#i feel like there’s something in my chest violently trying to claw out

[person4924]

listening to julien baker with both earbuds in is what death feels like right

[marvelstoriesepic]

Wake up (part 2)

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky will not abandon you unconscious while hoping for answers about what viciousness is running through your body. After all, Hydra always takes everything a person has to offer.

Word Count: 6.2k

Warnings: mentions of Bucky’s past; Bucky is going through some emotional shit here; Hydra; vomiting; seizure; guilt and self-blame; medical setting and distress; grief; PTSD; anxiety; panic attacks; so much angst

Author’s Note: A second part to Wake up has been the winner of my poll, so here we are. I’ve been sticking with the angst of the first part and I'm not gonna lie, this might have been the hardest thing I’ve written so far. So, please read the warnings before diving in and be beware that this does not end well. (I really don’t believe that all hope’s lost but read for yourself) But I actually do like how this turned out despite it hurting me so much lol. Let me know what you think ♡

part three

Angstober Masterlist | Masterlist

Bucky Barnes has lost a lot in his long life.

He has lost pieces of himself - some torn away violently, others slowly dissolving in his grasp no matter how hard he tried to keep them.

It was torturous and agonizing, prolonged over time, creating empty voids where something complete once used to be.

He has lost the weight and warmth of his own limb, his left arm stolen from him under the most excruciating circumstances, only to be replaced by a piece of metal that messed badly with his nerve endings.

His body bears the evidence. Scars marrying his flesh, muscle and sinew replaced by cold and unfeeling vibranium.

His mind has suffered even worse. Memories shattered, rewritten, erased. A name that once meant something - James Buchanan Barnes - reduced to something foreign, something he had to claw his way back to.

He has been unmade and remade too many times to count, his identity fractured into a thousand pieces. Each one holds remnants of the pain, of orders barked in languages he barely recognizes, of faces he was forced to forget the moment they fell.

His past is an open wound that never quite heals, no matter how much time passes. He has lost friends, family, freedom - every tether to the life he once lived.

But he survived.

Somehow, despite the things Hydra did to him, despite the decades of blood staining his hands, despite the decades of his limbs moving to another brain, despite the guilt slithering through his veins and dragging its nails down his spine. He survived.

He fought his way back. For you. Because of you. You helped him get himself back.

And that’s why this loss - your loss - would be different.

He doesn’t even acknowledge this with dramatics, doesn’t try to make it sound noble or poetic. It’s not something to be proud of. It’s just the truth. A certainty.

If you leave him, he will not survive. He would not even try.

A simple fact that is not simple at all.

It’s the most devastating, soul-crushing fact of his existence.

Because if you never open your eyes again - if those beautiful, expressive eyes, the ones that soften whenever they land on him, the ones that twinkle like stardust only for him because you love him so much - stay closed forever, then what reason does he have to go on?

If he never sees that smile again, the one that makes his knees weak, that makes his chest feel too small to hold everything he feels for you - the smile only made for him because you love him so much - then what point is there in taking another breath?

If you never wrap your arms around him again - never squeeze him so tightly he can feel your affection seep into him, warming the coldest, most forgotten parts of him, because you love him so much - then what is he supposed to do with himself?

If your lips never touch his again, never press against his skin, never ghost over his own in those kisses that steal his breath even if it is a simple peck, or if you end up breathlessly clinging to each other, all because you love him so much - then he might as well have nothing at all.

And if your voice - your sweet, adoring, and grounding voice - never speaks those three words again, the ones that leave him on this world, the ones that remind him that despite everything, despite all that he has done and all that he has lost, he is still capable of being loved - if he never gets to hear those words again, then there will be nothing left of him.

Because without you he is just a man with too many ghosts and too little purpose. A man trying to walk on broken legs, reaching for something, grasping at something, hoping for something, that will never be found.

He would not survive it. Not again. Not this time.

Bucky doesn’t remember the run to the med bay.

It went so fast but also way too slow.

Moments before, he was in your shared room, shaking you, begging for you to wake up, and then, he was barreling down the hallways, your body limp in his arms.

His boots slammed against the floor, his breath coming in ragged rasps. His grip around you was so tight that if you had been awake, you would have told him to ease up, that you weren’t going anywhere with that soft and gentle voice of yours. But you weren’t awake. It was only him.

He doesn’t remember how many doors he crashed through, doesn’t recall how many people shouted his name as he stormed through the compound like a man possessed.

All he could focus on was you, your weight in his arms, the unmanageable silence coming from you. It was too quiet. Too still.

You were and still are the only thing in his focus. The only thing in his mind.

The moment he bursts into the med bay, Bruce is already moving, eyes wide behind his glasses as he takes one look at Bucky’s desperate face - at you - and points to the nearest examination table.

“Put her down. Now.”

Bucky hesitates for only a second.

“Barnes!” Bruce snaps, voice sharp.

And Bucky moves, his hands trembling as he lowers you onto the cold metal table, his touch lingering longer than it should have, afraid you will leave him the moment he lets go.

Then Bruce is there, hands on you, tilting your head, checking your pulse. Bucky feels something inside him snap.

Bile surges up his throat, hot and acidic, and before he can stop himself, he staggers backward, barely making it to a medical waste bin before his stomach heaves violently. His whole body shakes with the force of it, his metal hand clutching the edge of the table so hard it groans under the pressure.

He only hears someone - Tony - mutter behind him. “Jesus. Alright, Barnes, maybe you should-”

“No.” His voice is hoarse, sore. He doesn’t even look up, just wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his entire body coiled so tightly he feels like he might snap in half.

He is not leaving.

He doesn’t hear whatever else is said because Bruce is calling for Dr. Cho, his voice tight, controlled but urgent. She appears within moments, already shrugging into her white coat as she assesses the situation with a practiced eye.

“Tell me everything,” she demands, moving beside Bruce as they work over you.

“She was exposed to something - some kind of airborne agent.” Bruce says quickly, Bucky not able to get a word out. “Came back from the mission fine, but then-”

“Then she wouldn’t wake up,” Bucky rasps, his voice barely above a scratchy whisper. He forces himself to step closer again, his fingers jerking at his sides. He wants to touch you, needs to touch you, but Bruce has already started attaching monitors to your chest, your temples, your wrist.

So Bucky can only stare at your unmoving face, and his gut contracts dreadfully, twisting like a wrung-out rag. A breath flees his mouth in a rough gust.

Because you are lying here, looking as if you are fading further away by the second.

Bucky is grateful that no one is paying him any mind.

Every ounce of attention in the room is on you, and that’s exactly where it needs to be. No one spares him so much as a glance, and hell, he is thankful to be ignored.

Because if they looked at him, they would see the way his hand wouldn’t stop shaking. Even the metal seems to be quivering, the nerve endings in his shoulder acting up. They would see his chest rising and falling too fast, his breaths sharp and strained like he is moments from shattering into something unrecognizable.

But none of it matters. Because you are still lying there, too still, too limp, too silent, too pale against the stark white of the medical bay’s harsh lights.

The color has drained from your face, your lips slightly parted, your breathing faint but regular. It’s the only sign of life you give.

Your head remains tilted unnaturally to the side, strands of hair sticking to your cheek from the moisture of Bruce’s sensors as they gather data, searching for something that might explain what the hell is happening to you.

Tony is somewhere behind him, speaking hurriedly into his earpiece. “Yeah, well, tell me something useful, here, Fitz!” His voice is sharp, frustration a part of it, but there is something else there, too - something too close to fear. Bucky doesn’t hear that in Tony often. “I don’t care what Fury’s saying - no, I don’t care - just get me those samples analyzed faster.”

There are agitated voices somewhere to his left. Steve and Natasha. Steve is trying to get to him. Bucky knows it without turning around. He can feel his best friend's presence, hear the urgency in the way his boots scruff against the floor, the way his voice lowers as he mutters something to Natasha, arguing. But the redhead doesn’t budge, Steve doesn’t reach him, and Bucky is left standing in place, barely keeping himself upright.

Bruce and Dr. Cho are working in tandem over your body. Bruce adjusts the monitors, his fingers hovering over your wrist for a moment, measuring something by touch alone. His jaw is tight, his usual steady hands moving just a fraction quicker, his eyes switching between the data on the screen and your unmoving form.

Dr. Cho is settling up and IV, her hands deft as she inserts the needle into the delicate skin of your forearm. The bag above you fills with something clear, something Bucky doesn’t recognize, but he trusts her. He has to. She murmurs something to Bruce, and he nods, glancing at one of the monitors before adjusting the oxygen mask now resting over your face.

“We need a full toxicology scan,” Dr. Cho says, voice firm but calm. Something Bucky can’t manage right now. “Start running a metabolic panel and check for neurotoxins. If this was airborne, we need to know if it’s still in her system.”

Bruce is already moving, tapping rapidly at a tablet screen. “Her vitals are stable, but they’re low - lower than they should be. She’s there, but barely.”

Bucky’s hands clench into fists, his nails digging into his palms, he is sure even the metal will have marks. His head is spinning, everything outside of you irrelevant to him. There is too much movement, too many sounds, too many people talking, but none of it matters because you still haven’t moved. You still haven’t opened your eyes.

His bones feel like they are collapsing. Like a house of cards caught in a slow fall.

And Bucky swears that if you don’t wake up soon, he won’t be able to breathe at all.

The waiting for results is maddening. He is hardly moving, hardly breathing, only able to wait for someone to say something that will make sense of this.

Bruce is the first to speak. He pushes his glasses up to the bridge of his nose, squinting at the tablet in his hands like maybe if he looks at it long enough, the numbers will rearrange themselves into something different. Something fixable.

“There’s nothing,” he says, voice quieter than before. Stunned.

Bucky blinks, his body stiffening. “What?”

Bruce glances at Dr. Cho, but she is already busy studying the results on a separate screen, her lips pressed tightly together.

“Nothing toxic in her blood,” Bruce continues, carefully neutral. “No neurotoxins, no foreign substances - nothing that should be causing this.”

Bucky’s insides lurch, churning like a sea under a violent storm. He tilts his head forward as if he misheard, his mind running. “No. No, that’s not-” He gestures uncoordinatedly to where you still lay, unmoving, breath slow but there. “Look at her! There’s gotta be something.”

Dr. Cho finally speaks, measured but voice set. “Medically speaking, she should be awake.”

Bucky got shot in the chest once.

He still doesn’t know how he survived. It hurt like hell.

But those words are the bullet that will tear through his heart, make him crumble, kill him.

Should be awake.

Should be awake.

But you fucking aren’t.

“You’re saying she’s fine,” he grits out, his tone steely, voiced with something dark. The same darkness that knots deep in his belly. “But she’s not moving, not waking up, not-” His voice breaks, and he presses his mouth closed so tightly to make a sound stop from boiling up. His head shakes vehemently. “There has to be something.”

“Bucky-” Bruce tries, but Bucky doesn’t let him finish.

“Check again.” His voice is lower now, dangerous, but everybody surely hears the desperation in his tone. “Check again, check everything - you must’ve missed something.”

Bruce exhales, rubbing his temples. “I’ve run the tests twice-”

“Damnit, then run it a fucking third time.” Bucky’s voice rises.

“We’ve checked everything. There is nothing wrong-”

“Then why isn’t she waking up?” Bucky roars, and suddenly, everyone in the room is dead silent.

Tony looks between Bucky and the doctors, his expression grim. Steve, who had edged closer, takes a careful step back, but looks at Bucky warningly, yet still utterly sympathetic. Natasha has just the slightest sheen over her eyes herself, but tries to keep her composure. Sam is standing in a corner, watching without a single remark. That’s new for him.

Even Bruce and Dr. Cho pause for just a second, eyes falling to him.

Then Dr. Cho exhales sharply, snapping her gloves off with quick, almost harsh movements. “Everyone out. Now.”

Tony raises a brow. “You kicking us out, doc?”

“Yes,” she replies curtly. “You’re all in the way. We need to focus. Here are too many people. This won’t help us and it won’t help her.”

Steve hesitates but eventually nods, throwing one last glance at Bucky and at you before stepping out, Tony following behind. Natasha slips out almost quickly, searching for a place to be alone. Sam leaves without a word, expression stony. The room empties.

But Bucky doesn’t move.

“Bucky,” Bruce says, softer now, as if he is speaking to a wild animal, careful not to startle it. “You should go too.”

Bucky doesn’t even blink. “No.”

Dr. Cho frowns unpleased, crossing her arms. “You’re not helping her by being here. You’re just getting in the way.”

“I’m not leaving,” Bucky grinds out, planting his feet like a goddamn mountain. His breathing is too rough, his pulse too high, but he doesn’t have time to care. The only thing he cares about is not to leave you.

Dr. Cho lets out a breath through her nose, but she doesn’t argue further. There is no time to fight with a stubborn ex-assassin who looks like he’s one wrong word away from losing his mind.

“Fine,” she relents, turning back to Bruce. “Then stay out of the way. We have work to do.”

Bucky doesn’t even acknowledge her.

Guilt sits in his chest like something rotten. It is an anxious tangle of nerves and dread and agony that curl in his stomach, inescapable. It’s as if his body is rejecting him all over again.

It feasts on every nerve and every cell and gnaws and gnaws and gnaws, hollowing him out from the inside.

He let himself believe that you were fine. That this is just his paranoia, just his need to keep you wrapped up, shielded from every possible danger - the worry he always feels for you, the way he clings so much.

But your chest rises and falls so slow and mechanical, and it’s not right. Your color is drained to the point that you look ghost-like. It’s as if your body is just pretending to be alive. As if it’s just waiting for something, stalling.

You look like you are already knocking on death’s door.

And they try to tell him there is nothing wrong.

The words make his scull vibrate with rage, but even more so with fear. Such a gripping and burning fear. His pulse is a single beat he can feel all along his skin.

Because what if there really is nothing? What if there is nothing to fix and you are already half gone?

His hands are trembling so hard, not even forming a fist can stop it.

He should have brought you here sooner. Should have forced you here the second you got back, should have ignored your reassurances, your sugary and alluring voice telling him that you feel fine and that you love him and there is nothing to worry about.

But he did worry.

