, even if it’s messy. Picking fights on the basketball court because the ref made a bad call, then realizing you’re actually just mad your crush didn’t text you back.

💬 MERCURY Dominant: "Wait, how does that work? Tell me everything!" Mercury-dominant teens are curiosity machines. Your brain’s like a search engine that never stops running. You want to know why, how, who, and what if. You’re that kid who can’t let a fun fact go without looking it up. Debates? Bring ’em on. Trivia? Your jam. Group chats? You run them. How your mind works: You connect ideas at lightning speed. Learning isn’t just a necessity; it’s your love language. Staying up until 3 a.m. watching YouTube videos about conspiracy theories, then showing up to school explaining why aliens totally built the pyramids.

💎 VENUS Dominant: "Why settle for okay when life can be beautiful?" Your late teens are a crash course in pleasure, relationships, and aesthetics. You’re probably experimenting with your style (cue questionable fashion phases), figuring out love (hello, hopeless romantic), or diving into art and music. Life needs to feel good, or it’s just not worth it. How your mind works: You’re tuned to beauty and connection. Your decisions are emotional but driven by desire—whether it’s for love, art, or the perfect selfie.Spending an hour perfecting your eyeliner just to go to the grocery store because what if you meet someone cute?

🌍 SATURN Dominant: "I’m too busy for nonsense." While your friends are out making impulsive mistakes, you’re busy building your future. Saturn-dominant teens have an old-soul vibe. You’re focused on responsibility, probably working a part-time job while juggling school and worrying about saving for college. Fun? Sure, but only if it’s productive. How your mind works: You crave structure and long-term success. While others wing it, you plan 10 steps ahead. Skipping a party to study for finals because failing isn’t an option—not because of pressure, but because you expect better from yourself.

🚀 RAHU Dominant: "What’s the wildest thing I can do right now?" Rahu teens are like explorers charting unknown territory. You’re obsessed with breaking rules, chasing thrills, and doing the forbidden. If it’s edgy, you’re into it. You’re the one sneaking out, dyeing your hair neon green, or trying things that make adults nervous. How your mind works: You’re wired to seek more. More excitement, more knowledge, more of life’s extremes. Going on a spontaneous road trip with friends, breaking the rules, or getting into something your parents wouldn’t approve of—just because it felt like the next big adventure.

🌌 KETU Dominant: "I’m here, but also not really here." Ketu teens are all about spiritual detachment. You’re introspective, reflective, and a bit aloof. While everyone else is chasing their dreams, you’re figuring out why dreams matter at all. Meditation, tarot, or even just staring at the stars for hours—you’re vibing on a higher plane. How your mind works: You reject surface-level stuff, diving into the depths of existence. But you also need to learn to be present. Skipping out on big social events to sit at a park by yourself, journaling about the mysteries of life, or getting into spiritual practices like meditation because they felt more authentic than anything else.

🚀 JUPITER Dominant: "Knowledge is freedom, and I’m going after it!" Jupiter-dominant teens are all about growth, knowledge, and the bigger picture. Your late teens were likely filled with plans for the future, exploring new ideas, and constantly looking for ways to improve. You may have been the one always talking about your next big trip, your dream career, or the philosophies that shaped your world view. How your mind works: You crave expansion and understanding. Learning is your path to freedom. Deep-diving into a topic you just discovered, researching potential career paths, or discussing ideas about travel, culture, and self-improvement with anyone who would listen. Your teenage years were wild, weren’t they? Which planet had your brain on lock? Reblog with your planetary dominant and let’s compare chaotic late-teen stories. 🌠

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nsk96 · 5 months ago

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I second this. I currently live in Florida (born and raised) and I'm aware that Florida often gets the hate it does because of it being a red state. But also, I think the people here in south Florida (especially Fort Lauderdale and Miami) also contribute to the bad reputation because of how rude we can be.

That said, ngl, sometimes it sucks here, being surrounded by people whose political beliefs go against my rights and my safety can be scary sometimes. However, I stand by the point that everyone is deserving of basic empathy and human decency.

Community down here looks a little different. We can argue with a neighbor one day but share food and supplies with each other the next. I've seen countless food drives, enough homeless-community outreach, and fundraising events to know that most people here do care. Their political beliefs shouldn't matter nor what community/tribe/neighborhood they're part of...Being compassionate, being stupid, happy, upset, being in pain, are all part of the human experience which we all have in common. "Human" is what I see when I look at them. If you wish death, destruction, and loss for people you don't like, then you are the awful person; you are no better. It's time to unlearn your hate.

The news about hurricane Milton is terrifying but I can’t deal with the Hurricane jokes or hounding on people who can’t evacuate or even going so far as to say “Florida deserves it”. I’m so worried about what this could mean for the Seminole tribe, which the White House has authorized FEMA for to help prevent catastrophe. Some of you are deeply evil and say all of this while you sit at home and watch on your phones as people die.

#I’m not in the direct path but as I hear these wind gusts crash through our trees and slam violently against our shutters #I’m hoping everyone is safe and survives this #we are still under tornado watch down here of course #there was just one earlier in Weston I think #which is south from me #hurricane milton #florida #hurricane

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srslyblvck · 4 months ago

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calm to his storm, klaus mikaelson

pairing: klaus mikaelson x fem!reader

synopsis: you are the calm to his raging storm. so what happens when his only calm is taken away from him?

genre: fluff, a little bit of angst,

warnings: mentions of torture

word count: 2.6k

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ THE ANTIQUE CHANDELIER ABOVE shook slightly as another crash echoed through the Mikaelson estate. Klaus’ rage tore through the air like a hurricane, sending priceless artefacts and heirlooms scattering across the room. Rebekah stood a few feet away, her arms crossed, a mix of irritation and concern on her face.

“Klaus, for heaven’s sake!” she snapped, her own temper flaring. “Must you destroy everything? That was from the 18th century!”

Kol leaned casually against the doorway, arms folded. A smirk played on his lips, though even he seemed wary. “Let him have his tantrum, sister. It’s like watching a storm obliterate a quaint little village. Entertaining, don’t you think?”

Elijah entered the room, his usual calm demeanor strained. He surveyed the chaos—broken vases, shattered glass, the remnants of Klaus’ fury—and pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is getting out of hand.”

“And when has that ever stopped him?” Rebekah shot back, throwing her hands in the air.

Another crash—this time a painting flung off the wall—interrupted her. Elijah sighed deeply, his gaze shifting toward the grand staircase. He seemed to consider his options for a moment before turning to leave.

“I’ll fetch her,” he said simply, his voice tinged with both resignation and relief.

Upstairs, in stark contrast to the chaos below, your room was a haven of peace. Soft lamplight illuminated the plush armchair you sat in, legs curled beneath you. A leather-bound book rested in your hands, and beside you on the side table sat a glass of red liquid—whether it was wine or blood was anyone’s guess, and you enjoyed keeping them guessing.

The muffled sounds of Klaus’ outburst barely registered. To you, it was as normal as birds chirping or wind rustling leaves—a background hum of the Mikaelson household. You turned another page, utterly unbothered.

A soft knock at the door broke the tranquility.

“Come in, Elijah,” you called without looking up, already knowing who it would be.

Elijah entered, his steps measured as always. He stood for a moment, hands clasped in front of him, as though reluctant to disturb you further. “It seems,” he began in his polished tone, “your presence is required downstairs.”

You raised an eyebrow, setting the book down carefully. “Klaus?”

“Who else?” His lips twitched into a faint, weary smile. “Rebekah is losing her patience, Kol is doing nothing helpful as usual, and I suspect this will only end peacefully with you.”

With a small sigh, you stood, smoothing the folds of your dress. “He’s really upset this time, isn’t he?”

“You could say that.” Elijah offered you his arm, a gesture that always made you smile, even after all this time. “Though I must say, I sometimes wonder how you manage him so effortlessly.”

You took his arm, your smile soft. “It’s not effortless. It’s just… understanding.”

The sight that greeted you in the living room was chaotic, but unsurprising. Klaus stood amid the wreckage, his chest heaving, fury etched into every line of his face. Rebekah was glaring at him, hands on her hips, while Kol lounged in the doorway, twirling a broken candlestick like a baton.

“Klaus,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the tension like a balm.