He did have that awful, gut-deep feeling, a whisper in the back of his mind, telling him that something was wrong. But he convinced himself that it was just him. That you are fine. And you would be fine. And this was nothing. And there was nothing to worry about. That you would wake up and smile that soft smile at him and wish him a good morning, honey. You sleep well? with your endearing morning voice and all would be fine because you would be there and awake and with him and in his arms and the sun filtering in would illuminate your body and make you gleam in your ethereal glow and he would tell you you look beautiful and you would giggle and you would kiss him and you would tell him you love him and he would repeat it a thousand times over and-

He wants to throw up again, feeling the nausea rise. He wants to undo whatever led you here, wants to rip apart the universe until he finds the moment where he should have acted, should have saved you, should have known better.

Because things like that happen to Bucky Barnes.

The voices are there. Bruce and Cho speaking in hushed and clinical tones, words slipping past his ears. He hears them. Knows they are saying things that should matter. Should mean something.

But he can’t focus.

Because the only thing his brain registers, the only thing anchoring him to anything right now, is the slow and rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor.

It pounds in his eardrums, in the space behind his eyes, sinks beneath his skin. Unchanging. It should be a comfort. A reassurance. But it’s not.

It sounds too artificial - as if it’s the machine keeping you here instead of your own will. Instead of you.

His heart seems to try and outrun a fate that has not been decided yet. His hands flex and curl, doing nothing else. He is so helpless. Drowning in the air, like a scream caged behind his ribs with no way to escape.

Bucky is not a man who would ever think about praying.

But for you, he would sink down onto his knees and beg, beg until his lungs give out, plead until his voice dies, and him with it.

He wants to move. Wants to do something. But all he is forced to do is watch. Watch the way your body doesn’t stir, the way your lips remain slightly parted, breath scarcely there. You seem asleep in a way that isn’t right.

Bruce says something. He doesn’t catch it.

Dr. Cho responds, sharper this time, with a note of urgency in her tone. But Bucky still can’t process the words.

Because the beeping is the only thing.

The only proof that you are still here.

The sole factor preventing his thoughts from plunging into a darkness he can't drag his way out of.

The sound of your heartbeat, manufactured and distant, is the only thing between him and utter ruin.

And then it stutters.

Just for a second. A fracture of a hesitation, a hiccup in the mechanical pattern.

But it is clear.

And Bucky’s breath seizes, every nerve ending in his body lighting up under a fire that might just burn him to the ground.

Another stutter.

He lunges forward without thinking, knocking something over in the process, metal clattering against tile. Bruce shouts his name, Cho curses, but Bucky doesn’t hear anything.

Because something is happening.

The beeping stutters again. Then again.

Then your body jerks. A sudden, unnatural motion, like a puppet with its strings, yanked too hard. Your chest arches up, limbs jolting, fingers curling in on themselves like they don’t belong to you anymore.

The heart monitor lets out a rapid sequence of beeps, the steady pattern broken, discordant - like a song ripped apart note by note.

A seizure.

Bucky doesn’t even have time to feel the utter terror pumping up his belly and rushing up to his face in less than half a second, only that it is propelling him forward. He doesn’t care that Bruce and Cho are already moving, doesn’t care that there are hands trying to hold you down, voices shouting instructions.

He drops to his knees by your head because his legs won’t hold him up anymore. His hands reach instinctively - one cradling the back of your head, the other threading into your hair, gripping almost too tight, as if he can keep you here just by holding on. He never should have let go in the first place. Another thing to hate himself for.

“No, no, no, baby, baby, please-” His voice is wrecked. Shattered and gravelly, rasping against his throat like it’s tearing him apart from the inside out. The words barely make it past his lips, broken things gasped between strangled sobs.

“Stay with me, doll. Please. Please, don’t- don’t do this, you don’t get to do this, not to me, not to me-”

His breath is failing him, catching on every desperate syllable, every plea. His chest aches and caves under the panic and horror, he can’t hold himself up properly anymore. His forehead presses against yours, his tears hot where they land on your skin, his entire body shaking against you.

He is crying, saying things not even he understands. His voice is a single crack, a sound so undone it doesn’t sound human. He begs and begs and begs, but you continue to cramp.

A sob rips through him, brutal and loud, and he sucks in a desolate breath between the wreckage of his words.

He doesn’t know the way Cho and Bruce are working frantically, doesn’t hear the sounds of other people in white coats hectically running around.

All he knows is you.

And the way your body seizes beneath his hands, the way your face remains slack, the way your breath catches as if your body itself is deciding whether to keep you here or let you go.

Bucky grips you harder and presses his lips to your temple in a way that is almost rough.

“Stay with me,” he whimpers against your skin, voice not even a real whisper, hoarse and thick with cries. “I can’t lose you. Won’t survive. I won’t survive.”

You gasp.

Your body stills. Limbs falling back onto the hard table with a sharp clang.

And his world is falling apart, into itself, collapsing, crumbling. His eyes fail, not showing him the whole picture anymore, burning his vision away and replacing it with cruel pictures. He falls into an abyss so deep he won’t ever meet the ground and the reprieve of shattering into the floor-

Beep.

A single note.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

It’s rhythmic. It’s there.

Your heart is still beating.

The sound sends a shockwave through his chest, his heart, his core, him. It rattles his ribs.

Bucky shudders. A deep, guttural sob rips through him and he buries his face against your hair, his arms wrapped so tightly around you it’s as if he’s trying to fuse you to him, trying to force the universe to let him keep you.

He chokes on a sound, nothing more than a shattered breath. His body sags, overwhelmed, drained, but his hands refuse to loosen their hold on you, careful of the cables attached to your body.

The chaos of the room dims just slightly, shifting to more focus.

“That-” Bruce analyses in a clipped tone. “That wasn’t just a seizure. That was an autonomic collapse. Her body just shut down.”

Bucky is still swimming in the aftershock of nearly losing you, he can’t comprehend anything other than the smell of your hair and skin.

“That’s not possible,” Cho considers, voice low, but there is just the tiniest hint of concern in her voice now. “Not without something triggering it.”

There is shuffling around him - machines being adjusted, readings being analyzed. But Bucky stays right there, forehead pressed to yours, his thumbs smoothing over your cheekbones as if you were made of glass. “Come back to me,” he breathes, pleading. “Please come back, please. I can’t- I can’t do this without you. Can’t do anything without you. Y/n, please!”

Bruce releases a breath somewhere nearby. Bucky lost all his senses.

“I need to see the chemical breakdown of that gas - now,” he instructs.

“Come back. Come back to me, baby, come back,” Bucky croaks out, still not addressing the two discussing your situation, his voice rough and barely working. His lips don’t move from your temple.

Cho’s hands move over the tablet, scanning your vitals. “Her body didn’t just react to it. It adapted to it. And now-” She pauses, face tightening as she processes the data. “It’s waiting for something.”

Bucky heaves up a breath, a sick and swirling tension writhing in his stomach like a nest of snakes. “Waiting for what?” he finally acknowledges.

Bruce’s gaze flicks up, something apologetic and utterly pained behind his eyes. His voice is careful. “A command.”

Silence slams into the room like a sudden, vicious drop in pressure.

Bucky grows cold. The sickening sensation in him spreads. His hands tighten around you in instinctual protection.

Fucking Hydra.

“This wasn’t just some toxin or experiment,” Cho continues, flipping through the data, her expression darkening. “This was programmed. Her nervous system - her brain - it’s been put in a dormant state. Not a coma, not unconsciousness. Something else.”

Bucky is shaking his head before she even finishes speaking. “No. No, she - she’s right here, she’s breathing, she-”

But he can’t deny it. Can’t ignore the chilling, creeping terror worming around his spine, despair festering it. Because he knows this. Knows the way Hydra takes people and twists them, programs them like machines, like weapons, like him.

His stomach sinks, drops, falls - down, down, down. Falling into the abyss. Never to land. Never to return.

Nausea rolls over him in sick ways. But he can’t let him heave it up again. Because therefore, he would have to let go of you. And he will not do that.

“It’s got to be some kind of activation sequence,” Bruce says grimly. “A failsafe. Whatever was in that gas, it did something to her. Put her into a kind of-” he pauses, carefully glancing at Bucky, “-standby mode.”

Bucky’s jaw is hard, it would hurt if he could feel it. “Then wake her the fuck up.”

“We’re trying,” Cho snaps back, stress sharpening her usual calm tone. “But this isn’t just a medical problem, Barnes. It’s neurological. It’s programming.”

Bucky flinches. His fingers tangle in your hair and he tucks you impossibly closer. “She’s not a machine,”he spits out, voice shaking, harsher than he means it to be but not able to change it. “She’s not like-”

He stops himself. The words She’s not like me nearly escape, but he forces them back down his throat, though it burns.

Bruce and Cho exchange a look.

And that’s when Tony speaks up from the corner of the room - seemingly having allowed himself to come back inside - voice resolved, hard. “Then we need to figure out what the hell they were trying to turn her into.”

No. Please, god, no. Not her. Not you.

Bucky is unaware of his movements, of the way he is clutching you tighter, the way his body trembles, the sting in his throat from how ragged his breathing has been for the last couple of however long he’s been here already.

He can’t keep you from this. Can’t protect you from something that has already taken root inside you.

Just like it did in him.

His vision is a hot fog. The room nothing but a smear of sterile white light and moving shadows, the voices of Banner and Cho turning into indecipherable noise as they scramble for answers.

Tony is heading to his lap to probably run every scan known to a man on that goddamn gas. Steve is speaking too. Where did he come from? Since when is he here again? But Bucky doesn’t care. He doesn’t listen.

Because you are still motionless in his arms.

They are talking about activation sequences. Standby modes. Neurological programming. They’re using all these terms, these medical, scientific explanations - but none of them are saying what it really means.

Hydra did something to you.

Hydra put something in you.

And if there’s one thing Bucky knows, one thing that has been burned into his very being, it’s that Hydra does not give. It does not take halfway. It does not leave things unfinished.

They only ever take everything.

And only with a little bit of smoke in the air, you have been exposed to for mere minutes.

A rough, strangled sound makes its way up his throat, and it takes him a second to realize it’s even coming from him. A horrible, cracking noise of grief and rage and devastation. His fingers dig into the warmth of you, your neck, your back, your thigh, needing to feel you, needing to have you here with him even though his mind is screaming at him that all the parts of you he had are gone already.

But he won’t accept that.

Shaking fingers card through your hair, pushing damp strands away from your face, his metal hand cradling your cheek.

His voice is an aching whisper. “You’re stronger than me, you know that?” His breath shudders over the words, his quivering lips brushing against your forehead, lingering there. “You always have been.”

His thumb gently strokes over the hollow beneath your closed eye, his jaw clenching hard as he takes in the deep stillness of your body. His chest tries to draw in air but is constricted.

He can’t see you like this. You are never this still. Never motionless. You live in the moment - in bright, uncontainable energy.

“You’ll get through this.” Each word drags thickly from his throat. It hurts so much. Everything hurts so much. “I know you will. You always do. You always pull me with you, too.” His laugh is soft and hollow, broken like the man he is in process of becoming again. “Even when I didn’t want saving, you just-”

He swallows hard, squeezes his eyes together, and takes a deep breath filled with your scents. But it mingles with the sterile smell of that moisture and clinic. A tear slips past his lashes. Another follows.

“You never let go.”

His head bows, his forehead against your temple, a shallow gasp slips from his lips.

“And I won’t either.”

His flesh thumb presses lightly to your neck, enough to feel your pulse. He hears the beep of the monitor but he needs to feel it.

“I’m right here, baby,” he breathes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He presses his lips to your temple, to your cheekbones, to your forehead, your nose, everywhere he likes. Everywhere he has to. He lets himself feel the warmth of you, the thumps of your heartbeat against his fingers.

Another tear slips past when he presses another strained whisper to your skin.

“I’d go anywhere with you. I’d follow you to the end of the world. But you gotta wake up, baby.”

“Bucky,” Steve’s voice finally meets his ears, but it sounds too damn soft. As if he is talking to a wounded and aching creature.

As if he expects Bucky to break. He might. He will.

Bucky snaps his head up, and the look on his face must be something terrible because Steve actually takes a step back.

“You think I don’t know what this means?” Bucky growls, his voice a debris of sound. His hands shake so hard against you, he can’t even hold you as tight as he wants to anymore. And for the first time in his life, he hates the warmth of his flesh. Hates that the metal doesn’t run through both arms, because maybe then he wouldn’t have to feel this overpowering helplessness.

Maybe then he wouldn’t feel human enough to understand what it means to lose.

Maybe then he could just return to be the machine he was supposed to be all along.

He already feels himself going back to him.

“She’s not like me,” he snarls, voice catching on the words, breaking them apart. “She’s not going to be like me.”

No one answers him.

No one says no, of course not, she’s going to be fine, we’ll fix this, we’ll wake her up and this will just be another nightmare we all wake up from.

Because no one knows if that’s true.

Bruce’s fingers move over his tablet. “Whatever Hydra did… it’s not finished yet. We need to be prepared.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bucky’s voice is lethal, pure steel dipping into panic.

“It means,” Bruce hesitates, glancing at Steve for help but the blonde doesn’t seem to know better, so he continues. “We don’t know in what state she is in. This could have done anything to her-”

A low, animalistic sound rumbles from Bucky’s chest. “Then we stop it.”

Bruce looks at him, eyes trying to soften, but he seems too remorseful. “We don’t even know what it is yet.”

“We stop it,” Bucky repeats, harsher this time. Because the alternative is something he can’t think of.

He sways, a choking sense of deja vu inching up his spine. He knows this feeling. He’s lived this feeling. That moment, the harsh, dizzying drop into nothingness, when you realize you don’t know yourself anymore. That you never really did.

And now, Hydra is doing that to you.

Cho stiffens suddenly, eyes rapidly moving across the screen in front of her. “Wait - something’s changing-”

Every muscle in Bucky’s body locks as his gaze snaps to you, his breath stalling.

Your fingers. The barest twitch. A tiny, nearly imperceptible movement against his chest.

But it’s there.

Bucky sucks in a breath so sharp it burns. “She’s-”

Before he can finish, your entire body spasms intensely.

Alarms shriek. Machines stutter to life. A sharp, erratic beeping floods the room.

Your scream tears through the space. Guttural and fervent and wrong.

Bucky’s blood freezes mid-flow, turning to shards of ice beneath his skin.

Because you are screaming like you are dying.