His head snapped toward you, his wild eyes meeting yours. For a moment, he looked ready to lash out again, but then he saw you—calm, composed, untouched by his rage. The storm in his expression faltered.

“You’ve been shouting for an hour,” you continued, stepping into the room. “Are you okay?”

Klaus scoffed but didn’t respond, his hands flexing at his sides. You moved closer, resting a hand lightly on his arm. “What’s wrong?”

The smallest touch from you carried a weight nothing else could. His anger didn’t vanish, but it dulled, like a smoldering ember instead of an inferno.

“It’s nothing that concerns you,” Klaus muttered, his voice quieter now.

“It concerns me if it upsets you,” you said, tilting your head to meet his gaze. Your soft tone carried no judgment, just an earnestness that Klaus couldn’t resist.

Elijah silently excused himself and pulled the others with him, muttering about how he didn’t want to witness Klaus being "domesticated."

When the door clicked shut, Klaus turned to you fully, his posture still tense. “You don’t understand, love. This—this betrayal, this treachery—it deserves blood.”

You placed your other hand on his chest, the gesture anchoring him. “Maybe it does,” you said softly. “But you always remind me that timing is everything. You don’t need to act now, not when you’re this angry.”

Klaus exhaled sharply, the weight of your logic pressing against his instinct to lash out. His hands moved to your waist, gripping you gently as if you were the one tethering him to the ground.

“You make it sound so simple,” he murmured, his voice softening further. “But you don’t know what it’s like to carry this rage. It consumes everything.”

You smiled, shy but radiant, the polar opposite of his stormy intensity. “That’s why I’m here. To remind you that not everything has to be consumed.”

Klaus studied you for a long moment, his eyes searching. Finally, he leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. “What have I done to deserve you?”

You chuckled softly, a sound that Klaus secretly adored because it felt like sunlight in his otherwise dark world. “You don’t have to deserve me,” you said simply. “I’m here because I love you, Klaus. All of you.”

He closed his eyes briefly, savoring the words that he didn’t hear often enough. When he pulled back, some of the tension in his frame had dissipated.

“Thank you, love,” he said softly.

You brushed a hand across his cheek, and for once, Klaus Mikaelson didn’t feel like the monster the world claimed he was.

The full moon hung low in the sky, its light filtering through the dense forest. You were returning to the Mikaelson estate after a quiet evening in town, a much-needed break from the volatile energy that often permeated the house. The path was eerily silent, save for the occasional rustle of leaves underfoot.

Something was off.

The hairs on the back of your neck prickled as you slowed your steps.

They came out of the shadows, cloaked in spells that masked their presence. A coven of witches, their eyes burning with vengeance, encircled you.

“Ah, the little darling of the Mikaelsons,” one sneered, his voice dripping with malice. “The one they’d burn the world for.”

You didn’t wait for pleasantries. In a blur of speed, you lunged at the closest witch, your vampiric strength taking him off guard. He crumpled under the force of your blow, but the others retaliated quickly. Spells lit the night as energy pulsed around you, slamming into your chest like a battering ram.

You gritted your teeth and fought back, feral and determined, but the odds weren’t in your favor. One by one, they overwhelmed you, their magic precise and relentless. You tore through two more of them, leaving them bloodied and unconscious, but a searing pain shot through your veins—a vervain-laced dart embedded in your shoulder.

You stumbled, your vision swimming, but you kept fighting, even as your strength waned. Finally, the world blurred and darkened as they dragged you away, their triumphant laughter the last thing you heard before the void consumed you.

When you awoke, you were bound to a chair in a dimly lit chamber. Your wrists burned where the vervain-laced ropes dug into your skin. The air smelled of damp earth and old magic, and your head throbbed from whatever spell they’d used to keep you subdued.

“You’re awake,” one of the witches said with a wicked smile, crouching before you. “Good. We wouldn’t want you to miss the fun.”

Their leader, a tall woman with piercing green eyes, approached with deliberate steps. “Do you know why you’re here?” she asked, her tone almost conversational.

You met her gaze despite the pain. “Because you’re bored and pathetic?”

She slapped you hard across the face, the sting sharp and immediate. Blood trickled from the corner of your mouth, but you refused to give her the satisfaction of flinching.

“Brave little thing, aren’t you?” she sneered. “We’re here because of your beloved family. They’ve terrorized witches for centuries, and now, you’ll pay for their sins.”

They tortured you methodically, using spells to inflict pain, cutting into your skin with vervain-coated blades. Every time you began to fade, they used magic to jolt you back to consciousness. They wanted you to suffer, to feel every second of it.

Still, you held onto your resolve, refusing to give them what they wanted. When they demanded information about the Mikaelsons, you laughed through the pain. “Do you really think they’ll let you live after this?” you taunted, your voice hoarse but steady. “You’ve made a mistake.”

It didn’t take long for the Mikaelsons to notice your absence. Klaus was the first to sense that something was wrong. The moment you didn’t return home, his paranoia kicked in, and when they found the bloodied trail in the woods, the fury that followed was palpable.

“Witches,” Klaus growled, his jaw clenched tight as he examined the scene. “They’ve taken her.”

Elijah placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder, his own expression grim but composed. “We’ll find her.”

“No,” Klaus snapped, his voice low and dangerous. “We’ll kill them.”

Rebekah’s eyes burned with determination. “They won’t live long enough to regret this.”

Kol, always eager for chaos, twirled a dagger in his hand. “Let’s not waste time then, shall we?”

You were barely conscious when the first explosion rocked the chamber. The witches scrambled, their spellwork faltering as the Mikaelsons descended like a storm.

Klaus was the first through the door, his eyes locking onto your battered form. His rage was palpable, a force of nature that seemed to suck the air from the room. He didn’t waste words. In a blur, he tore into the nearest witch, snapping their neck with a savagery that made the others freeze in terror.

Rebekah followed, her fury no less potent. She flung one witch across the room, her face twisted with righteous anger. “You dared to lay a hand on her?” she hissed, plunging a dagger into the witch’s chest.

Kol’s laughter echoed as he dispatched two witches with brutal efficiency. “I’ve got to say,” he quipped, wiping blood from his blade, “you lot make terrible hosts.”

Elijah moved with his usual grace, dispatching the leader of the coven with a calculated strike. His focus, however, was on you. He reached you first, his hands gentle as he untied the ropes and eased you into his arms.

“Y/N,” he murmured, his voice tight with concern. “You’re safe now.”

Your head lolled against his shoulder, your strength utterly spent. “Took you long enough,” you whispered weakly, a faint smile playing on your lips.

Klaus appeared beside him, his hands trembling as they hovered over your face, not knowing where to touch without hurting you further. His eyes were wild with guilt and rage, his voice cracking as he spoke. “I’ll kill every last one of them,” he vowed, his gaze darting to Elijah. “Take her home. Now.”

Elijah nodded, carrying you out of the carnage as Klaus and the others finished what they started. You heard the screams of the remaining witches as the Mikaelsons exacted their vengeance, but you didn’t feel pity. They’d made their choice.

The house was unusually quiet. The kind of quiet that seemed too fragile, as if one wrong move might shatter it. You lay on the bed, propped up by a stack of pillows, your body still recovering from the ordeal. Though most of your injuries had healed, a dull ache lingered beneath the surface—a reminder of what had happened.

Klaus hadn’t left the room since you were brought back. He sat in the armchair by the window, bathed in moonlight, his hands steepled under his chin. His silence was unnerving.

“You’re awfully broody tonight,” you said softly, trying to lighten the mood.

He didn’t respond at first, his eyes fixed on the dark forest outside. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but heavy. “I failed you.”

You sighed, shifting slightly despite the discomfort. “Klaus—”

“No,” he interrupted, his tone sharpening. “They took you because of me. Because of who I am. And they hurt you. If I had been faster, smarter—”

“They would’ve still tried,” you cut in, your voice calm but firm. “This isn’t your fault.”

He turned to look at you, his expression haunted. “How can you say that?”

“Because it’s true.” You held his gaze, your voice steady despite the fatigue in your body. “You can’t control what others do, Klaus. You can only do what you did—save me.”

He stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor as he began to pace. “I should’ve torn them apart the moment I sensed something was wrong. Instead, they touched you—hurt you—and I…” He trailed off, his hands clenching into fists.

You watched him for a moment before patting the space beside you on the bed. “Come here.”

He hesitated, the weight of his emotions visible in the tight set of his shoulders. Slowly, he approached, sitting carefully beside you as if afraid his presence might cause you more pain.

Reaching out, you took his hand in yours, your touch gentle. His fingers were tense at first, but they relaxed under your warmth. “Klaus, look at me.”

He did, his blue eyes stormy with guilt and frustration.

“I’m alive,” you said softly. “Because of you. You came for me. You always do.”

“I should’ve protected you better,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

“And yet, here I am.” You gave him a faint smile, squeezing his hand. “You don’t have to carry this guilt. I don’t blame you.”

For a moment, he said nothing. Then, his free hand reached up to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. The touch was so tender it made your heart ache.

“I can’t lose you,” he said, his voice raw.

“You won’t,” you replied, leaning your head against his shoulder. “I’m tougher than I look, remember?”

A soft, humorless chuckle escaped him, but the tension in his body began to ease. He shifted slightly, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as you leaned into him.

For a while, the two of you sat in silence, the world outside the room forgotten. His hand rested on your arm, his thumb tracing absent patterns against your skin, as if reassuring himself that you were real and not some fragile illusion.

After a while, you tilted your head to look at him. “Klaus?”

“Hm?”

“You’re going to need to stop blaming yourself. It’s exhausting to watch.”

A small, genuine smile tugged at his lips. “You always know how to put me in my place, don’t you?”

“Someone has to,” you teased, though your tone was gentle.

He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Thank you,” he whispered, his lips lingering against your skin.

“For what?”

“For not giving up on me. For always seeing the good in me when no one else does.”

You tilted your head up to meet his eyes, your hand brushing against his cheek. “Because it’s there, Klaus. Even if you don’t see it, I do.”

For the first time that night, the shadow in his gaze lifted, replaced by something softer. He leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was both tender and fervent, as if pouring every unspoken word into the touch.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet room. “You’re mine,” he murmured, his voice a mixture of possession and reverence.

“And you’re mine,” you replied with a soft smile, your fingers brushing through his hair.

In his arms, the lingering aches of your ordeal seemed to fade. The storm that had raged in him had settled, replaced by the calm only you could bring.

divider by @dollywons

#klaus mikaelson #klaus mikealson fanfiction #klaus mikaleson imagine #klaus mikaelson one shot #klaus mikaelson x fem!reader #klaus mikaelson x reader #the vampire diaries imagine #the vampire diaries #the originals imagine #the originals #klaus mikaelson fluff #klaus mikaelson angst

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scealaiscoite · 6 months ago

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⋆˚࿔ build-a-fic no. 2 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

➴ chose a scent, an item of clothing and a weather forecast (a number, letter, + creature), and write/request to your heart’s content my dears!

𓂃 ࣪˖ a smell

꒰ 1 ꒱ rich, incensed perfume

꒰ 2 ꒱ burnt coffee

꒰ 3 ꒱ resinous pine needles

꒰ 4 ꒱ steadily-baking bread

꒰ 5 ꒱ inescapably strong disinfectant

꒰ 6 ꒱ expensive, pungent red wine

꒰ 7 ꒱ cheap cologne

꒰ 8 ꒱ salty air rolling off of crashing sea waves

꒰ 9 ꒱ mouth-watering home cooking

꒰ 10 ꒱ a too-strong vanilla candle

꒰ 11 ꒱ fresh-cut, perfectly ripe stone fruits

꒰ 12 ꒱ overpowering tiger balm

꒰ 13 ꒱ smoke unfurling from a wood fire

꒰ 14 ꒱ spiced incense

꒰ 15 ꒱ all-too familiar coconut shampoo

꒰ 16 ꒱ strong herbal lavender

꒰ 17 ꒱ newly turned earth

꒰ 18 ꒱ motor oil

꒰ 19 ꒱ just-washed bedsheets

꒰ 20 ꒱ petrichor after a rainshower

𓂃 ࣪˖ a piece of clothing

꒰ A ꒱ a wrinkled black tie

꒰ B ꒱ mismatched socks

꒰ C ꒱ faded blue jeans

꒰ D ꒱ a hotel bathroom

꒰ E ꒱ a stolen hoodie

꒰ F ꒱ a crisp white button-down

꒰ G ꒱ an expensive, lush fur coat

꒰ H ꒱ a pair of beaten-up combat boots

꒰ I ꒱ plaid pajama pants

꒰ J ꒱ loose-fitting boxer shorts

꒰ K ꒱ a yellow football jersey

꒰ L ꒱ a papery hospital gown

꒰ M ꒱ a blue, lacy thong

꒰ N ꒱ a brown belt with a gold buckle

꒰ O ꒱ cheap swimming garb

꒰ P ꒱ six-inch high heels

꒰ Q ꒱ a dark-red evening gown

꒰ R ꒱ a thick knitted sweater

꒰ S ꒱ a chef’s white coat

꒰ T ꒱ a flimsily-made tourist t-shirt

𓂃 ࣪˖ a weather advisory

꒰ 𓆉 ꒱ hammering, unrelenting rain

꒰ 𓅨 ꒱ warm, golden sunshine

꒰ 𓆣 ꒱ hair-raising rolls of thunder

꒰ 𓃰 ꒱ thick, looming fog

꒰ 𓃗 ꒱ a clear, chilly evening

꒰ 𓃱 ꒱ blazing heat

꒰ 𓃟 ꒱ a nighttime lightning storm

꒰ 𓆟 ꒱ a grey sky laden with rainclouds

꒰ 𓆈 ꒱ cold, drizzly mist

꒰ 𓅫 ꒱ an unexpected snowstorm

꒰ 𓅟 ꒱ bone-chilling sleet

꒰ 𓃵 ꒱ breathless humidity

꒰ 𓃓 ꒱ blustery winds

꒰ 𓆌 ꒱ rain-induced floods

꒰ 𓆏 ꒱ spitting showers of hailstones

꒰ 𓅭 ꒱ a freezing, sudden drop in temperatures

꒰ 𓆗 ꒱ a hurricane warning

꒰ 𓃢 ꒱ a tropical storm

꒰ 𓆧 ꒱ a warm, temperate breeze

꒰ 𓃔 ꒱ road-closing landslides

#a lil more abstract than her predecessor but i hope it’ll still inspire!!! xx #prompts #build a fic prompts #prompt list #writing prompts #writing exercise #rp meme #dialogue prompts #otp prompts #imagine your otp #otp writing #writing games #writing ask games #ask games #drabble meme

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grapejuicestyless · 5 months ago

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The Things We Miss

JJ Maybank x fem!reader

Summery: There were only two rules between the Pogues. No Pogue on Pogue macking, and never mention the one we lost.

The chateau was littered with dry rot, and probably violated as many safety codes there were, hell, it probably created new guidelines just by standing, but it was home. It wasn’t legally anyones, no more did it belong to John B as it did to the rest of the Pogues. He could call it his childhood home, but so could JJ, right? If you spend all your time on the lap of another’s father, he becomes your dad too, right? He becomes more than the man who you wave to when you see to be polite. He teaches you how to fish, how to write, not to read cursive, he couldn’t even do that, but how to cook.

But maybe that was all just a perk, something to sweeten everything. Because truthfully it wasn’t the family, or his lack of family, or the house, or the food—though it was good, or the beer that kept JJ coming as often as he did.

It was her.

Y/n Routledge, a Pogue by heart, and a smile like gold.

Y/n was younger than John B, not by much. They didn’t even have a year separating them. They were irish twins, in the sense that their parents decided it would be best to try for kids as soon as possible after John B was born. Maybe it was the mother’s idea, maybe she knew she’d be leaving and she had to do everything she wanted as quickly as she could to escape faster. But John B figures it was just baby fever. So Y/n was ten months younger than John B, but never dumber, or slower, or calmer.

She was the center of everything. All things good, JJ believed happened because of her. Like she had a good luck charm that radiated onto the others. Though, she wouldn’t need it if she had, because JJ believed he was lucky enough to have her just breathing beside him anyway.

Maybe that’s why her passing was so hard for him, harder than it was for any of the other Pogues, even her own blood.

None of them would ever forget the night they lost her, John B had been suffering with the loss of his father, but Y/n seemed to power through like it was nothing. She hid the CPS documents from John B to keep him calm, payed the bills for him, and kept him fed and happy. She never cried. Never.