And suddenly, everyone is rushing around. Bruce and Cho are lunging forward, Steve is cursing under his breath.

Bucky can’t move.

Frost crackles through his veins, leaving only numbness behind.

You continue screaming. It sounds like it’s affecting your vocal cords.

There is winter inside of Bucky.

His arms tighten around you, his body moving on pure instinct, pressing you to him.

“It’s okay, baby,” he gasps out, not even sure if you can hear him, but he can’t help it. He cups your face between his hands, hoping to still the way you thrash around and bump your head against the metal beneath you. “I’m here. It’s me, baby. It’s Bucky. I’m here. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

But your screams don’t stop.

Your hands claw weakly at your own chest, at your throat, as if trying to get something out, as if your own skin is suffocating you. Your nails leave scratch marks on your collarbone.

And Bucky loses it.

“Do something!” he yells, his head whipping around to Bruce and Cho, his voice shredded with desperation. “Help her!”

Bruce quickly injects something into your IV, Cho adjusts the monitors as they beep wildly.

But Bucky doesn’t see any of it.

He only sees you.

His world narrows down to your face, to the way your lips part on a strained gasp, the way your body shakes in his grip, the way your screams turn to whimpers and then stop altogether.

Then, your eyes snap open.

Bucky stops breathing. Stops moving. Only stares agape.

Your gaze is on him, wide and glassy and soaked in terror.

But you look at him in a way you never looked at him ever before.

You look at him like you are not yourself anymore.

You look at him like you don’t know him.

You look at him like you don’t recognize him at all.

“Without you, the world means nothing to me.”

- Emily Brontë

Part three

[elsvenus]

𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐁𝐁𝐅!𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐋𝐄

𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐦𝐬 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ✷ small character study on my take of brother’s best friend ellie williams, half loser, half cocky, wholly a stoner and sorta in love with you ✷ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.4k

she lingers now, you notice effortlessly. every time your eyes fail their decades-long training—setting boundaries, gaze averting, mind wandering—there she is. a sliver of circle shaped sun-drenched forest green, shrinking with each glance from pupils dilated, an ever-expanding benevolent black hole of quiet mystery that beckons you for a swim inside.

ellie williams sits with one hand on your brother’s video game console, the other curled into a fist, tight, as if holding something delicate, as if keeping something from spilling. your name, maybe. or worse—your wanting. if she opened her palm, would it be there, trembling in the lines of her skin, the shape of your yearning pressed deep into her flesh? you wonder if she feels it the way you do, the way it hums low beneath your ribs, restless, aching. but she does not look at you. not directly. she’s just seemingly in eternal waiting for your eyes to find her shape, in order for her to capture yours hostage. caught you, the spring of evergreen irises would say.

she rolls you flowers and tea herbs when they have weed, so you only feel half-excluded, but somehow wholly special. as if you belong, but in a way that is softer, carved out just for you. she laughs when you choke on the smoke—an almost giggle, something bright and fleeting, something she might have swallowed if she’d thought twice. but she doesn’t. she lets you hear it. lets it bloom between you, light and golden, the kind of sound that lingers in the air long after it’s gone.

and when your brother isn’t looking—when he’s too deep in the kind of high that turns people into statues, his eyes fixed on something distant, unreadable—she presses her knuckles against your back, slow, deliberate. a touch meant to ground, to soothe, but all it does is send you drifting. the warmth of her lingers longer than it should, more than it has to, drowning out the edges of your thoughts until there is nothing left but the feeling of her there. you get drugged out too, those days. on her.

your brother’s back in his room now, drinking gallons of water like he’s convinced he’ll dry out without it, half-believing he’s a fish from a bad batch he thankfully didn’t share. ellie laughs, loud and sudden, the kind of laughter that takes up space, that fills the whole room. it’s bolder than before, more her than what she she does with only you, raw and raspy, something unpolished, something that might cut if you got too close. and you are too close, aren’t you? because you’re looking again.

she’s half-smiling, and in the moonlight, it catches like a smirk, sharp in the right places, softened by the dark. she tilts her head, eyes gleaming. caught you.

“you wanna try something real this time?” she asks, the blunt extended between you.

you only ever knew how to nod towards her.

she watches as you take it, settling back on her palms like she’s waiting for a show. something in the way she grins makes your hands unsteady, but you bring it to your lips anyway. inhale. hold. the burn is immediate, a slow creep of warmth unfurling from your chest outward. ellie huffs out a laugh through her nose. “oh, you’re about to cough so hard, dude.”

you shake your head, stubborn, the smoke curling behind your teeth. she raises her brows, waiting. and then it hits. it claws up your throat, rips out of you in a fit of coughing so violent your eyes water. ellie all but folds in half, laughing. “holy shit, i called it,” she wheezes, knocking her fist against your shoulder. “should’ve put money on that.”

you try to glare at her, but it’s hard to do when you’re still catching your breath. “shut up.”

“nah, this is great,” she says, still laughing, voice all scratchy delight. “your face right now—jesus.” she mimics your expression, eyes wide, mouth parted in dramatic horror, and you groan, shoving at her arm. she lets you. doesn’t move away. you don’t know if it’s the weed or the way the air between you has always felt charged, but when you look at her again, she’s already looking back. head tilted. amused. eyes heavy-lidded in the dark.

“not bad, huh?” she murmurs.

the weed or her? you don’t ask. just shake your head. just take another hit, a safer smaller one this time, like you should take everything ellie gives you in homeopathic doses. from the pressure of her watching you take another hit, you do it better—slow, steady, the way she does. her smirk twitches like she wants to make another joke, but it dissolves against her tongue like sugar. instead ellie just watches, just leans in, just tilts her head like she’s examining something she hasn’t quite figured out yet and it burns stronger than your throat.

“look at you,” she says, soft, teasing. “all grown up.”

you exhale slow, the smoke slipping from your lips in a lazy curl, and it’s impossible to ignore the way her gaze catches on your mouth.

“shut up,” it seems to be all you know how to say when you’re with her, but it doesn’t land the way it should, ever. though especially not when her face is this close, when the warmth of her laughter still hangs in the air between you, something heady, something thick. honeysuckle.

ellie hums, tilting her chin, considering. “nah, i don’t think i will.” and then she’s reaching out. fingers grazing your wrist, tracing up, up, until they hook gentle around the blunt between your fingers. she doesn’t take it right away. just lets her touch linger, a question she doesn’t ask out loud.

you swallow. “you gonna take it or just hold my hand?”

her smirk sharpens, but there’s a flicker of something else beneath it. something that makes your breath hitch.

“dunno,” she murmurs. “you want me to hold your hand?”

you scoff, roll your eyes, but your pulse betrays you, hammering loud in your ears. she’s still close. too close. her fingers brush yours as she finally takes the blunt, as she brings it to her lips, and you should look away, you really should, but you don’t. can’t. she exhales, slow, and the smoke drifts between you, warm and hazy.

“open your mouth,” she says, quiet.

your stomach flips. “what?”

she huffs a laugh, amused, but there’s something different in her eyes now, something intent. “just—trust me.”

you do. you always have.

so you part your lips, and ellie leans in, even closer, until you can see the tiny scar on her eyebrow, the way her pupils are blown wide. she tilts her head just so and exhales, slow and warm, right into your waiting mouth. your eyes flutter shut. her hand—god, when did she touch your face?—is warm against your jaw, fingers pressing just lightly enough to keep you still, to keep you here, breathing her in.

the smoke fades, but she doesn’t pull away. neither do you. there’s no space left between you now, just the heat of her palm, the ghost of her breath against your lips. your pulse stutters, waiting, waiting. and then she moves, just barely, just enough and her lips are on yours.

her lips are chapped against the soft press of yours, rough in a way that makes you shiver. her tongue is wet against your own lips, slipping past them like a question she already knows the answer to. her hands are on your cheekbones, fingertips digging in, dragging at your skin like she’s trying to make sure you’re real—like she’s kneading you into something pliant, something hers. like you’re bread dough under her touch, like she’s shaping you to fit into her.

and oh, you do. you do, you do, you do.

you don’t know who moves first after that, only that suddenly it’s all heat, all urgency, her hands slipping to your jaw, your neck, the collar of your shirt like she doesn’t know where to hold you best, like she wants all of you at once. you tilt into her, part your lips wider, let her take what she wants because god, you want it too. want her breath in your mouth, her hands on your skin, the taste of her in your lungs. she exhales into you, a quiet, shaky thing, and you swear you feel it everywhere. in your chest, in your fingertips, in the space between your ribs where something tight and aching has been sitting for too long. her nose nudges yours when she finally pulls back, just enough to look at you, her pupils blown wide, lips pinker than before, shining in the dim light. her breath fans warm over your skin.

and then she grins. lazy, dazed. cocky.

“yeah,” she murmurs, thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “definitely better than weed.”

[multific]

Through Smoke and Shadows

Thomas Shelby x Reader

Summary: Thomas Shelby’s nights are haunted by ghosts of the war, his past clawing at his throat like smoke from a battlefield. You are the only one who can soothe him.

The first time you hear him scream, it’s a sound that shatters the night.

Your eyes snap open in the darkness of the bedroom, heart hammering as you turn toward him. 

Thomas is tangled in the sheets, sweat beading at his brow despite the chill in the air. His face is twisted, teeth bared in a silent war with the demons that have followed him home from France.

“Tommy,” you whisper, touching his arm. He flinches violently, eyes snapping open, wide and unfocused. 

For a moment, he’s not here. He’s in the trenches. He’s surrounded by mud and blood, the stench of death thick in the air. 

And then, his gaze lands on you.

His breath becomes irregular like he’s just surfaced from drowning. 

You reach out again, softer this time, letting your fingers brush his cheek.

“It’s me,” you murmur. “You’re home.”

Thomas exhales sharply, his body collapsing into itself. He runs a trembling hand down his face, rubbing at his eyes as though trying to scrub away the images that linger. 

You don’t ask what he saw. He never tells you anyway. 

Instead, you pull him into your arms, feeling his heartbeat racing beneath his ribs. His body is tense, always bracing for another attack, another fight.

He doesn’t cry. He never cries. But in the quiet of the night, wrapped in your arms, you feel the weight of his silence like a stone pressed against your chest.

The nightmares never stop.

They come like clockwork, leaving him breathless and shaking. 

And when the morning sun rises, Thomas drowns it all in whiskey.

“You’re drinking earlier now,” you remark one morning, watching him pour a glass before he’s even touched his breakfast.

He doesn’t look at you. “It helps.”

“With what?”

His jaw tenses, his fingers tightening around the glass. “With everything.”

You cross the room, placing a gentle hand over his. “You don’t have to do this alone, Tommy.”

He pulls away as if your touch burns him. “I already do.”

The words sting, but you refuse to let them cut too deep. 

You know him. You know his sharp edges and the way he keeps everyone at arm’s length, even those he loves. 

Especially those he loves.

“You think I don’t see it?” you ask, voice steady. “The way you wake up gasping for air, the way you bury yourself in work so you don’t have to think? The way you drink yourself numb so you don’t feel anything at all?”

Thomas exhales slowly, staring down into the amber liquid in his glass. “And what would you have me do, eh?” he says, voice quiet, almost broken. “Tell you every bloody thing I saw? Every man I buried? Every scream I still hear when I close my eyes?”

“No,” you whisper. “I just want you to let me in.”

His shoulders slump, the weight of his ghosts pressing down on him. For a long moment, he says nothing. Then, in a movement so small you almost miss it, he reaches out. His fingers brush against yours, hesitant, uncertain. 

A silent offering. 

A plea for something he doesn’t know how to ask for.

You take his hand.

It doesn’t happen overnight.

Thomas is not a man who heals easily. He still drinks too much, still buries himself in business and cigarettes, and still wakes up in the dead of night with shadows clawing at his throat. 

But slowly, something shifts.

One night, when the nightmares come, he doesn’t pull away. He lets you hold him, lets your fingers thread through his hair, grounding him.

One morning, he reaches for coffee instead of whiskey.

One evening, as the fire crackles in the home, he takes your hand in his and holds it without saying a word.

And one day, when the ghosts come whispering, he turns to you instead of the bottle.

It’s not a perfect love. 

It’s messy, tangled with pain and fear and too many unspoken words. But it’s real. 

And for the first time in a long time, Thomas Shelby lets himself believe that maybe, just maybe, the war inside him doesn’t have to be fought alone.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[zaynessbeloved]

It started when you made the mistake of asking what was in the third drawer of his studio desk.

“I assumed it was paints or something,” you’d muttered, half-joking.

“Oh?” Rafayel had tilted his head, smile too calm. “You’ve never opened it?”

You hesitated. And he grinned—slow, wicked, delighted. “Well, cutie... I suppose it’s time for your first gallery tour.”

He opened the drawer. It wasn’t paints. No, it was way worse. Velvet-lined compartments. Glass toys. Chrome. A few pastel silicone pieces shaped too intricately for you to identify at a glance. They weren’t thrown in like dirty secrets—they were displayed, curated, as if he had sculpted them himself. Some even looked like art. Sleek. Minimalist. Beautiful.

Your face heated instantly. And Rafayel? Oh, he noticed immediately, his eyes glued to your face in delight. He leaned in, eyes glowing brighter with every twitch of your expression. “Embarrassed already?” he cooed. “But you haven’t even seen the vibrating ones.”

You tried to turn away, but his hand came to your cheek, thumb brushing under your eye. “No hiding, cutie. Yeah? You’re my muse. I need to see everything.”

Twenty minutes later, you were in his studio, barely able to sit upright in the chair he used for oil sketches, thighs trembling, body flushed. One of the toys was inside you now. It was remote controlled, quiet but lethal.

Rafayel circled you like a wolf.

“You’re being so good,” he whispered, adjusting the setting. “But this one’s barely a three. I wonder what five feels like for you...or six...or—”

“Rafayel—” you gasped, nearly choking as the vibration intensified deep inside you.

And he moaned at your voice like it was music.

“Well, fuck,” he breathed, squatting in front of you. “You should see your face, cutie. I’ve painted less expressive portraits.”

You whined and covered your face with both hands. He laughed, leaning in to pry your hands away. “Don’t hide from me,” he whispered. “I need to see it. Every twitch, every flinch, every little shudder when you try not to come.”

He turned the dial up again, just a nudge and your whole body jerked.