So imagine the surprise when they discovered the ghost of tears staining her face when the sun rose and they could finally see her, paled and cold.

They would never see her kind eyes again, or the smile that lit up every room. Her laugh wouldn’t echo through the chateau, and she wouldn’t rock the boat trying to wrestle Kiara for the last applesauce anymore. She was gone.

The hurricane was harsh. John B and Y/n had excitedly claimed it as a way to delay their CPS appointment, confident they would live another day on the island.

She didn’t want to surf the surge that night, she was scared. She begged her brother not to go, but when she saw the determination on his face, she grabbed her board and went with him. Because if anything were to happen, she’d pull him from the sea and drag him to shore if she had to.

The waves were restless, crashing onto the shore and knocking back anything littered behind. Y/n’s gut said don’t do it, but her best interest for her brother, and her JJ forced her feet into the waves.

It was fun at first, catching waves she never had before, laughing with JJ and John B, but soon it became too much, and when she wiped out, she went silently, her head coming down on a rock hard, and her board drifting away as she sunk into the soft sand below, the dark waters thrashing at her body, hiding the crimson that swirled around her.

She was scared, she was scared when the day started, and she was scared when she went. When the boys decided to call it quits, also unable to keep their balance, they called for her, but she was nowhere to be found.

“Y/n/n?” JJ had called out, wading back into the water quickly, only knowing the vague position where you had last been. “Y/n, come on, it’s not funny, seriously!” But the jokes had always been JJ’s thing, so only part of him held out hope she was only joking.

“I see her!” John B had called out, catching a glimpse of her hand underneath a softer wave, but maybe he wouldn’t have tried so hard, wasted so much energy, and carried her to shore if he knew just how late he was.

“Come on bird, come on.” He called her the nickname his father gave him, seeing lines of her paled face through the teary vision covering his eyes.

They preformed CPR, and JJ’s mouth met hers in a desperate attempt to wake her, he nearly broke her rib trying to restart her heart. He could feel the burning in his eyes, but he refused to cry over someone he believed he could save. When he dreamed of their first kiss, he never thought it would happen this way.

Y/n sputtered to life with a cough, rolling over to breathe, and the boys felt relief for the first time. They thought they knew the feeling, but now they truly did.

Y/n had a lot of fight in her, maybe that’s why she came back. But the darkness made it hard to see the blood staining her hair red, or how it dripped down the side of her neck as rain poured down on them. She laughed at something JJ had said, and she told him that she loved him as they limped along the path, and this time she seemed different about the way she was saying it. They didn’t know it just then that they hadn’t saved her, because she walked with her brother’s arm around her, but she fell into JJ’s when she collapsed.

“Y/n/n?” He asked, in a panic. He stumbled, but held her up, trying to brush the hair out of her face so he could see her. His palms came up red, wet with more than the salt water that consumed her. He swore as he sat on his knees, holding her head between his legs while John B kneeled above her.

“Come on, hold out a little longer okay?” He tapped his sister’s cheek, his fingers lined with the red that poured from her head. He silently prayed she was okay, that she was just weak from nearly drowning.

They whispered sweet nothings to her, because even with her eyes closed and her breathing shallow, they could feel it in the way she was tense that she was scared, scared even as she slipped away, as the life she cared for so much was ripped from her cruelly.

They cradled her close and lifted her head to press soft kisses to her cold skin. The boys hands were sticky with copious amounts of blood that didn’t belong to them. But still, they cradled her like their warmth was enough to undo what was done.

They laid her in bed when they got home. John B tucked her in like he had the first week their mother left, and like she had the first week after their father’s death. In the morning, her white pillow was stained red, and her body was unmoving, not even the faint rising of her chest from her breath could be seen. She was gone, and her red skin and streaky face told them that at some point as they laid her to rest, she had accepted it, she had cried and she had gone because it would be less painful than trying to stay.

JJ found her first in the morning. He screamed, and he punched a hole in the wall before crying on her lap. He positioned her arms to hold him one last time as he wept, John B rushing in only to break a lamp in grief, the weight of her death on his shoulders.

She was gone, and he blamed himself for dragging her out to a place she never wanted to go.

John B was left with the absence of his other half, and JJ was left with the regret of not holding onto her a little tighter before she passed. A sister, and the love of another’s life ripped from their hands under their noses. It made them equally sick.

“No, hell no!” JJ yelled, storming out of the sunroom in the chateau. The wood creaked under his heavy boots, which were caked in dust and stained from rain. There was a droplet of blood near one of the toes that he often focused on, a stain from a memory he wishes he didn’t have.

“JJ she can help us!” Pope called out for him, but his voice fell flat against the revving of his dirt bike.

“I don’t give a damn if she held up the sky with her pinky!” JJ yelled, tossing his bike in the dirt carelessly.

It wasn’t that JJ had a problem with the blond kook, like he had some personal vendetta against the Cameron girl, no, it was the way his best friend was looking at her.

He held a love in his eyes he hadn’t seen since the incident. A few weeks ago, it would have made him happy, he would have clapped a palm over his spine and laughed at how he hoped he would be next, but he would only half mean it because JJ was certain he had already found something to compare John B’s love sick stare to.

But now that was gone, and John B was looking at another girl like the most important person in their lives wasn’t gone. Like the red that still stained the sheets in a faint pink color wasn’t haunting the guest room that was once hers. The same room that John B had torn apart and made unrecognizable just hours after they took her away.

JJ kept her things though, selfishly, in a box under the bed. Her pictures and her stuffed animals, the bear that JJ had spent his first paycheck winning for her.

He slept in that room religiously now, clinging to the mattress like if he laid in it long enough, his body would find the indentation where her body used to curl up, like if he held onto her sheets for long enough, he could still smell her, and if he played her favorite CD’s, ones he used to tease her for liking because it was all girlish pop music mixed in with some dad rock and acid, he would hear her fading laughter one last time.

John B didn’t give a damn, he couldn’t care less, and that’s what made him mad. That someone he would have traded places for in an instant was gone and her own brother didn’t seem to care.

“JJ, calm down!” Kiara shouted aimlessly, scooting back when the screen door slammed open again and JJ’s boots slapped against the wood loudly.

“Do you not care?” He asked, venom on his tongue, and John B simply shot him a glare.

“Of course I care! I want this gold more than anything. Sarah can help us, I can’t help that love just…walked through the door!” John B spoke like there was nothing else that could possibly be getting under JJ’s skin.

He threw the ashtray that sat on one of the dusty tables outside, watching it shatter like his heart had. The pain was still fresh, and the loss even fresher. He still had her blood underneath his finger nails, and maybe thats what made him feel so sick.

“Who cares about the fucking gold!” JJ shouted, exasperated. “What about Y/n?”

His words earned gasps and loud silence from the group, his best friend’s mouth hung open in quiet understanding and also a deep grief that had a lingering anger.

“JJ, we said we wouldn’t talk about it.” Kiara warned quietly, eyes flickering between the boys.

“Y/n is dead, John B. Shes gone and shes never coming back, don’t you understand that?” JJ’s hands fisted at the collar of John B’s shirt, only letting go when Popes hands rested on his shoulders, yanking him back so hard they both stumbled backwards.

“Of course I understand that! She’s my sister, I loved her!” John B argued back, shoving JJ hard, but not getting much leverage as Pope had already pulled them apart.

“But you have no problem replacing her!”

The world seemed to fall quiet, even Sarah had nothing to say, though everyone around could tell she was trying to sympathize for a death of a girl she barely knew, someone she could only grieve through the stories she would eventually hear.

“None of you do!” JJ’s shouting died down into a pathetic cry, his lip wobbling and his eyes red. They all watched his nose scrunching to help with the stinging he felt travel down his face into the back of his throat. It only made it feel more real because if she had been there, she would have known how to make him feel better. But none of them did, and that was the hard truth.

“It’s like you don’t even care about her! You can’t even fucking say her name, it’s like…like it’s some poison for you guys. Y/n Routledge.” JJ sputtered on in an endless word vomit. “That’s her name and don’t ever forget it.”

JJ turned on his heels, pushing past Pope and brushing his shoulder hard. His boots kicked up the dirt behind them, but just like he always did, he had more to say.