“Rafayel!” you cried.

“Yes?” he purred, absolutely glowing. “Tell me what it feels like. For reference. For research.”

You whimpered, legs trembling, completely overwhelmed. And still he didn’t touch you. He just sat back on his heels and watched. Eyes locked to your ruined form. Lips parted. Chest rising like he was trying to memorize your breath.

Because to Rafayel, this wasn’t just play. It was art, watching you fall apart.

You didn’t think it could get worse. You were already trembling, thighs shaking from the relentless pulse of the toy inside you. The remote—small, sleek—rested in Rafayel’s palm like it belonged there, his thumb lazily brushing the dial up and down. Never long enough to let you come. Never soft enough to let you rest.

And then he stood, wandered to the velvet drawer again, and hummed. As if he were choosing a new brush. As if your body were just another canvas. He turned back with a second toy in hand, one you didn’t recognize. Pale rose gold, delicate. Your eyes widened.

“Do you trust me, cutie?” he asked, voice soft. Too soft.

You nodded, already breathless. He smiled and moved fast, the toy pinched gently over your nipple, cold at first, then warm. Then—click. A slow, subtle pulse. Not painful. Not harsh. Just constant. Just enough to drive you insane.

Rafayel’s eyes practically lit up at your expression.

“Oh... look at you,” he whispered, stepping back to admire the effect. “I haven’t even touched you and you’re already falling apart.”

You whimpered, fingers clawing at the arms of the chair, hips shifting in place as both toys worked you from inside and out. The dual sensations blurred, burning through you.

“I wonder,” he murmured, circling behind you, voice low near your ear, “if I could make you come without a single hand on your body.”

He twisted the dial again, both of them. You screamed. Your legs shook violently, eyes glassy, chest heaving under the pulsing stimulation at your breast. You couldn't even beg. Couldn’t think. Could only feel.

And Rafayel? He didn’t even flinch or speak. He just watched you so intently, a hand pressed lightly to his own chest, lips parted like he was high on your pleasure alone.

He didn't need to touch himself. He was already aching, cock hard beneath his pants, but it didn’t matter. The sight of you—trembling, flushed, moaning his name like it was salvation—was more intoxicating than anything else could be.

His eyes were wide, almost reverent.

“You’re divine like this,” he whispered, crouching beside you, nose brushing your cheek. “Do you even know what you look like, cutie? I should paint this. Frame it. Worship it.”

You came again with no warning. And he gasped like it hit him, too. Hands still behind his back, remote untouched. Just his eyes on you. And that damn smile on his face as leaned in and kissed your jaw gently.

It had been days. Days since the last time he reduced you to tears with nothing but vibrations and words. You thought maybe it had satisfied him. Maybe he’d had his fill. Maybe that wild, possessive edge in his eyes had dimmed just enough.

You were wrong.

Because tonight, he sat you down in the center of his studio again—same chair, same dim lighting—only this time, he was prepared. Very prepared. Two toys. One thrusting deep inside you with slow, devastating rhythm, thick and unrelenting. The second pressed to your clit—smaller, crueler, pulsing in syncopated bursts that made your whole body twitch.

Rafayel was sitting across from you in that same velvet chair, flushed, legs spread, eyes glassy. His shirt was still buttoned but wrinkled now, sleeves pushed up, chest rising and falling like he was the one overstimulated.

“Cutie,” he whispered, biting his lip, hand gripping the remote tight, “you should see what you look like like this.”

He shifted the thrusting toy’s rhythm—faster, shallower, and your head snapped back against the chair, mouth open in a wordless cry.

He moaned at the sight. “Fuck…do that again. Let me see your throat. Yes... yes.”

And then just as your orgasm built, just as you were seconds from tipping over—Click. He shut them both off.

You screamed in frustration, hips bucking, chasing friction. And Rafayel just laughed—soft, breathless. “You should see your face, sweet girl. Oh, you’re so fucking beautiful when you beg.”

You panted. Whimpered, really. Your thighs were shaking violently, already soaked, pussy fluttering around the unmoving toy buried inside you.

“Please,” you breathed.

“Oh, I know,” he whispered, crawling toward you on his knees, not to touch, but to watch closer. To see every tremble as he flicked the remote back on. First the clit toy. Then the one inside you. Then both. Then none.

Over and over. Cruel and perfect and orchestrated.

You came the first time without warning—body slamming forward, hands grabbing the arms of the chair as the pleasure tore through you like lightning. Rafayel shuddered, jaw slack, like your orgasm had touched him. But he didn’t stop. The second wave hit harder. The third left you sobbing, eyes unfocused, legs flinching uncontrollably.

“Rafayel—” you gasped, tears streaking your cheeks. “I can’t—I can’t—”

He leaned in, kissed your trembling thigh, lips soft and reverent. “Yes, you can. You were made to come for me.”

Another switch. Another build. Another climax, ripped from your raw, shaking body as he sat back and watched, his own breath ragged now, mouth parted, flushed from head to toe, voice low and addicted.

“You’re perfect. My perfect little masterpiece. I could do this all night.”

He meant it. Not once had he touched himself, but he was undone. Just from you. Just from this. And when you collapsed forward, boneless and soaked and still twitching, Rafayel crawled to you, finally laying his hand on your cheek.

“Still breathing?” he murmured, voice hoarse.

You nodded weakly. He smiled, that soft, dangerous glow back in his eyes. “Then we’re not finished.”

You should’ve known when he brought out the tripod. He didn’t even say anything, just set it up with the same slow, careful reverence he gave to his canvases. He adjusted the angle, tilted the lens and hit record. Then he turned to you. You were still naked, still trembling from the last wave of overstimulation. Skin flushed. Eyes glassy.

“You’re not nervous,” he said softly, as if stating a fact.

You shook your head, breath catching. “No.”

His smile was feral. “Good girl.”

He walked to you slowly—barefoot, shirt undone, hair slightly wild—and lowered himself to his knees again. Took up the remote, the toys already humming between your thighs. But this time? He looked at the camera as he pushed the first setting higher. Like he wanted it to see.

“You’re going to come for me again,” he said, gaze flicking between your wrecked face and the red blinking light. “And I want you to look at the lens when you do.”

Your stomach flipped. But you obeyed. Because you were too far gone now. Too used to this rhythm—his commands, his precision, his addiction to every detail of your ruin.

The toy thrust into you harder this time, slick and merciless. The vibrator pressed to your clit pulsed in uneven patterns—his favorite setting. One that made you anticipate and fear every jolt.

He didn't touch you. But his voice was everywhere.

"Look at it, cutie," he murmured, tilting your chin up so your teary, desperate gaze met the lens. "Let it capture every second of what I do to you."

You moaned, the sound breaking apart as your thighs shook, body convulsing around the toy inside you. The orgasm was fast—too fast—and he groaned aloud when it hit you, watching your eyes roll back on film, your body jerking in helpless surrender.

And still he didn’t stop. He switched the settings, flicked between pulses. Alternating pressure. Different angles. And every time you sobbed or moaned or whimpered his name, he watched it happen all over again, reflected in the camera’s cold, perfect eye.

He was sweating by the time your fifth orgasm tore through you, chest heaving, one hand gripping the edge of the chair so tightly his knuckles went white. Still untouched. Still painfully hard. And still, so obsessed with watching you break in real-time.

“I’m going to watch this again,” he whispered darkly, reaching out to brush your soaked, overstimulated core with the back of his hand. “Over and over, until I know every second by heart.”

You sobbed and came again. And only then—when your body slumped against the chair, totally spent—did he finally shut the toys off and click the recording to a stop.

Later, he carried you to the bath in silence. You were weightless in his arms, floating. Boneless. Wrecked. He settled you into the warm water, one arm behind your back, the other cradling your thighs as he poured lavender-scented oils over your skin.

His touch was reverent now. Gentle. Loving. He washed you slowly, carefully, eyes still full of that same awe, that same holy fixation.

"You did so well," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "You gave me everything, looked so perfect."

You leaned against him, too weak to speak, but he didn’t need words. His hand cupped your cheek again, tilting your head back just enough to press his lips to your temple.

“I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you,” he whispered, and for once—his voice trembled.

[blitzyn]

pervert

miguel o'hara x spiderman!reader

request : none

Synopsis: A game of cat and mouse goes to shit, and you find yourself bound in Miguel's webs.

a/n -> literally nobody asked for this but he's been stuck in my mind for decades and i wanted to get something out for my bbg <3 also super sorry i disappeared again, writers block straight up bitch slapped me and left me in a ditch, plus ive been losing interest in writing for genshin or just the game in general, unfortunately.

wc -> 3.3k

cw -> very dubcon, mean dom miguel, degradation, bondage?, face fucking, google translated spanish, spit as lube, anal fingering, anal sex, slight and brief choking, (semi) public sex??, not beta read

Exhilaration filled your veins as breathy laughs escaped your throat, weaving through buildings and rubble with the precision of someone who has experienced this type of chase countless times before.

And that's because you have. You've been in a near never-ending game of cat and mouse with the esteemed Miguel O'Hara, always close enough to feel the swipe of his talons in the air but too far to catch. No matter how many times he's cornered you, you always find a way to get past him; it was predictable at this point.

That pissed Miguel off like no other, hellbent on capturing you to put an end to your snide remarks, to put you in your place. While that usually would've enticed you in any other circumstance, you weren't too keen on letting him dig his claws into you now that you were chest-deep in this predicament — and his wrath.

"Stop running, already!" he shouted, the sharp edges of fury evident in his voice.

"I'm not running!" you respond, peering back at him with a smug grin. True to your words, you, quite literally, were not running. You were swinging with the agility of a seasoned acrobat, twisting and flipping through debris while looking like you were having fun. You offered him occasional glances and nearly laughed each time. Seeing him, a grown-ass man, almost constantly on all fours was amusing, but hearing him curse and grunt and growl made electricity shoot down your spine in a way that nearly got you caught several times.

Adrenaline filled your body and threatened to burst through your chest each time you evaded him. "Missed me!" you laughed, juking away from his swipe.

"So close!" you flip over him with a taunt. "Try again next time!"

"¡Voy a matarte!¹" He growls, and it was hard to ignore the shudder that rushed through your body. You slightly winced at the feeling. If you don't get your shit together when he spoke Spanish, then you were asking to get caught.

But it's not like you'd mind — Actually, yes, you fucking would!

You click your teeth in annoyance. Despite how hard you tried, you couldn't remove Miguel from your thoughts even though he was right behind you, hunting you down like a wild animal. Your mind strayed toward his broad shoulders, beautifully tiny waist, fat ass (that you'd give a lot to slap), and the massive piece of rubble being hurled at your body.

You blink out of your stupor, feeling your senses going off rather violently. Oh shit.

Everything seemed to move painfully slow as you stared at the debris with wide eyes, noticing Miguel's red web attached to it as he brought it down. You flung your arm out in an attempt to attach your webs to something and swing away, but was unable to pull yourself fast enough as the debris pinned you down to the roof of a building.

"Fuck!" you thought as you grunted and squeezed your eyes shut, agony tearing through your entire body. Swiftly, you pushed against the ground to shove the heavy object off of you, groaning with effort. Just as you managed to stand back up, you heard the familiar thwip! of his web wrapping around your waist and arms to yank you to him.

"Caught you," he said, voice rough and breathless as he panted hard. He loomed over you menacingly, hands curled into a fist.

You struggled, kicking and straining against your binds. "Come on, Miguel." You offer a tense grin. "We both know this won't last very long."

"Ay dios míos,²" he growled, dropping to a knee to roughly press a hand on your face, his fingers digging into your cheekbones. "¡Cállate!³"

...

Woah.

You stared at him with wide eyes, feeling your cock stir in your pants. Oh fuck.

It was hard to ignore your ever growing attraction (and hard-on) for him that seemed to intensify when he deactivated the hologram of his mask. Sweat beaded at his temple while his eyes narrowed at your bound figure, fangs peeking out from behind his lips as he caught his breath.

Even when you were the target of his anger, he was still breathtakingly hot.

You opened your mouth again to shout at him — probably to let you go or something along those lines — but Miguel wasn't having it.

"Why is it so much to ask for you to keep your fucking mouth shut for once?" he hissed, squeezing your cheeks tight enough to ache, but it only went straight to your dick. "Is that all you can do? Run your mouth until someone gets sick of your shit and shuts it for you? Huh?"

You whimpered, meekly shaking your head in denial. Tightly closing your eyes, you swallowed hard and squirmed, secretly trying to will away your hard cock straining against your clothes.

"You're so annoying! Stop moving," he demanded, reflexively looking down to adjust his position over you. His eyes raked over your body for a moment before zeroing in on your erection, pausing in surprise.

.

..

...

"Oh, you pervert."

Your eyelids snapped open at his words, mortification seeping deep in your chest as you shifted your head away from him in shame. Despite everything, you could only feel yourself getting harder under his intense gaze.

"Is that why you made me chase after you?" He forced you to look at him again, your face aching at his manhandling. "Because you wanted to fulfill some dirty fantasy of yours?"

He let out a dry laugh. "You couldn't find anyone willing to satisfy that depraved urge, so you turned to me. Just how desperate are you?"

You shook your head again, letting out muffled words. He mercifully removed his hand from your mouth to allow you to speak, sliding lower to rest on your throat. "I was just playing..."

"Yeah?" He tilted his head mockingly, momentarily adjusting himself to grope your painfully stiff dick. "And this was your master plan? To get off at the face of danger? You're more of a degenerate than I thought."

"N-No, I didn't—" you moaned, reflexively bucking your hips up into his hand.

"Stop lying." He squeezed the hand around your throat just enough to force labored gasps from you. "It's stupid how you don't think I've seen the way you look at me — how you think I haven't noticed you eyefucking me."

A furious blush rises on your cheeks as your cock twitches in his hold. It doesn't go unnoticed.

He laughed again, staring at you in mock disbelief. "You're enjoying this."

And this time, you don't deny it.

"Can't say I expected anything higher from you." He rolled his eyes in exasperation and removed his hands from your throat and dick to place them on your thighs. Effortlessly, he pried them apart to slot himself in between your legs, pressing his crotch flush against your ass.

Groaning, you lifted your hips a bit in an attempt to grind on him. With a growl, he swiftly slapped a hand on your abdomen to push you back on the ground.