“She was gonna be something great.” He declared, spinning on his feet, holding his hat she bought him in middle school between his clenched hands. “She said she wanted to make a difference, and I believed her. She was gonna be the one to make it out of here. She was gonna be something to someone!” He wanted to throw his hat down, but the thought of tarnishing something that she had once held made him sick.

“But that doesn’t matter, right? She’s dead. She’s dead because she was too busy saving all of our asses that she didn’t have time to save her own.”

He looked at his hands, the sight of the dried blood making him sick all over again. He sped off before anyone could say anything else, before they could see the way he turned green with grief and fought the urge to choke his vomit down just to see if it might work and he might see her again.

Instead, he sat on the beach. Between the grains of sand, there were some red blotches left on the ground. He kicked them around with his boot, not wanting to stare at the crime scene any longer. It was enough that a droplet was forever stained on his boots, and that it was tattooed into his skin.

When the tide was low, you could see the top of the rock that took her. It felt eerie because he had memories of her standing on that rock as a child. Pretending to be the little mermaid as the waves hit the shore, and promising her that one day he would get rich and buy her a real mermaid tail.

This was her favorite beach. The waves, the soft sand and the shady spots by the trees that hung over the edges of the land. Overtime, it grew to be JJ’s favorite beach too.

He knew he shouldn’t talk about her so soon from the accident. That John B was already torn up about the fact that he couldn’t afford a proper funeral, that Kiara’s parents had to buy her ashes so they could spread her in the sea, in the same waves that took her.

But not talking about it felt like failing her to JJ. To him, she was everything good in the world. A pure sweetness he wished he could have greedily taken more of. Because the truth is, JJ found love a hard thing to accept. He knew he loved his friends, even if he could never express it verbally, but he always knew he loved her. Part of him was glad that he had told her once that he did, love her.

Maybe she always knew, but he was glad he got it off his chest before she went, because at least that didn’t haunt him.

JJ swore he could feel her arms cradling him as the sun set, and he swore her laughter carried out through the winds that swept over the waves. She was as warm as the sun and as luminescent as the moon to JJ, and funny enough, as wild as the ocean.

In some ways, it made him feel a little more at peace that even if he physically couldn’t have her, they would always be a part of the same stars. He was just a little bit further away from reaching them as she was.

#jj maybank x routledge!reader #jj maybank x y/n #jj mayback imagine #jj maybank fluff #jj mayback x reader #jj maybank x you #jjmaybank #jj maybank #jj maybank x reader #jjmaybankangst #jj maybank x pogue!reader #maybank #john b routledge

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o0anapher0o · 14 days ago

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A thing we underestimate, I think, is how impulsive Tommy actually is. Obviously Buck is 'the impulsive one' and the cool, confident and competent persona Tommy has (which we already know is bullshit Mr Fake mouth static), kinda distract from the fact that he makes snap decisions all the time he can’t possibly have thought through (because there was no time). Do we think he even thought 20 seconds before he agreed to fly into a hurricane for a man he hadn’t spoken to in five years? He went to talk to Buck, a guy who for all he knew was straight as a ruler, and it took about a minute of flirting before he decided Fuck it I’m kissing him about it. It probably took two seconds after Buck opened his dumb mouth when Eddie crashed their date for Tommy to decide the date was over, and under two minutes from sitting down with his shitty coffee to agreeing to give Buck a second chance.

That’s not to say he couldn’t justify his decisions if pressed (he can and he does ‘I didn’t want to pressure you’), or that he isn’t fully prepared to live with the consequences, but you cannot tell me he considered either the reasons or the consequences in the moment. That comes later.

And because he tends to play responsible adult to bratty baby bi Buck it kind of distracts from how reckless most of these decisions are. The majority of them have the potential to backfire really bad. Death, heartbreak or getting punched in the face type of bad.

Which brings me to the break up, because that’s the same type of snap decision. Tommy is put in a situation and he jumps, damn the consequences. He doesn’t take the time to consider what he’s doing and he doesn’t give Buck the time to process what’s happening. Yes Buck jumped ahead with his ‘move in with me’, but Tommy also skipped a couple of steps there and threw the whole relationship out in a split second decision.

#and Lou lets you see the moments the makes the decision #to the point where you always know exactly which specific sentence Buck said that triggered it #some examples I didn't even mention:#coming to the wedding in his turn outs committing like a million health code violations #getting engaged to Abby (feels very like a 'it seemed like a good idea at the time' type of thing to me)#tommy kinard #bucktommy

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phantomwithbreakfast · 2 months ago

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~ 𝐒𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐇𝐚𝐥𝐟 𝐀 𝐋𝐢𝐟𝐞 ~

Chapter 16: This Wasn’t Planned (Preview / Spoiler / Teaser)

⟢ Danny Phantom Phan Fic • Genre: Angst — Hurt/Comfort • TW: Emotional Distress — Strong Language • Rating: M • AU — OOC

⟢ Full Story here.

(Watch the video with headphones for a slight 3D surround effect)

Summary: Danny had been captured by the GiW once again, leaving him feeling utterly helpless—vulnerable. There was nothing he could do. What will happen to him? And why again?

♫ ▸ How can you see into my eyes, like open doors? Leading you down into my core, where I've become so numb. Without a soul, My spirit's sleeping somewhere cold. Until you find it there and lead it back home. — Evanescence

…

A raw, broken scream ripped from his throat, shattering the suffocating silence of his despair. Why?

Why was he acting so dramatically?

But he knew why. Every emotion, every feeling he had buried deep inside came crashing down all at once, shredding through him like a hurricane dismantling everything in its path.

It was too much.

Too overwhelming.

Too human.

He couldn’t stop. His body shook with the force of it, shivering with exhaustion, with weakness, with everything. He couldn't even answer Sam. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move. He just knelt there, feeling weak, hollow, and numb.

…

⟢ First of all, the animation video that I made/designed wasn’t even planned. I wanted to draw some panels again, but it turned out into an animation.

⟢ This was my first attempt ever to make an animation video like this.

⟢ Chapter jump

Underneath this line you will find some art from the animation video.

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zzeraphilm · 10 months ago

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Building Bridges

Regulus Black X Potter!F!Reader

Summary: After finding the note left behind R.A.B in the presumed Horcrux. The Golden Trio seek Sirius’ help in locating R.A.B, they end up finding him yet the reunion is not as expected. (Roughly set at the beginning of DH)

Note: Sirius didn’t die in Order of the Phoenix and Regulus didn’t die in the cave he just run off abroad to hide :p

I haven’t written for Harry Potter (ever) so apologies for any thing that might be out of character! ;-; i kept thinking about this rough idea during work

——————————————————————————

Harry looked up and locked eyes with his Godfather, Sirius had been silent the entire time. They were perched neatly in a two by two formation, his two best friends behind him and his only remaining familial tie. They had taken a portkey to the Scottish highlands, the icy gusts of wind cutting threw Hermione’s ponytail so high it nearly smacked Ron on the back of his head.

“Sirius, are you sure this is the right place?” Harry’s fingers clutched his forearms, rubbing them vehemently to produce some warmth.

In front of them was a lonesome cabin, mere metres away from the vast forest line that dotted along the coastal shores. Crashing waves hit the jagged rocks like the sound of an applause.

Sirius clutched onto the note the Golden trio had given him.

“For years I had questioned by brother’s last found writings. I am certain this is what he meant.”

The quartet marched ahead, the uneven stone path dug into Ron’s trainers, nearly tripping him, thankfully Hermione caught him by the seams of his jacket.

The door beyond had its metal hinges rusted beyond repair, a faint shadow of the number plate ‘8’ was the only reminisce of the original oak. Cracks and blackened mould painted over the door, weirdly however, the door knocker was untouched, no sign of usage or age. Despite Sirius’ persistence to wait to check the area, Harry banged his first against the wood, the booming shakes forced the door knocker to tap in sync.

There was a faint shout from within the cabin, heavy footsteps and whispers. Then silence.

The door creaked open, a woman tight lipped and furrowed eyebrows, her E/C eyes shot daggers towards Harry. She glanced at Ron, then Hermione and finally she focused on Sirius.

With a swift push, the door flung open revealing herself and a disheveled man behind her aiming his wand towards them.

“Sirius! Oh My! You’re alive!” She threw her arms around Sirius, behind Ron was flabbergasted, yet Hermione had her wand matched with the man behind the woman.

“Y/N, what are you- Regulus?” Before Sirius could enjoy his reunion with his long lost friend, he could only focus on his brother.

“Regulus Arcturus Black.” Harry spoke softly.

“Do not call me that,”

Regulus’ grip on his wand tightened with a slight shake in his wrist, his fingernails dug into his palms. “How did you find this place?”

Y/N took a few steps back and held onto Regulus’ raised arm gently easing it lower and lower.

“Darling, put your wand down. Your brother has finally come home yet you show him such malice. It has been years may we talk about this over tea,” her whisper felt like a soft hug unlike any other. “Please?”

After guiding the four to their small dinning table, Y/N left to the kitchen to boil the kettle. With only two chairs at the table, Harry, Ron and Hermione insisted on standing behind Sirius, who sat opposite his scowl faced brother.

After years of believing his brother’s death, Sirius now was sat face to face with the little boy he used to love. But they were both no longer just boys, now they were men, in the eye of a hurricane waiting for things to come to a crash. Regulus’ hair had become unruly, his curls was as just as untameable as Sirius’. His previously porcelain face, had deeply settled in scars and frown lines that framed his lips. He was far from the young boy destined for power and prestige. He now slept under a rotting roof with walls that could barely hold its own weight. Sirius was torn between grasping his brother after years of separation or running away from everything all over again. But war was coming and time was of the essence. They must leave Scotland for London by nightfall, with everything Regulus knew of the Dark Lord.

“Here, it’s just my own blend of floral herbs and spices. It is quite hard to purchase any professionally made tea round here. It tastes better with a bit of honey, don’t worry.” Y/N laid out two teacups, three short glasses and one tall glass full of her freshly brewed tea. In the middle of the table was a pot of honey with a teaspoon lodged inside. “Please bare with the glassware, we only have enough for the two of us.”

Regulus sat in silence, eyes closed lightly sipping his tea that had two teaspoons of honey mixed in.

“Let’s cut to the chase.” said Harry, Regulus still not paying him any mind, whilst Y/N’s eyes softened when he spoke.

“Regulus, we found this note in this locket signed R.A.B, your initials.” Hermione chucked the locket by its chain onto the table, skidding across to meet Y/N’s fingers. “We know its a fake. We need to know where the real one is now. Voldem-“

“Do not speak his name.” Despite his stern tone, Regulus had delicately placed his teacup onto the table with no splash.

“Under my roof, my home. You do not say that wretched name.”

Sirius slams his hands onto the table, abruptly standing up.

“Regulus, first you fake your death and now I find you cozying up with Y/N Potter, of all people! You are to give these children that bloody locket now or I will show you how Azkaban has changed me!” Sirius’ voice boomed against the four walls, leading Regulus to look up with a scowl.

“Brother,” the younger Black rose from his chair and stepped towards Sirius, in a matter of seconds he had grabbed the elder Black by his collar and slammed him against the nearby wall. His tongue spewed venom targeted his brother.

“You still remain as ill-tempered as always. You have no right to stand in front of me and disrespect my family. Leave whilst I show you mercy!” Regulus already had wand digging deep into Sirius’ throat, in response Sirius had gripped his younger brother’s wrist, attempting to claw his fingers away.

“Regulus! Stop it this instant!” Y/N screeched, pulling her husband away from his brother. Sirius dropped to the floor coughing, Regulus looked down at his brother with a glare, spat on the top of Sirius’ head and left the room.

Harry was left stunned in place. His Godfather looked like a shell of a man the moment he locked eyes with his brother. Now, his estranged aunt was comforting his Godfather after everything. How strange.

“Come, let’s move to the living room and we can all talk calmly there, without my husband.”

Ron turned to Hermione and whispered ‘husband?’ With his eyes darting across the room to focus on the many framed photographs of Y/N and Regulus. Hermione, as shocked as Ron was, merely shrugged and followed the adults to the front room.

Like the rest of the house, the sofa was barely useable, the longer they sat the further they sunk into the cushions. Harry, Ron and Hermione shared the three seater, Y/N perched at the edge of her armchair. Whilst Sirius leaned against the wall by the door with his head down, he felt beyond ashamed at his reunion with his brother.

Hermione coughed trying to clear the air of any tension, “Sorry that we didn’t get to have your tea Miss Potter- or uhm Black-“

“Y/N’s fine dear.” Her E/C eyes softened at the teenagers, they reminded her so much of her brother’s friends in their younger years.

“Y/N, how are you related to me? Sirius hasn’t spoken about you until earlier today.”

She gasped comically, clutching her chest to add to the act.

“Pads, you traitor! You were supposed to be my best friend!” She fake cried but Sirius looked up pleading to her with a string of unintelligible excuses. With a light chuckle her demeanour changed.

“No, in all seriousness I’m not surprised. You were never supposed to know about me Harry. We may be related by name, but not by blood. I was adopted into the Potter family, almost like dear Padfoot here.” Sirius huffed in response.

“I basically was already part of the family when I join you guys.”

Y/N chuckled sincerely this time, her left hand covering her smile, a noticeable silver loop around her finger.

“Yes and you ate all of my hidden chocolates by the third day you were with us!”

Harry couldn’t help but smile at this family’s banter. He was so used to the bickering and squabbling of the Dursleys’, and he hadn’t seen Sirius so animated with anyone but him and Remus.

“Harry, I wish I could’ve been there for you. But before your birth I had responsibilities that called for me that I could not disobey.” Y/N stood up and began to rummage through a chest of draws in the corner of the dimly lit room. She turned around and knelt by Harry’s knees placing a little cardboard box onto his lap. She began to slowly take out its belongings. An enchanted photograph, a notebook and a rusted Snitch.

“After my brother and his friends left for the Order, I tried to join but was vehemently denied by Dumbledore.” She lifted up the tattered notebook, “It would be too long to go into details but to summarise - he did not see me fit to fight alongside James. Instead I was given a separate mission that meant relocation to France. I too was tasked by Dumbledore to find a Horcrux, more so, I was tasked on recovering Regulus. I found both, clearly.” She placed the notebook back in the box and picked up the photograph.

“This was the last time I saw your father, my brother. 1979, their wedding. Look at how young we were Sirius!” She looked up, smiling lightly at the man holding back her tears, he now was leaning over the sofa looking at the photograph in her hand. It was the entire Marauder’s pack alongside Lily who hand her arms linked with Y/N’s both laughing towards the camera. Sirius had his arm slung over James’ shoulders whose tie and top button were undone. Remus and Peter were behind the two, ruffling James’ hair and chanting a silent hoorah for their union.

“That was quite a night, if I remember correctly you couldn’t stop crying at the reception. Saying how you always dreamed of having a sister and Lily was the perfect woman for the role. You were so drunk!”

“I was not!” Y/N screeched, Sirius only laughed in response.

The teens laughed at Y/N’s outcry. Harry kept watching the photograph loop, his parents and their friends could forever enjoy an eternal happiness in this photograph. He only wished he could experience all of their joy and warmth together in person.

“Ahem. As I was saying,” Y/N sat herself down on the armrest beside Harry. “I loved your parents Harry, I truly wish I was there for your birth, for everything. Unfortunately after that night, I had to fulfil my duty as Dumbledore’s foreign agent. By the time news reached to me of James and Lily’s death and Sirius’ arrest, it was too late. I was ordered to not contact you. So I,” With a deep sigh Y/N looked towards the hanging photograph of her and Regulus.

“I threw myself at work, by my fifth year of scouring the neighbourhoods of Europe, I finally found Regulus. And well, you can guess that happened next.” She dangled her ringed left hand over her knee.

“I never meant to keep everything a secret for so long, it became life consuming. By the time I had realised nearly 18 years had pasted, I was a different woman. I’m so sorry Harry.” Y/N clung onto her nephew in a tight embrace, tears dampening his shirt. He gripped her back in response as if she were to disappear from his arms. As they parted, Y/N’s sombre gaze started to brighten.

“Regulus means no harm to you three,” she turns to Sirius “Of course, you know your own relationship with your brother better than anyone else. I know you don’t plan on staying here any longer than you must, so let me handle it. Just stay here for a bit, I’ll get you the locket.”

Then she left the room, leaving behind an ear piercing silence.