"Don't move," he said, glaring at you with a mix of arousal and irritation in his eyes. "I've had enough of you getting your way." He leaned forward, a wince crossing your face when he pressed some of his weight onto your stomach. "It's my turn."

"My way—?" You cut yourself off with a huff when he gave you a stern look.

A thought seemed to pique his interest when he suddenly decided to kneel beside your head. It was nigh impossible to tear your eyes away from his crotch, the area beginning to glitch with a dim, pale blue glow at the strain from his hardening cock.

"Let's put your mouth to better use." He grabbed a fistful of your hair and deactivated the hologram covering his dick. It landed on your face with a quiet slap before his hand guided it to your lips.

You hesitantly parted them, only for them to be forced open wider to make room for his cock. You let out a surprised sound at the entry, but he was entirely focused on making you take him completely.

He was gracious enough to take it slow, relishing in the sounds of your gags and sputters and every deep inhale.

"Thaaat's it," he drawled out, sighing heavily when he felt your tongue rub against the underside of the shaft. "Fuck..."

Your eyelashes fluttered as he buried your nose into his pubic hair, uncontrollably drooling over him while you sucked and licked what you could. You felt him harden in your mouth, forcing himself deeper into your throat while it tightened and spasmed.

He increased the speed of his thrusts, absentmindedly shuffling closer to your face. A shiver ran down your spine when he slithered a hand on the junction between the back of your head and neck to hold you firmly.

A garbled whine left your throat as you subconsciously jerked your hips upwards, searching for some form of relief for your aching cock. You strained against the webs around your torso and arms, utterly intoxicated with his taste, his scent, his sounds—with him.

With a groan, he shoved himself as far as he could inside your throat and held you in place, ignoring how you instinctively struggled against him. A high-pitched ring sounded through your ears as your head spun, chest tightening with the need for oxygen.

Shuddering, he finally pulled out of you, watching with satisfaction as you coughed and gasped for air. A mix of saliva and precum connected your lips and the tip of his cock, to which you quickly licked away. You let him inspect you with a hand still buried in your hair, gaze locked in on your drool slicked chin and swollen lips.

A quiet hmph left him before he turned to place himself back in-between your thighs again, this time extending his talons to tear a path in your clothes from your ass to your crotch.

"H-Hey! Hold on—" you protested and kicked his arm away from you.

"Shut up," he cut you off, swatting your foot away while grasping your painfully hard cock again. "Don't act like you don't want this."

"G-God..." you moaned, furrowing your brows as you stared at him. A squeak left your throat when he suddenly pressed your legs to your chest, a quiet ptuh! escaping his lips alongside a glob of saliva that landed on your asshole.

Retracting his talons, he let go of one of your legs to press two fingers against your hole, shoving them inside you abruptly. You winced at the sting his thick fingers made as it mixed in with the arousal that burned in your gut. He separated them in a scissoring motion, moving in and out at a pace that had you yearning for more. His fingertips brushed against spots so frustratingly close to your prostate, you were sure he was purposefully avoiding it to mess with you.

"H-Hurry up," you demanded, the ache in your balls beginning to prove to be something you could hardly handle.

He gave you a sharp look. "Tell me to hurry up again and I'm leaving you like this."

You stared at each other for a moment longer before you looked away in defeat, muttering under your breath. He ignored you and added another finger, the wet squelching blending in with your soft moans. His hard cock pressed on your thigh, and you briefly wondered how he wasn't fucking you within an inch of your life already.

Quickly enough, you were able to realize that he wanted to make you wait. He wanted to give you a hard time — just like you did to him.

"C-C'mon, Miguel." You breathlessly chuckled, straining against the webs around your torso.

"What?" He raised a brow, satisfaction seeping into his expression at your growing desperation.

You opened your mouth again when he unexpectedly jabbed his fingertips onto your prostate, sending a violent surge of electricity through your body. "Fuck!" You cried out as a spurt of precum leaked out of your dick and enlarged the wet spot on your clothes. He continued targeting the gland, refusing to let you get a word in your sentence. The coil in your abdomen tightened into an almost unbearable degree before he abruptly removed his hand from you entirely.

"God, just fuck me already!" You jerked your hips upwards in a futile search for stimulation.

"You sound just like a whore," he commented, tone full of condescension. A heat washed over your body at his words as you stared at him with wide eyes. You tensed when he leaned down, lust and mirth swirling within his red irises. "Is that all you are?"

"What?" You found yourself unable to look away from him. "N-No, I—"

He shoved his cock inside you mid-sentence, tearing a loud moan from your throat. He held your thighs to fold you in half, using his body weight to pin you down. You panted hard as you tilted your head to the side and squeezed your eyes shut. It was hard to focus on anything else but his dick filling you up so perfectly.

Miguel released a gutteral groan, grinding his hips against you. He dug his fingertips into your legs hard enough to bruise, but that was the least of his worries — not when he had you below him. After a moment that felt like an eternity, he leaned back (mercifully removing some of the pressure on your chest) and watched himself move in and out of you, pulling out almost all the way before he slammed himself back inside.

"Ohh, fuck!"

"This is what gets you — mierda⁴ — all compliant, huh?" He taunted, abdomen flexing with every thrust. "The moment you get some dick inside you, you're like a trained mutt."

You opened your eyes to weakly glare at him, to deny what he said, but the moans spilling from your lips did nothing but prove him right.

"Te gusta cuando te trato como si no fueras nada, ¿no?⁵" He leaned back down, hooking his arms around the back of your knees as he pressed his chest against yours, curling his wrists around your thighs to grip the flesh. His breath was hot and heavy against the shell of your ear, lips so close you could feel the vibrations of his voice in your ear drum. "Aren't I right, you dirty little pervert?"

"N-No! S'not right!" You cried out, the burn of his cock stretching you out mixing in with the pleasure so deliciously it was almost addicting.

"Deja de mentirte y admítelo, puta,⁶" he hissed, widening his mouth to graze a fang along your neck threateningly, which sent a shiver down your spine. "Admit it — that you're a depraved whore."

"Admit it." He emphasized each syllable with a thrust, ramming into you hard enough to fuck the breath out of your lungs.

"Shit—fuck! Oh, god!" You sobbed, arching your back into him. You nearly came at the feeling of his abdomen rubbing your aching dick. "I'm a whore! M'your whore!"

His cock throbbed fervently at your words, rewarding you with groans and grunts directly into your ear. Your ass slightly stung at the force of his thrusts as he fucked his anger into you, but neither of you cared.

"Fuuuck!" You drawled out. "Miguel, m'so close! Let — ngh, ah — Let me cum!"

"Yeah?" He cooed in your ear, gently licking the shell. "You gonna cum f'me?"

"Yes, yes—!"

"Then beg."

He stopped moving so unexpectedly that it left you disoriented for a few moments as you stupidly stared at him with wide, watery eyes. "W-What...?"

"Beg to cum," he leaned away from you to get a clearer look at your face. "I'm not repeating myself."

You took a moment to catch your breath (and secretly savor the feeling of his dick twitching inside you). "God, please, Miguel! I need it so bad. I need to cum — please let me cum! I'll be good, I promise! Fuck, Miguel, please let me cum! Please, please, please!"

The sight of the tears along your lash lines sent electricity down his spine as his breath hitched. "You'll be good?" He dryly laughed. "I don't think I believe you."

You opened your mouth in defense when he suddenly slammed himself back inside you, tearing a moan instead of words from your throat. He fucked you hard and fast and deep, grunting in a way you could only describe as animalistic.

But you loved it. You loved how he controlled your body so effortlessly, how he treated you like a cheap fuck toy. You mentally deemed all those chases worth it in the end.

The heat from less than a minute or two prior returned full force as you tilted your head back in ecstasy. You babbled out incoherent words of (what Miguel suspected to be) praise, straining against your binds once again.

You screamed out when the coil in your abdomen finally snapped, electricity shooting down your spine as your cock spurt cum underneath your clothes. You weren't able to process the stain in the fabric when you realized that he hadn't slowed down, deciding to fuck you through your orgasm to chase his own.

You stared up at him, admiring the slight flush on his cheeks, how his brows furrowed in concentration, and even his eyes that shone with disdain towards you.

You could feel his dick throbbing inside you, and you quickly realized that he was about to cum as well. The ecstasy you were granted slowly began to merge with the pain of overstimulation, but it only made the hazy bliss you were in so much better.

"Yes, yes, Miguel!" You gasped out as your legs trembled in his hold. "Cum inside me, please, I want it!"

He grunted at your words, fucking you with a few more harsh thrusts before he suddenly pulled out. It took you a moment longer than normal for you to process the uncomfortable emptiness as he let go of one of your legs to quickly jerk himself off.

"What—No! Please, Miguel!" You pleaded uselessly, wincing when he tightened his grip on your thigh and unintentionally extended his talons. They penetrated through your clothes and pierced your skin, drawing a bit of blood, but that was neither of your concern at the moment.

"Ay, solo cállate ya,⁷" he growled, releasing your thigh to press his palm against your mouth to silence you. You let out pathetic whines and whimpers, but Miguel was focused on achieving his orgasm.

With a final few strokes, he finally came with a loud groan as his cum spurt onto the floor. He angled his hips to make sure none of it landed on you, much to your obvious dismay. With a heavy sigh, he leaned back and stared at your bound body, trembling and helpless. It was satisfying to see you in such a state.

He reactivated the hologram over his softening cock before binding your legs together in a way that hid the large hole in your pants to prevent anyone from figuring out what the two of you did.

He sighed heavily and slung you over his shoulder, standing up to look around and figure out where the fuck he was.

"You have a really nice ass," you commented after a moment, unable to keep your compliments to yourself.

He groaned. It was gonna be a long trip back to HQ.

Translations:

1: "I'm going to kill you!"

2: "Oh my god."

3: "Shut up!"

4: "Shit..."

5: "You like it when I treat you like you're nothing, don't you?"

6: "Stop lying to yourself and admit it."

7: "Oh, just shut up already."

cross-posted on ao3

[thedensworld]

TWO LINES | CSC

You had been feeling off for days—nauseous, dizzy, and completely drained. At first, you convinced yourself it was just your period coming late or maybe some mild food poisoning. But when the symptoms didn’t go away, when the exhaustion clung to your bones and the smell of Yena’s baby lotion made your stomach churn, a terrifying thought crept in and refused to leave.

Now, standing barefoot on the cold bathroom tiles, with Seungcheol by your side, your heart pounded like a drum in your chest. Both of you stared at the small pregnancy test resting ominously on the counter. The tiny screen was still blank, but the weight of the answer it held was already suffocating.

Seungcheol’s fingers twitched slightly at his sides. He was tense too—you could feel it in the silence between you—but he was trying to appear calm. For you. For both of you. He swallowed hard, his voice quieter than usual when he finally spoke.

"What if it turns positive?"

His words sliced through the heavy stillness like a blade. Your stomach twisted painfully, your skin prickled, and suddenly, breathing felt like a task you were failing at.

"No—no, it won’t," you blurted out, shaking your head almost violently. "It’s probably just stress. Or hormones. Or—or something else—anything else."

But before you could convince yourself further, the test beeped.

Your breath caught in your throat like a choke. Seungcheol’s grip found your hand instinctively and tightened. Neither of you moved. The room shrank around you, the silence louder than ever, as he slowly reached for the test. His fingers trembled slightly. He turned it over.

Two lines.

Your world tilted.

Your vision blurred as a wave of panic crashed over you, your knees nearly giving out. "Oh my god," you whispered, stumbling back, your hands flying to your head as if that could hold your unraveling thoughts together. "No, no, no—this can't be happening. We just had Yena! I’m barely sleeping, I—I’m still recovering—I can’t—"

"Hey, hey, breathe," Seungcheol said quickly, reaching for you, his arms wrapping around your shaking frame. His voice was shaking too, but his hold on you was firm and steady. "I know this is a lot. I know. But we’ll be okay. Just breathe for me, alright?"

You tried to inhale, but your lungs refused to cooperate. "Seungcheol, we’re not ready for this! We weren’t even planning—there’s no space, no time—I don’t even know if I’m mentally ready to do this again."

"I know," he murmured, his voice close, his forehead pressing gently against yours. He cradled your face in both hands, his thumbs brushing against your damp cheeks. "It’s scary. But we got through it once. We can do it again."

Tears spilled freely now, hot and unrelenting. "What if I can’t handle it? What if I mess everything up? What if I fail—fail Yena, and this baby too?"

"You won’t," he said firmly, pulling you even closer, like his embrace could shield you from every fear and every doubt clawing at your heart. "You’re stronger than you think. You’re already doing more than you know. You’re the best mom—Yena’s proof of that."

You clutched his shirt like a lifeline, your knuckles white. Your whole body shook, not from the cold, but from the storm inside you. Seungcheol took a deep, slow breath, and though his own fear was evident in the way his jaw tightened, he held you like he wouldn’t let you fall. Not now. Not ever.

"We’ll figure this out," he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. "One day at a time. Together."

[r0-boat]

Interesting... very Interesting

Ena x Gn! Human! Reader

Suggestive

This is a special drabble that I only do for games Ive streamed

Please note that I do not take requests for this game in particular

If you want to watch future streams or missed the last one here is My twitch

Cw: noncon, Ena is going to touches you, Somnophilia because you are in and out of consciousness, no sex just light fondling and curious touching, Salesman talks to you as if you are an exotic animal lol, meanie bullies you, I think they like you.

"drink up; we can't have you fall into a forever nap now, can we?"

A masculine voice calls out to you. You feel something touch your lips before it spills into your mouth.

Water.

Something you haven't seen since You woke up here; God knows where the sand looked flat in the middle of this desert as if it was textured on hardwood. The light and heat bearing down on you despite having no sun and running as far as your legs could take you from anything that's spotted you, hoping you could wake up from this horrible LSD trip of a nightmare.

But no, The dehydration you felt was very much real as your legs could no longer support your own weight as you collapsed backward, landing on the hard, unforgiving floor of this place.

The next thing you knew, you were sitting on the hot, stony, grainy floor, and it felt like you were on a soft blanket. Whoever gave you water didn't care; as you lean your head up, your vision still dizzy, you drink a few gulps of water before laying your head back.