“Do you think we could grab some food from the kitchen whilst she’s gone?” Ron uttered.

“I’m sure she won’t mind. Knowing her, she has probably hidden her snacks behind some bowls.” Sirius chortled, he drifted into the hallway and entered the kitchen.

He opened the cupboards one by one until he found Y/N’s fine china. And just as he guessed, she had placed a packet of custard cremes behind a stack of bowls. Still using the same hiding spot, shame there’s no chocolates this time. Before he could shut the cupboard door, he heard shouting from the slightly opened backdoor to the right of him.

“You have no idea what they’ve probably been through to even get here Reg!” Y/N was stood next to Regulus, who was smoking a cigarette and tapping his foot against the grass.

“He shouldn’t be here. I don’t care for the young Potter, he can do what he pleases with that damned piece of shit. I just don’t want to see him for one more second!”

“Don’t you dare raise your voice at me! Don’t you dare speak ill about my nephew! And in case you forgot, you took my name! You’re a Potter now as well, he is your nephew! Don’t you care about your family? Your brother is here acting more of a father figure than anyone else could for that boy who has only known pain. You of all people should know what it’s like to live like that.” Y/N hand grabbed Regulus’ hand and lightly rubbed the back of his palm.

“…so he can be there for Harry but not me. Y/N, I-I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now. I can’t just let him back into my life like nothing happened. We left that world behind because of how much it has failed me. You. Us. I only planned my life with you in mind, not once did I consider my brother and now Harry to be there. It’s all too much. I just want things to go back to how it was. Back when it was just you and me.”

Regulus began to softly whimper, Sirius could see from the crack of the door Regulus’ shaking head of hair against Y/N’s shoulder, he saw his brother’s shoulders shake whilst he clung onto Y/N’s waist. Y/N lightly rubbed Regulus’ back with her right hand and patted his hair softly with her left. Just as he did when the two were children.

“I know darling, I know. But we’ll take it slowly. One step at a time. For now,” The two pulled back from each other, their foreheads pressed against one another. “We give them the Horcrux, and once it’s all over. We’ll invite them round for a proper meal. And we can finally clean up the place, yeah?” Regulus hummed a light tune and nodded, he closed his eyes and kissed Y/N’s lips delicately.

——————————————————————————

“Exactly as I suspected! Right behind the bowls,” Sirius returned to the front room before he could see the couple be affectionate to each other. The thought of his best friend’s sister and his brother together was still alien to him. He drew a biscuit from the packet and kept it between his teeth, then threw the whole packet at Ron who gladly caught it in his arms.

It was nearing sunset, they would’ve ideally made their way back to London by now. Harry couldn’t help but sit in silence admiring the photograph in his hands, clutching to it like a prayer.

Y/N and Regulus walk into the room, hand in hand. Before Sirius could utter an apology to his brother, the younger Black pushed his fisted hand towards him, then revealing Slytherin’s Locket in the palm of his hand.

“Take it. Take it and destroy it. Once you’re done with it. Y/N wants you back for a proper dinner.” Sirius slowly takes the chain of the locket, once the weight had been freed from Regulus’ hand, he unlocked his fingers from Y/N’s and disappeared back into the halls of their cabin. Y/N only looked towards them with a glint of hope.

“He’ll come round eventually, you know. He’s changed over the years.”

Whilst Hermione and Ron were nibbling at the biscuits, Harry turned around and stood to face his aunt.

“Y/N can I, can I keep this? Just for now, I’ll give it back once I come back to visit. I just, I really-“

Y/N only chuckled at her nephew’s nervous demeanour, “Of course love. Just make sure you look after it okay? Plus I’ll need you back here with your uncle here so we can take more photos to put up on my walls!”

Sirius, who was still chewing half of his biscuit interrupts “Actually I’m his Godfather,”

The H/C haired woman flipped her head around, “Since when? Why would James- Are those my custard cremes?”

——————————————————————————

“Goodbye Y/N! Goodbye Mr Regulus!” Ron waved as they walked down the stone path back to where they left the port key. He turned to Hermione, “You know maybe living out in the wild seems alright, you know? Pretty nice don’t you think?”

“You think you could make your own food and drink from just the bare essentials like Y/N?” The curly-haired girl retorted with a smile.

“Oh well no, maybe I could just conjure up something!” The two continued to bicker and laugh till the end of the path. Behind them Harry and Sirius stuck a few seconds longer to speak with Y/N.

“I’m sorry for the state of our cabin, my dear. I’ll make sure Regulus repairs all of the broken furniture before your return!”

A faint “I heard that!” echoed from the hallway. Y/N laughed and drew Harry into a hug, lightly patting his head. “Don’t worry, I’ll see you soon.” Harry squeezed her tightly and thanked her again softly, promising to return the moment he is finished with his goal. He turns back and rushes to his friends.

Y/N steps back and turned to Sirius. “Pads, tell me who else is left from us lot?”

“Ah well, Moony’s still kicking, still part of the Order.” The two laugh at the thought of their shared memories. A light sigh trails the end of their joy.

“Merlin, things really have changed so much now. I heard that it was Peter, yes?”

Sirius nodded, still resentful towards his traitorous friend yet his eyes gleamed with sorrow. Y/N rubbed his forearm in response to comfort him.

“You’ve got us now. Reggie will take a while, but you’ve got Harry and me. We’re family now. So, don’t be a stranger okay?”

After a lifetime apart, the two friends hug as if it was their last day at Hogwarts all over again. As Sirius walked back to the teenagers ready to go back to London, he took one last look at the cabin behind him. From an upstairs window, he saw his brother. The two nodded at each other, either out of pure politeness or an unconscious agreement to meet again, to rebuild what was lost.

#regulus black x reader #regulus black #sirius black #harry potter #hermione granger #ron weasley #the marauders #the marauders fanfic #regulus black angst #regulus black fanfic #sirius black x reader

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mariswxt · 9 months ago

Text

that’s my man (and my woman)

Summary: Your kids are curious little buggers. Asking questions about everything and anything under the sun. So there comes the complications of when your kids ask you if you’ve fallen in love before. How will you explain everything? Time to put your imagination to use.

A/N - I’ve been putting out a lot of sexy fics recently. Why not some fluff?

Song Inspo: Style - Taylor Swift and Perfect - Ed Sheeran

It took so long just to get two human beings to eat breakfast.

“Charlie, Sam, breakfast!” You called up the stairs, sighing after you did. Your hands were on your hips in true mom fashion, and disbelief and faux-regret was your adrenaline high this time as you wondered why exactly you had kids. That you loved to death despite their poor eating schedule. “Come on, I made pancakes.”

The thundering of little feet on the stairs told you that you had two incoming hurricanes.

Your seven year old boy, Sam, and your five year old girl, Charlie, appeared at the bottom of the stairs with broad smiles, crashing into you for a bear hug that knocked the wind out of your sails. You laughed as you hugged them back, giving a few pats of their head each. “Hey, there. Ready for breakfast?”

“Is there syrup?” Charlie asked eagerly, running and hopping into a high chair, grabbing her plate of pancakes and bringing it to her with a familiar lick of her lips and happy, twitchy grin. Sam had gotten his father’s hair, while Charlie had gotten yours. But the eyes were swapped around, and it was always a point of laughing. Not one child could be more like one or the other.

Arguably, both kids had their father’s dimples and smile. So yes, he could stake his claim.

“And whipped cream?” Sam added with a toothy grin.

“Raspberries?”

“Blueberries?”

You shook your head with a chuckle; such chatterboxes. You opened the fridge and a cabinet, getting out the maple syrup, whipped cream and strawberries. “Not too much, ok?” You passed the toppings to them, and with a chorused ‘yes, mom’, they proceeded to completely disregard your orders. It made you shake your head again, huffing out a breath when all sense of scolding them disappeared once you saw the golden morning light hitting their little heads as they squealed and laughed.

Kids. You loved them to bits.

“Mom,” Charlie asked through a bite of pancake and whipped cream that smeared over her mouth, “have you ever loved someone before?”

The question startled you slightly, but you grabbed a kitchen towel, cleaning her lips with a soft smile as she shied away with a shriek of delight, little bunches waving about wildly. “Course I have, sweetie. But only once.”