"HEY! THAT'S NOT ENOUGH! FINISH THE DAMN BOTTLE!!" A feminine voice yelled something that felt like claws dug into your scalp, gripping your hair and forcing you up before shoving a bottle past your lips. You took big gulps until the bottle was empty. Your eyes squeeze as you cough violently, and some of that water gets into your throat.

Your body still felt heavy and weak, as if boulders were being pressed on top, And you could barely keep consciousness. But you were a lot better than before.

"Hm..." Ena hums, a hand on her chin before gently pressing her palm against your cheek. You wince as you feel hard edges scraping against your skin again. Ena Takes notes of your reaction before moving her attention to your shoulders, then arms.

Almost unconsciously she held out her own.

"What a curious creature... I've seen and done business with many, but none quite like you. "

Her red hand grazes against your arm before giving it a squeeze. "Such a soft quality; your skin feels like a luxury pillow."

"HEY! WAKE UP! JUST WHO ARE YOU ANYWAY?!" The loud voice demands. The sharp closet digs into your shoulder, gently shaking you. You wince at the yelling and the sudden movement of your body. Your eyes open Only for a moment before closing. You try your hardest to mutter out coherent words. "Where am I?"

If it weren't for the fact that you could only barely make out the figure in front of you, you would be convinced that two people were talking to you instead of one.

"Where are you?! What a dumb question to ask? Did you hit your head too hard?!?"

She doesn't answer your question at all, but you are too weak to even consider repeating that.

"I want to go home..."

You whimper You felt like crying but no tears would come as you begin to lose your strength temporarily again.

"What a strange job to give... I don't exactly know where that would be... But given the factual evidence of your strangeness, and strangely vexing softness. Your home is definitely nowhere around here... All right job accepted!" Ena rambled.

She sat there in silence watching your chest rise and fall. The more she looks at you, the more curious she becomes. You vaguely resemble another person over whom she has had this level of fondness. But yet you and she are entirely different. For one thing, you don't have coral growing on the side of your face. And you don't seem to have any special things about you in any way. There are no extra parts, nothing floating. Her curious hands wander more from your shoulders, and her hands roll over your chest.

At first glance, you looked so plain that it was unnatural, eye-catching even. But when she took the time to thoroughly examine you, she discovered so much more than what she initially thought. Despite the noticeable glaring differences, she would dare say that you look like Ena and a strange one at that.

"most curious... You are quite a rare thing indeed."

The parts of your body that really stoked her curiosity were your hands, thighs, and hips.

You had five fingers on each hand. She counted each one to make 10 in total before sliding her colada finger over your palm.

When you shudder and response she smiles

"reactive too, Not in the way I expected... Aren't you just full of surprises-I didn't expect someone to be so worthless and be a fun toy to mess with..." She said her voice dipping lower.

Her attention now draws to your thighs pressed together and plush, practically begging for her hands to touch. Gently, she slipped her hand in between. Your breath itches for a moment, turning onto your side and pressing those thighs together. She felt them tense up around her hand, denying her to move any further.

That's when she decided to stop her investigation on your body for now. But no worries there will be more opportunities.

Because of the job she was given, the two of you are going to get well acquainted.

[byrachel]

Could you do a blurb/short story where Paul meets his imprint (shy!female reader) in the woods while in wolf form. And the reader becomes sort of friends with the wolf (as she had no other friends) and they (wolf Paul and the reader) keep meeting in the wood until Paul finally transforms and tells the reader the truth? Thanks :) 💞

UNEXPECTED FRIEND [PART ONE]

PARING: paul lahote x female reader

CONTAINS / WARNINGS: angst, hurt/comfort(ish), descriptions of an anxiety attack

NOTE: sorry for making you wait five years for this, that's actually so horrible of me. i was going through my old requests after talking to a friend i actually met through this account and i was suddenly hit with tons of inspiration. obviously i didn't complete the whole request so that why it says part one, but i don't know how long it will take for me to write a second part, because by now everyone knows how inconsistent i am lmao. i hope there's someone out there who'll enjoy this :)

You should have listened to your parents.

With an increase of mysterious and very violent bear attacks, they had urged you to not hike through the woods for the time being, knowing how much you loved to take out your sketchbook in search of the perfect place to draw. Like the angels they are, they even suggested driving you themselves to other cities for a change of scenery to spark inspiration. But being a hormonal, know-it-all young adult, of course you didn’t even waste a second entertaining the idea.

As the bear-sized wolf stared you down, you wished you could turn back time to a week ago, showing your parents the appreciation they should have gotten for even suggesting an alternative. 

Your heart crashed against your ribcage, blood whirring in your ears as fear froze you in your place. 

You were completely at the wolf’s mercy. This was his terrain, his home, an area he knew like the back of his hand. Even in open air, there was nowhere for you to run. For every four steps you could take, he would get to you in a single leap, his claws and teeth ripping into you before you could think to scream for help. 

If you weren’t imagining all the ways he could make you his next meal, you would’ve laughed at the irony of it. Even if you would scream for help, it was of no use. Of course you liked to hike as far away from human civilization as possible, trying to capture nature in its rawest, untouched form. 

Before anyone would even realize you were away for an unusual amount of time, you would be long gone. If you were lucky they would find some of your remains, leaving at least something behind for your parents to bury or cremate. 

Oh god my parents, you thought to yourself, tears blurring your vision. They were gonna be devastated. Your heart twisted at the thought of them blaming themselves for your irresponsible actions.

The ashy grey wolf raised his head, snapping you out of your never-ending self pitying thoughts and you flinched.

Slowly, he inched towards you like you were an unsuspecting prey. Remaining nearly motionless, he must have assumed you didn’t notice him and tried to come as close without warning you of his presence, before finishing his plan of attack. 

In an act of pure desperation, you dropped to the ground, making yourself as tiny as possible. You pulled your knees to your chest and wrapped your arms around your head, the straps of your backpack uncomfortably tight underneath the grip of your armpits. Like you had been running a marathon, your chest rapidly rose and fell as your body trembled in fear, your lungs feeling like they could explode at any moment. 

“Please, please, please. . .” You cried in a whisper, repeating your pleas like a mantra, hoping that a god, the universe or whatever deity was out there would forgive you for the simple sin of disobeying your parents. Surely this wasn’t what you deserved.

The ground beneath you shook with every step the creature took. His paw brushed along your arms as he towered over you, his heavy breathing coating you in warm, moist clouds. 

You sobbed as you tensed all the muscles in your body, bracing yourself for the razor sharp teeth biting into you, hoping he would nick a major artery or accidentally break your neck to make your inevitable end quick.

You waited and waited, counting down to the moment you certainly knew the wolf would make a move.

But it never came. 

From above you, the creature made a strange high pitched squeaking sound. He lowered its snout and nudged at your arms. Confused, but still terrified you refused to give into his unclear request, clamping your arms even tighter around your head. 

To your surprise, you were still intact as the wolf backed away, his high pitched whining continuing. It was only when a heavy thud shook the ground that you felt you could breathe again, your lungs desperately gulping for air.

You loosened your grip and slowly peeked between the gap of your arms to look at him. The large creature laid down a couple of feet to your side, his head facing you. His big brown eyes sadly stared into yours like you had hurt his feelings. It reminded you of your aunt’s dog when you didn’t want to play with him. 

He wasn’t whining. He was crying.

Your eyebrows furrowed together. Did you scare him? Was he empathetic to your fear? Either way, the wolf’s unusual behavior was even more shocking than the expectation of him tearing you apart. Whatever his reasoning was, it seemed like he had no intention of hurting you.

Still, you didn’t take any chances, trying to remain as still as possible.

Saturated from rainfall hours before, the dirt beneath you clung to your clothes, wetness seeping through the layers. 

At a certain point you weren’t sure how much time had passed, but with each passing moment your body recognized it wasn’t in danger anymore. The thumps in your chest returned to their normal rhythm, blending into your body until you couldn’t feel them. Your trembling gradually dissipated and your sobs died down. 

And with yours, so did his. 

It had been long enough for you to realize he wasn’t going to leave you alone. It was like he was waiting for you to do something.

You gathered the courage to move, keeping an eye on the grey furred wolf as you relaxed your limbs. Still shaken, you lowered your arms and carefully stretched legs to their natural position while pushing yourself in a sitting position.

Your chest still felt tight and you pressed your hand against your heart, starting a sequence of deep breaths —in through your nose, out through your mouth— to help regulate your system. 

Like he was trying to be mindful of your state, he cautiously rose on his legs, his standing height even more terrifying when you were sitting on the ground. But you didn’t panic. If he wanted to harm you he would have already done so and probably without crying. 

He observed you closely, making sure it was okay for him to come closer and you let him. You weren’t sure how to communicate with a wolf, how to tell him you would rather not want him to come closer, but as long as you weren’t his lunch, you would just play along until he hopefully got disinterested in you and moved on.

The wolf sniffed at your hair, face and arms, testing the waters as you stayed stiff. Without warning, he licked at your face with his large tongue. You could tell he was trying to be gentle, his touch tickling you. You squirmed away with a laugh falling from your lips and you held one hand out to him. Your other hand wiped his saliva off your face. “No, no, that’s enough.” 

Oddly enough, he listened. Or at least it seemed like he did, because he didn’t lick you again.

Instead he dipped his head down and your eyes widened. When you didn’t do anything, he nudged his head towards you. Not only did he empathize with your fear, he wanted to show you he wasn’t something to be feared.

Hesitantly, you reached for the top of his head and you raked your fingers through the strands of his fur, giving him a firm rub. He gave you a huff of approval and a soft smile tugged at your lips. “Maybe you aren’t as scary as I thought.” 

Growing more comfortable, you used both hands to pet him, sleeking the fur on the top of his head back with gentle strokes. “Now I’m kind of embarrassed that you saw me react like that. That was a major overreaction.” You chuckled.

Eventually you found your bearings, the grey wolf, you named Wolfie for convenience, comforting you with his head rubs until you felt comfortable enough to move freely around him. 

He helped you up, letting you use him as leverage to get on your feet. You dusted off the dirt as best as you could, but the brown stains would raise suspicions from your parents about your whereabouts. If they ended up giving you a hard time about it, you knew you deserved it. Even if Wolfie didn’t eat you, he scared you badly enough to not go against your parents’ wishes for at least the next five years. 

The grey wolf’s head cocked up, his ears perking at a sound your human ears didn’t seem to pick up on. You followed his line of sight, deeper into the woods, not finding what he was looking at. Suddenly he turned to you, prodding his nose into your side, shoving you from your place. 

“Hey!” You exclaimed, regaining your footing. 

He stomped one of his paws against the ground, giving you another push in the direction you came from. 

He wanted you to leave the woods.

“Okay, okay, fine, I’ll go.” You said sheepishly, adjusting your backpack on your shoulders. You headed towards the nearest road, guessing that with all the noise of manmade vehicles it was probably the easiest way to stay clear from any other animals who would definitely harm you if you came across them.

“Thank you for not eating me.” You shot him a glance over your shoulder as he watched you walk away, hoping he would somehow get what you were trying to say.

[rafesbimbo]

Exclusive Access pt.3

Warnings: 18+, 4.3k words, oral (f), mutual masturbation, dirty talk, Dark themes ??, RAFE IS A STALKER, innocent!reader, strip-tease, lots of kissing, use of pet names, intense yearning ۶ৎ NOT PROOF READ !!!, lmk if im missing anything!!

pairing: Jealous!Rafe Cameron x Camgirl!Reader

part one , part two

It got worse after that night.

For both of you.

You tried to pretend he wasn’t there.

You tried to pretend you didn’t feel his eyes in every shadow.

Didn’t feel his touch in every brush of cold air against your skin.

But Rafe...

Rafe couldn’t pretend anymore.

Every night without you was agony.

Every sunrise felt like another blade twisting in his gut.

He couldn’t sleep.

Couldn’t eat.

Couldn’t breathe without you clogging up his fucking lungs.

You were everywhere.

He’d drive past the diner at midnight, headlights off, just to see if you were still there.

He'd sit in the parking lot, smoking cigarettes down to the filter, staring at your window like a man waiting for salvation.

He didn’t touch anyone else.

Not even to get the ache out of his system.

No one would do.

No one but you.

The flowers started two days later.

Small at first.

White lilies tucked into the booth you always used at work.

Then pink roses — shy, almost sweet — left at your apartment door with no signature.

Then bigger arrangements.

Orchids, peonies, gardenias — expensive, excessive, like he was trying to drown you in pretty things.

Each bouquet came with a note.

Short.

Intimate.

Painful in their tenderness.

"You’re the only thing that makes this world bearable. I don’t want anyone else. I never will. Every day without you is worse than the last."

You told yourself you weren’t keeping the notes.

You told yourself you were throwing them away.

But they piled up anyway — tucked into a shoebox under your bed, hidden like a secret shame.

And Rafe?

He knew.

He knew

Sometimes, when you opened your mailbox, there’d be a letter.

Old-fashioned. Handwritten.

Pages of messy scrawl, like he couldn’t get the words out fast enough.

In one, he confessed:

I think about you more than I think about breathing.

I want to be good for you. I want to be better. I’d kill for you, sugar.

In another, darker:

I see the way men look at you. It makes my hands itch. It makes my heart bleed.

You belong to me. Even if you don’t want to admit it yet.

You should have been terrified.

You were.

But you were something else too.

Something worse.

Curious.

Drawn.

Like a moth beating itself bloody against a flame it couldn’t resist.

And Rafe?

Rafe was losing himself inch by inch.

Some nights he sat outside your building for hours, just... watching.

Making sure you were safe.

Making sure no one else got too close.

Convincing himself he could wait.

Convincing himself he could be patient.

But every second without you clawed at him.

Every laugh you gave to someone else shredded him inside out.

Every accidental glimpse of your smile made him want to tear the world apart, just to tuck you somewhere no one else could ever see.

He whispered your name into the darkness like a prayer.

One day you’d understand.

That you were already his.

Had been from the moment he first saw you behind that cheap little webcam, blushing and shy and perfect.

You were his sugar.

His salvation.

His curse.

And Rafe?

Rafe would wait forever if he had to.

Because loving you — needing you — was the only thing keeping him alive at all.

=========================

The notes kept coming.

Every day.

Every night.a

You stopped pretending you didn’t read them.

Stopped pretending they didn’t matter.

Each one carved deeper under your skin.

Each one left you raw and trembling in ways you couldn’t explain.

He wasn’t asking for anything.

He wasn’t begging.

He was waiting.

Loving you from a distance with a patience so violent it made your chest hurt.

And you hated yourself for it —

for the way you craved him back.

For the way you curled up in bed at night, clutching his letters to your chest, whispering his name into your pillow like a dirty secret.

You fought it.

You fought him.

But the more you pushed, the tighter the cord wrapped around your throat.

Around your heart

====================

The night you broke was a Tuesday.

Cold and mean and wet, the kind of night where the world felt hollow and cruel.

You found another bouquet waiting on your doorstep —

wildflowers this time, messy and beautiful, tied together with a rough piece of twine.

No card.

No note.

Just a single slip of paper tucked between the stems, smudged with rain:

Still waiting, sugar.

Still yours.

You stared at it.

Heart pounding.

Throat closing.

You stood there for what felt like hours, soaked to the bone, shaking with something too big to name.

And then — without thinking, without breathing —

you grabbed your coat.

Grabbed your keys.

And went looking for him.

You found him exactly where you knew he’d be.

Sitting in his truck, parked two blocks down from your building, engine off, window cracked just enough to let the smoke from his cigarette curl into the cold night air.

He didn’t see you at first.

Didn’t move.

Just sat there —

head back against the seat, eyes closed, mouth moving in silent prayers you couldn’t hear.

You stood on the sidewalk, heart rattling in your ribs.

Watching him.

Feeling the full, brutal weight of what you were about to do.

And still —

you moved.

One step.

Then another.

Until you were right outside his door, shivering, dripping rain onto the pavement.

He must’ve felt you.

Some instinct deeper than thought.

Because his eyes snapped open —

and when he saw you, he froze.

Like a man staring down a miracle.

Or a ghost.

Or the last breath he ever expected to take.

"Rafe," you whispered.

Voice thin.

Breaking.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe.

Just stared.

Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

Like you’d vanish if he reached for you too fast.

You lifted a trembling hand —

and knocked once against the glass.

That tiny sound shattered him.

The door flew open.

He was on you in a second —

but he didn’t touch.

Didn’t grab.

Didn’t even move closer.

He just stood there, dripping wet too now, fists clenched at his sides like he was holding himself back with every scrap of willpower he had left.

You stared up at him —

the boy who’d spent months haunting you.

Loving you.

Waiting for you.

And you realized:

He’d never really wanted to steal you.

He just wanted you to choose him.

Slowly — so slowly — you reached out.

Curled your fingers into the front of his jacket.

Tugged.

His whole body jolted.

A shudder ran through him so deep it made you ache.

Still, he didn’t move until you whispered it:

"Rafe... please."

That single sentence broke him.

Undid him.

He cupped your face with trembling hands, like you were made of glass.

Pressed his forehead to yours, breath shaking against your lips.

"You’re mine," he rasped.

A confession.

A prayer.

A promise.

You nodded.

Tears mixing with the rain.

"Yours," you whispered back.

And for the first time in months —

Rafe Cameron smiled.

Soft and wild and starved —

like a man who'd finally found his way home.

===================

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Just breathing.

Just feeling.

The rain dripped from your lashes.

Your fingers clutched tighter into his jacket.

You could feel the way Rafe was trembling — this big, dangerous boy who could ruin you without even trying, shaking like you were the only thing holding him together.

And then —

slow as the tide pulling out to sea —

he leaned in.

His mouth brushed yours so lightly it barely counted as a kiss.

A whisper.

A plea.

He pulled back almost immediately, searching your face, waiting for a sign —

Begging without saying a word.

You whimpered.

Soft.

Needy.

You crushed your mouth back to his.

That was all he needed.

Rafe groaned — a low, guttural sound that made your knees buckle — and caught your face in both hands, kissing you like he was drowning and you were the only air left.

Not rough.

Not violent.

But desperate.

His lips moved over yours again and again, slow and deep and aching, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.

Like he’d been dreaming of this for so long he couldn’t believe it was real.

You whimpered into his mouth, and his whole body shuddered against you, a helpless noise tearing from his throat.

"Sugar," he breathed.

"God, you’re so soft... so sweet... been waitin’ so fuckin' long—"

You clutched at him harder, soaking wet and shivering and starved for him in ways you didn’t know how to name.

He kissed you through it — patient, tender, worshipful — like he could feel how scared you were, how much you wanted him but didn’t know how to ask.

He was shaking just as bad.

Not from cold — from restraint.

From the agonizing, brutal need he was barely keeping caged.

Still, he didn’t push.

Didn’t try to take more than you gave.

Just held you — kissed you — poured every filthy, aching, adoring thing he felt into the way his mouth moved over yours.

Eventually, the cold got too sharp.

You pulled back just enough to whisper, voice cracking:

"Come inside?"

Rafe stared at you like you’d just handed him the stars.

Like you’d saved him.

He nodded once — a tiny, broken movement — and let you take his hand, leading him up the stairs, into your tiny apartment that smelled like vanilla candles and soft laundry.

The door clicked shut behind you.

The world outside disappeared.

Inside, everything slowed even more.

You stood there in the soft glow of the living room lamp, dripping rainwater onto the carpet, breathing hard, heart hammering in your ears.

Rafe didn’t move.

Didn’t rush.

Just stared at you —

— and the look in his eyes made your breath catch.

Like you were something sacred.

Like he was standing in front of an altar.

"You’re so beautiful," he whispered, voice raw and wrecked.

"You don’t even fuckin' know, do you?"

You shook your head, overwhelmed.

He smiled — a soft, broken thing — and stepped closer, slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted.

You didn’t.

You couldn’t.

When he reached out, his fingers skimmed your cheek — featherlight, reverent.

Tracing the line of your jaw, your throat, the hollow where your pulse fluttered wildly.

You whimpered again, and Rafe cursed under his breath, thumb brushing your bottom lip.

"Let me take care of you," he rasped.

"Please, sugar... let me show you how good I can be."

You nodded.

Tiny.

Breathless.

And that was it.

That was all Rafe needed.

He let out a shaky breath — like he was barely holding himself together — and stepped even closer.

His hands, still trembling, moved to your jacket first.

Fumbling the zipper like he’d never undressed someone before.

Like the idea of peeling away your layers had short-circuited his whole brain.

You laughed — soft and sweet and nervous — and Rafe groaned, forehead dropping to your shoulder like he was about to fall apart right there.

"Fuck," he whispered.

"You’re killin' me, baby. You don't even know..."

You reached up, shy, and pushed the jacket off your shoulders yourself.

Rafe watched it fall to the floor like it was something sacred.

Like every inch of skin you revealed was another piece of heaven he wasn’t sure he deserved to touch.

He took his time.

His hands slid up your arms, slow and reverent, tracing every curve like he was memorizing you by feel.

The pads of his fingers skimming over your elbows, your shoulders, the dip of your waist.

Leaving goosebumps in their wake.

When he finally cupped your face again, you leaned into him without thinking.

Like you belonged there.

Like you wanted to.

He kissed you again — deeper this time, but still slow —

and you whimpered when his tongue brushed yours, tentative and gentle, like he was asking permission.

You gave it to him.

You gave him everything.

Your hands fisted in his damp shirt.

Tugging.

Begging.

Needing him closer, closer, closer —

He groaned into your mouth, the sound filthy and broken.

And for the first time, you felt the heavy, aching proof of how much he wanted you.

Hard against your stomach.

Throbbing.

Desperate.

Still — he didn’t push.

Didn’t grind against you.

Didn’t take.

Just shuddered and kissed you harder, like he could pour all of it into your mouth instead.

When you whimpered again — a high, needy sound you couldn’t have swallowed if you tried —

Rafe pulled back, gasping, forehead pressed to yours.

"Tell me what you need, baby," he rasped.

"Tell me — I'll do anything. Anything you want."

You stared up at him, trembling, heart breaking under the weight of how much he loved you.

How badly he was trying to be good.

You swallowed.

Opened your mouth.

Nothing came out at first.

Then, barely a whisper:

"Touch me... please."

Rafe made a sound you didn’t even recognize —

half-growl, half-whimper —

and dropped to his knees in front of you.

He kissed the bare skin just above your hip, hands sliding under your soaked shirt to push it higher, higher —

tugging it up and over your head with slow, reverent hands.

When you stood there in just your damp little bra, shivering and wide-eyed, Rafe leaned back on his heels, eyes dragging over you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

"Fuck," he whispered again, almost broken.

"You’re a fuckin’ angel, sugar. My sweet girl. My perfect fuckin’ girl."

His hands were on your hips now, gentle but firm, smoothing up to your waist and back down again like he couldn’t help himself.

Like he needed to touch every inch of you just to make sure you were real.

He nuzzled into your stomach, breathing you in, scattering kisses so soft they barely registered except for the way they made your whole body shiver.

You whimpered again, and Rafe's hands tightened — just for a second — before he caught himself, pulling back like he was terrified of hurting you.

"Tell me if it’s too much," he whispered.

"Tell me if you want me to stop."

You shook your head so fast it made him smile —

that soft, broken smile like you were the only thing tethering him to the earth.

"Need you," you whispered.

"need you so bad.."

He kissed the inside of your thigh through your jeans —

a desperate, reverent little kiss that made you gasp —

before reaching for your waistband.

Still slow.

Still giving you every chance to pull away.

When you didn’t — when you whined and arched into his touch —

he groaned again and started to peel the soaked denim down your legs, inch by slow, agonizing inch.

Every bit of skin he uncovered, he kissed.

The sharp point of your hip.

The soft curve of your thigh.

The delicate skin behind your knee.

By the time you stood there in just your panties, shivering and bare and aching, you were crying.

Silent, shaking tears sliding down your cheeks.

Rafe noticed immediately.

Shot up to his feet so fast you barely saw him move, cupping your face again, wiping the tears with his thumbs.

"Hey," he whispered.

"Hey, no, shh, sugar, don’t cry.."

You nodded, choking on a sob you didn’t even understand.

"Just— feels good," you whispered.

"Feels too good."

Rafe’s whole face crumpled.

He kissed you again, soft and slow and filthy, mouths wet and trembling, like he needed to taste your tears just to prove to himself you were real.

"I got you," he whispered between kisses.

"I got you, baby... gonna make you feel so good... so fuckin' good..."

Rafe kissed you until you stopped shaking.

Until your sobs melted into gasps.

Into tiny, desperate sounds that made his hands clench where they cradled your face.

He pulled back just enough to look at you —

really look at you —

and the way his eyes darkened made your whole body throb.

"Gonna make you feel good now, sugar," he rasped, voice low and wrecked.

"Gonna taste you... been dreaming about this — about you — for so fuckin' long."

You whimpered, thighs clenching together, but Rafe was already moving —

sinking back to his knees at your feet, hands skimming reverently down your body.

He kissed your belly again, slow and messy, leaving a slick trail of heat.

Then lower —

the dip of your hip, the soft curve of your inner thigh —

so close to where you needed him, but never rushing, never taking.

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and paused —

looking up at you through wet lashes, pleading:

"Let me see you, baby. Please."

You nodded, dizzy, and lifted your hips just enough to let him pull them down.

Rafe’s breath caught.

Hard.

He dragged your panties down your legs with shaking hands, baring you inch by inch like he was unwrapping the most precious thing he’d ever been given.

When you stepped out of them, shy and trembling, he groaned low in his chest.

The sound of a man breaking.

He tossed the scrap of lace aside without looking.

Didn’t care about anything but you.

His hands slid up your calves, your knees, your thighs —

spreading you gently, reverently, just enough to see.

You flushed hot all over.

Tried to turn your face away, overwhelmed.

But Rafe caught your chin, made you look at him.

Made you see the devotion in his eyes.

"Goddamn," he breathed.

"You’re so fuckin’ pretty, sugar... so wet already... all for me?

You'd whimper.

His eyes fluttered shut for a second like he was in pain.

Like he was trying to memorize this moment forever.

"I’m gonna take my time," he said, voice rough with need.

"Gonna make you come on my tongue... over and over."

Then he kissed you there —

a slow, open-mouthed kiss right over your soaked, swollen clit —

and you sobbed.

He moaned into you like he was tasting something holy.

Something he’d been starving for.

His hands slid under your ass, holding you still, tilting you just right.

His tongue moved slow at first —

broad, heavy licks up your slit, savoring every inch.

Dragging across your clit with torturous, aching pressure that made your knees buckle.

You gasped, clutching at his hair, tugging without even meaning to —

and Rafe groaned, like your need made him harder, made him hungrier.

He mouthed at your clit, slow and messy, letting spit and slick coat his chin.

Suckling softly, then lapping at you like a man possessed.

No rhythm at first — just desperate worship.

"Taste so good, sugar," he mumbled against you.

"So fuckin’ sweet... fuck, can’t get enough..."

His tongue slid lower, teasing your entrance —

flicking, pressing, dipping inside —

and you cried out, hips jerking helplessly.

He held you down, moaning when you squirmed, like your writhing was the best thing he’d ever felt.

"That’s it," he panted.

"That’s my good girl... give it to me... wanna feel you come on my mouth, baby, c'mon..."

You were already so close it scared you.

The way your body tightened, pulling taut like a bowstring.

The way your thighs clamped around his head, trying to push him away and pull him closer all at once.

Rafe didn’t let go.

Didn’t stop.

He just wrapped his arms tighter around your thighs, grinding his mouth into you with filthy, desperate sounds, his nose bumping your clit in time with the frantic flicks of his tongue.

Your hands fisted in his hair, tugging hard, and he growled —

low and guttural —

sending vibrations through your core that made your vision blur.

You sobbed his name.

Over and over.

A broken, wrecked little chant.

"Rafe — Rafe — Rafe —"

That did it.

He groaned again, louder, sucking your clit into his mouth with devastating pressure —

and you shattered.

Your whole body went taut —

then broke apart, spasming against him as you came with a high, keening cry.

Rafe held you through it, moaning against your pulsing cunt, drinking down every tremor, every sob, every desperate, wrecked gasp.

He didn’t stop.

Even when you started to twitch, to push at his shoulders, too sensitive —

he just kept licking, softer now, coaxing you through every last aftershock until you were nothing but a boneless, sobbing mess in his hands.