“Ooh, tell me, tell me!” She giggled, while Sam cringed a little, muttering a small ‘gross’ that got a sharp glare and pout from Charlie. Out of care for his little sister, he shut himself up.

You took a slow breath in to give yourself time to think, leaning on the counter and putting down the paper towel. “Well, it started a long time ago. When I was twenty six, all young.”

“That’s old.” Sam wrinkled his nose in confusion. You scoffed lightly, because it damn wasn’t, but he was just a kid.

“Behave, Samuel.” You ruffled his hair with a laugh. “We met at my old job. 4th October, 2006. He had his brother with him. Now, I thought he was trouble. He had a leather jacket and one of those really fancy, loud cars and he was very popular with girls.” You reached out to tickle Charlie’s side, which had her squeaking. “But he was likeable, and charming, so I wanted to bump into him more often.”

“Was he cool?” Sam perked up, suddenly very interested. “He sounds cool.”

You pinched his chin affectionately. “The coolest. But our job was very tiring. We went through a lot of big stuff, like I told you in your bedtime stories. There would be vampires and werewolves and fairies of all kinds, but he and I would always save the day. And if we didn’t, we’d save the next day.”

“You saved the world!” Charlie exclaimed, making an aeroplane with a pancake bite on her fork. The action sent a flutter of warmth and love through your chest. For your family. Something you thought you’d never have.

You nodded, guiding the bite to her mouth gently before your hyperactive child sent the fork flying. “That’s right, gumdrop. We saved the world.” It was like telling a story, of you and your prince. “I couldn’t help but love him. He’d call me sweetheart and hold me tight. He’d look at me with a wide smile on his face, just for me. And he told me I was the one he was looking for.”

“That’s corny.” Sam piped up, but he also had a wide, goofy, dimpled grin on his face. He leaned forward. “So, where is he now? Did you two leave each other?”

“Well, he-” The sound of the door opening and closing echoed through the house, followed by soft padding steps and heavier ones not so far behind.

“Sweetheart, I’m home!” A familiar voice called, the deep one which always had your stomach doing flips. That you heard murmuring sweet nothings in your ear every damn day. “C’mon Miracle, stay still- attaboy. Such a good boy.”

“That would be your father.” You sighed, not in a disappointed way, but a lovesick teenager way because hearing the word ‘sweetheart’ from your husband’s mouth never got old.

Your husband. Damn, you didn’t think you’d make it to that point. Not when Chuck was still a threat. Or even that rebar that Jack saved him from.

Your kids shrieked happily and practically flew off their high chairs, sprinting towards their dad, who was busy taking off his jacket in the hallway.

Dean Winchester. All 6’ 1” of flannel and denim, but this time with burden-free smiles and lit up looks.

When he saw his two munchkins, the jacket was off in a flash and he’d bent to one knee in order to absorb the impact of two koala hugs. “Aw, hey, squirt number one and two. Hope you didn’t give your mom much trouble.”

It felt so much better than the impact of a punch. Indescribably better.

“Dad!” The two giggled at the same time, accepting two kisses on the forehead each while being smothered by their dad’s strong arms. Warm and comforting and no longer instruments of destruction.

They’d always be somewhat like that, Dean thought in the back of his mind. The seed of doubt sowing in again.

Then Dean saw you in the hallway, and his brain forgot to work, doubts forgot to sow and crept into the dark corner it came from. You, his wife (he never got tired of the way that word rolled off his tongue), Mrs Winchester, standing there all pretty looking at him with those eyes of yours that always saw through his crap and often jackassery.

Dressed up in his undershirt, your sweats with the last few winks of sleep yet to go from your eyes, but still working yourself to the bone to make sure your kids had a good meal. A far cry of the days where he’d look up, see you covered in blood that wasn’t yours, adrenaline-pumped with that sexy fire in your eyes, machete in hand instead of that ring he bought around your finger.

He preferred this look on you. It meant you were safe.

Dean watched as you gave Miracle an idle scratch before ushering the kids into the kitchen, then walking up to him and wrapping those gorgeous arms around his neck, gorgeous eyes twinkling and your gorgeous lips stretched into a smile.

The whole nine yards, apple pie and picket fence of gorgeous and it was all his. All his personal heaven.

“Mrs Winchester.” He murmured, nudging your nose with his as his arms circled your waist, drawing you in and gripping your hips with both underlying possessiveness and a tender glow in those emerald eyes. Your soul soaring and low, warm vibrations in your body increasing until it was at the frequency of his. Syncing you both.

“Mr Winchester.” You giggled softly as you let your lips meet his once, pulling back. Then you couldn’t help yourself, letting them meet in holy matrimony again. And again. And again, over and over until you were both mentally and physically restraining yourselves due to your children being in the next room.

“We have to stop.” Dean chuckled, his hand tangling in your hair as the other inched down from its place on your hip, taking yet another hit of your honeyed lips.

“We do.” You whispered back, meeting his ministrations with the slow massage of your thumb against his scalp from where your fingers ran through his hair, your other hand on his chest.

Over his heart.

“Hard to when y’looking so pretty, darlin’, and you know it.” He huffed, nuzzling your nose before dipping to press a slow, hot kiss to your jugular. “Wearin’ my shirt too, hardens the bargain. And these sweats, god, you know what they do for your ass.” As if to punctuate his point (and sentence), he gave a quick, firm slap to it. “Ain’t makin’ it easy for me here, baby.”

“Dean!” You squeaked, giggling. “Our kids are in the kitchen.”

“Lil’ buggers. My sex drive’s arch nemesis.” He groaned against your neck, but listened anyway, taking his hand off your ass and cupping your cheeks, pressing a loving kiss to your forehead, then hairline. “C’mon.” You two made your way to the kitchen, where Miracle then padded over, rearing on his hind legs to paw at Dean’s jeans for attention. He obliged, bending down to ruffle Miracle’s golden coat.

“Hey, boy.” He whispered, fingers doing good work to give Miracle the love he was whining for. “I love you a lot, ok? But I’ve got a wife, a very sweet, very sexy…” Dean gave you a once over with a lick of his lip and a quick bite of the bottom one, “wife. And I wanna get her in bed today, so don’t ruin this one for me. All respect given. Alright?”

A small whimper of affirmation.

“Attaboy.” Dean gave Miracle a quick scratch behind the ear before straightening up.

“C’mon, mom, tell us what happened to the cool guy!” Sam insisted, which had Dean raising an eyebrow at you in question. Cool guy? Who, what, when, where, how, why?

“Yeah, the one that stole your heart and put rainbows in your eyes!” Charlie added, making a heart with her tiny hands.

Dean smirked, leaning against the counter by his hip. “Oh? Who stole your heart and put rainbows in your eyes, honey? Do tell.”

“First of all, I did not say that.” You chuckled, raising a finger.

“You don’t have to. It’s all here.” Charlie pointed to her own eyes with an intense stare at her finger and a cute pout. It almost had you melting. “But tell us!”

“Oh, fine.” You rolled your eyes playfully with a laugh, then took Dean’s hand and kissed the battle-scarred knuckle.

The gesture making Dean internally melt and externally making his eyes fill up with hearts and his lips twitch into a warm smile.

“I married him.” You said softly, your eyes mirroring the same look.

“Damn right.” He chuckled, leaning forward and meeting your lips in a sweet, slow kiss. Free from the stress of an Apocalypse or a battle. That tasted like coffee and toothpaste rather than beer or whiskey and had no rush. His hand cradling your cheek while yours gently cupped the back of his head. Breathing in his body wash that wasn’t low grade anymore. You still had the unlimited credit cards, so you had more time for things like these. The little things.

You became absorbed in everything Dean, the kiss not as passionate as when he’d dipped you and took your breath away in front of a crowd of hunters on your wedding day but still had the same meaning. The whispers of the vows you two had choked out through tears. He became absorbed in you, in the sweet taste of a croissant on your tongue and your floral scent dizzying and overwhelming his senses in a good way. It was you he was feeling. It felt like you, so real, so safe. It felt like home.

“Ewwww!” You were interrupted by Sam and Charlie, and you broke apart, foreheads pressing together with a soft laugh coming from the both of you.

His hand on your waist, yours carding through his hair. Comfort, assurance, something you both had been deprived of for fifteen straight years. You wouldn’t let being Mrs Winchester go. Not now, not ever.

Mrs Winchester. Never got old.

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