When he finally pulled back, his face was wrecked —

chin slick with your arousal, lips swollen, eyes wild and reverent.

"You’re mine now," he whispered, voice thick and shaking.

"You hear me, sugar? Always fuckin’ mine."

You couldn’t even speak.

Just nodded, whimpering, reaching for him.

Needing him back against you.

Inside you.

Everywhere.

And Rafe — sweet, obsessed, broken Rafe —

crawled up your body, kissed your wrecked mouth, and whispered:

"Not done yet, baby... gonna make you feel even better..

=============

Later that night, after you’d both caught your breath —

after he’d kissed every inch of your body, whispered every filthy, worshipful thing he’d ever dreamed of saying —

you found yourself perched on the edge of your bed.

Still trembling.

Still wide-eyed.

Rafe sat back against your headboard, legs spread, shirt half-open, eyes wild and hungry on you.

His hand rested lazily on his cock —

thick, flushed, heavy in his palm —

but he wasn’t stroking yet.

Not really.

Just teasing himself, like he was trying to savor it.

Watching you with a hunger so sharp it almost hurt.

"Show me, sugar," he rasped, voice low and ruined.

"Give me a fuckin' show."

You blinked at him, cheeks burning.

"W-what?"

Rafe’s lips curled into a slow, wrecked smile.

He fisted himself once — a slow, filthy drag of his palm — and groaned under his breath.

"Strip for me, baby. Real slow."

"Like you do on that fuckin' cam."

"But this time... it’s just for me."

Your heart hammered against your ribs.

You could barely breathe.

But the way he looked at you —

like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted, ever needed —

made your thighs clench with desperate, aching heat.

You swallowed.

Nodded.

And rose shakily to your feet.

Rafe’s eyes never left you.

Not once.

Tracking every single movement like a predator locked on prey.

You started slow.

Just swaying your hips a little, hands sliding up your own sides, across your breasts, down your waist.

You bit your lip — shy and unsure —

but the way Rafe groaned when you tugged your ruined little panties back up your thighs gave you a rush of wicked confidence.

You hooked your thumbs into the waistband —

dragging them down, inch by slow, teasing inch.

Rafe’s breath hitched.

His hand started moving —

slow, steady strokes along his cock, squeezing the head just enough to make his whole body twitch.

"That’s it, sugar," he panted.

"God, you’re so fuckin’ perfect... show me what’s mine."

You stepped out of the panties, letting them fall to the floor.

Ran your hands up your thighs again, swaying a little more now.

Arching your back just enough to make your tits press tight against the too-small bra you still wore.

Rafe’s eyes darkened.

His hand moved faster.

His thighs tensed under his jeans, a vein popping along his neck.

"Take it off, baby," he rasped.

"Wanna see all of you."

You reached behind your back — fumbled for the clasp —

and Rafe’s hand squeezed almost painfully tight around his cock as the bra loosened.

You slid it off your shoulders slow, teasing, letting the straps fall one at a time.

Barer and barer with every heartbeat.

When you finally let it drop, standing there naked, flushed, trembling —

Rafe broke.

He let out a rough, shuddering groan —

stroking his cock hard now, frantic, messy, leaking precum down his fist.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck—"

"You’re a fuckin' angel... my angel... gonna come just from lookin’ at you, sugar, fuck—"

You whimpered, thighs pressing together at the filthy, desperate sound of him.

At the way he stared at you like you were some vision he’d conjured out of a fever dream.

He fisted himself harder, faster.

Head thrown back against the wall, jaw clenched so tight the muscles in his neck stood out sharp and aching.

"Touch yourself, baby," he gasped.

"Please— wanna see you fall apart for me."

You whimpered again but obeyed —

hand sliding between your thighs, fingers brushing your slick folds.

The moment your fingers touched your clit, Rafe growled.

A savage, broken sound that made your knees shake.

"That’s it," he snarled.

"Rub that pretty little clit for me... show me how you get off, sugar... show me how sweet you sound when you come."

You couldn’t hold back anymore.

You circled your clit with trembling fingers, hips rocking helplessly, gasping his name over and over.

Rafe jerked himself harder, breathing ragged, cock twitching in his hand.

Watching you fall apart pushed him over the edge.

You saw it happen —

the way his whole body stiffened, the way his hips jerked up off the bed —

the way he roared your name as hot ropes of cum spilled over his knuckles, dripping down his fist, messy and feral.

"Sugar — fuck — fuuuck—"

He kept stroking himself through it, chasing every last drop, moaning low and wrecked.

His eyes locked on you the whole time —

wild, fevered, possessive.

Like he’d burn the whole world down just to keep you right there.

All his.

Forever.

tags: @xoxobellamy , @hanneh69 , @marinrscomplex , @love-4-rafey-lando

[littlelamy]

anxious!reader has a big panic attack and it takes her ages to finally calm down?

you can't even remember what set it off. one minute, you were fine—or fine enough, the usual storm of worry tucked neatly behind your ribs, manageable, ignorable if you just focused hard enough on anything else. the next minute, something snapped, like a fault line giving way beneath you, and now you're here. or not here. somewhere else entirely, lost in the hurricane of your own mind.

your breathing is too fast. way too fast. shallow, sharp, like a trapped animal. your chest won't expand right, like someone's wrapped a belt around your ribs and pulled it too tight, and no matter how much air you drag in, it's not enough, never enough. your fingers are tingling. your vision keeps narrowing, like the walls are closing in, like the whole room is shrinking around you, and your pulse is a drumline in your skull.

"hey, hey, look at me."

his voice barely breaks through the static in your head. it's distant, muffled, like he's talking to you from underwater. rafe crouches in front of you, close but not touching, and his brows are furrowed, mouth set in something that isn't quite a frown but definitely isn't relaxed.

"breathe," he says, slow and deliberate. his voice is steady, like he's anchoring himself so you have something to hold onto. "deep breath. c'mon. in through your nose. just copy me."

but you can't. you can't. it doesn't work like that, it never works like that, and you shake your head frantically because it's useless, because it's not fucking working, and your hands are shaking and you think you're gonna throw up, your stomach twisting itself into impossible knots.

his hands twitch, like he wants to reach for you, but he doesn't. not yet. he just shifts a little closer, moving slow, careful, like he's dealing with something skittish. you are skittish. you can barely think past the panic clawing up your throat.

"okay. okay, that's fine. you don't have to breathe deep, just—just try to slow it down. a little bit. here, hold my hand."

you hesitate, your fingers curled into useless fists against your lap, but he doesn’t rush you. he just waits. and when you finally force your hands to move, slipping your fingers into his, his grip is firm, warm, solid. grounding. you squeeze too hard, but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t complain. just squeezes back, steady, reassuring.

"good. that's good."

you don’t believe him. your heart is still trying to claw its way out of your chest. but the room isn’t spinning quite as violently anymore, and you can hear him a little clearer, and you’re still here. still real. even if it doesn’t feel like it yet.

rafe rubs his thumb over the back of your hand, slow, rhythmic. he doesn’t say anything else for a while. just sits there with you, quiet and patient, as your breaths start evening out, as the crushing weight of panic starts to loosen its grip.

it takes ages. it takes forever. but eventually, you start to feel like yourself again. fragile, exhausted, but real.

and rafe is still there. still holding your hand. still waiting.

lamy notes: please please please correct me if i am not portraying anxious!reader properly!

taglist: @namelesslosers @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @rafedaddy01 @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @rafesbabygirlx @drewsephrry @lil-sparklqueen

[aliorsboxostuff]

Can I request grey house x male reader fluff or smut is fine , if that's not too much

Yessss honestly i was in the mood to write some fluff but if this turns out slightly bitter sweet erm,,,, i can only apologize hgdhdghjfjgh i can only write House so much before he goes out of character HAHAHA 

Within his arms.

Tags: Greg House x M!reader, Greg House, male!Reader, doctor!reader, Allison Cameron, Robert Chase, Eric Foreman, fluff, slight OOC on House's side whoops, Cuddling, Bantering, just pure cuteness and maybe bittersweet at the end.

The tests are done, and the results are on House’s desk. Surely he wouldn't mind you taking a short nap before checking in with the patient, right?

—

It was midnight, precisely 15 minutes past 12 AM. 

For the past 3 days, the current patient House’s team is diagnosing has been going from stable to unstable in a matter of hours. With each problem they solved, another pop-up, and with the week ending it seems like you'd have to cancel your weekend plans if the patient's condition keeps deteriorating. 

You’ve just finished the last batch of blood tests, eyes grimy as you try to blink away the claws of sleep. There were a couple of times where you had to violently jerk yourself away, and then hold the urge to stick a needle of adrenaline into yourself just to keep testing stuff.

Somewhere in your head, about a couple of hours ago, Cameron came by to tell you that House might still be in his office until late. She was the only other doctor who knew of your little crush on the diagnostician, and pity you for it. You don't blame her. After knowing what the girl went through with him, you can't help but be sympathetic, though, despite her blatant warning, your heart can't seem to stop doing flips whenever House is around. 

A machine beeps. You grumble, standing from where you sat to retrieve the result.

“I should check in on House…” You mumble, betting on him still being around. 

Stumbling through the halls, you finally made it to your Boss’ office, and while it’s disappointing, you're not surprised he’s no longer present. The man must've gone home ages ago, he probably was packing up when Cameron informed you of his overtime possibility. You sigh, dropping the results of the blood tests on his desk before your eyes glance at the couch, enticing you with its soft cushions. 

The tests are done, and the results are on House’s desk. Surely he wouldn't mind you taking a short nap before checking in with the patient, right?

You check the perimeters, around the office and into the hall. House is nowhere to be seen. The night shift nurses as milling about, busy with their patients to monitor. Finally, you nudge the door to close softly, the glass making a short clink, before you drape your aching body onto the sofa. After hours of testing and sitting hunched on the stool, the sofa comforts your back. Groaning as you stretch your arms above your head, fringe dropping slightly as your head leans back.

You sigh, relieved, a mixture of boredom and sleepyness a toxic concoction luring you to close your heavy eyes. You drape your arms around yourself, your lab coat long forgotten somewhere in the office. Bringing your legs to your chest, you lean slightly to your left, resting your cheek on the headrest, eyes fluttering close. Surely House, if he was still even here, wouldn't mind, right? 

If he did he would've shouted at me by now, that was the last thought you had before darkness slowly engulfed your vision, even the insistent tapping of a familiar cane didn't wake you.

—

“–ow are they so comfortable together? That couch is way too small,” 

“And House is all long limbs and- Honestly its impressive,” 

“Can't you two just hurry up and grab my phone? I can take a picture of them!” 

Soft light slowly penetrates your grogginess, eyes blinking open, trying to adjust to your slow-awakening nerves. You yawn, sighing at the feeling of being well-rested, it felt comfy and warm, something soft draped over your body, and someone’s long arms wrapped around you. Leaning back slightly to try and greedily soak up what is left of the person's warmth, a small smile makes it way to your lips when-

Wait. Someone? 

“Are you three going to keep gawking or should I test how hard I can throw my cane?” House’s voice snaps at your senses, vibrating through you as your ears are pressed beneath his collarbone. You hear the man behind you groan, knowing House he probably gave the team the worst eye roll known to mankind. 

“I thought I asked for the test results last night? I don't see them on my desk,” His tone drops lower. Instead of seeing, you hear a quick sequence of shuffling and shoes shuffling on carpeted floors, knowing it must be your other co-workers hurrying out of the office. 

You gulp, finally finding your voice after you're sure it won't crack. “The results are already on your desk, know…”

House nods above you. His chin rests atop your head. “I’ve read through them.” 

He pauses. “You got the PTT wrong.”

“No? I’m sure it didn't…” Your voice fades.

You feel House shift. He moves your legs to drape over the couch’s armrest, alleviating more of his limped leg. “No, but I just bought us another half an hour, so unless you want to go back to acting professional, I suggest you-”

“No,” You croak out. “No it’s…. Fine. Thanks,” 

You feel House sighs. Either way, you decide to push your luck as you lean deeper into the doctor's neck, sighing, and pull at the blanket further. Something deep in you worries, a ball of anxiety growing steadily. You don't know if House knows of your little infatuation, if he resents it or lets it fester to consume you whole. He and his puzzles are too advanced for you to understand, though eventually, it boils down to his entertainment. Is he letting you do this to see how far you’ll go? 

Suddenly, you feel House’s hand rest on your shoulder, one finger tapping gently. “You lucky I was also staying late last night,”

You hum, relief settles in. Despite the outcome of this predicament, sleeping in House’s embrace while the man himself seems content enough to let you off the hook, you cherish this and compile it into your memory. 

Requests are open! Reblogs appreciated <3

[reveryfics]

Symbiotic

Eddie Brock x Male reader

Summary: Eddie hadn't heard from you in months, little does he know, you now have your own symbiote problem.

A/N: I feel like I'm not doing my best compared to when I first started, so hopefully getting back into Eddie Brock fics helps.

The alleyway reeked of stale beer and something metallic, the scent clinging to the damp air like a shroud. Rain lashed down, each drop exploding against the grimy pavement, mirroring the frantic hammering of your own heart. Your body, slick with sweat and the icy rain, writhed against the unforgiving concrete. A sob tore from your throat, raw and guttural, as your lungs seized, gasping for air like a drowning man.

Panic clawed at your throat, a cold, icy tendril squeezing the life from you. Your vision swam, the world blurring into an abstract canvas of grey and black. Each breath was a battle, a desperate struggle against an unseen force constricting your chest. It felt as though something alien, something monstrous, was burrowing beneath your skin, twisting and turning within your very core.

A wave of nausea washed over you, and a thick, oily substance bubbled from your mouth, tasting of iron and decay. It slithered back down your throat, leaving an acrid taste that burned like fire. You could feel it, a subtle, insidious movement beneath your skin, a dark pulse throbbing in rhythm with your own terrified heartbeat. It was moving, slithering towards your center, a malevolent presence taking root within you.

Then, a wave of icy numbness washed over you, extinguishing the fire in your veins. Your body went rigid, every muscle seizing.

You jolted upright, clawing at the brick wall, nails digging into the rough surface, leaving bloody crescents. You gasped for air, your lungs burning, your heart pounding like a war drum against your ribs. It felt like a fever dream, a hallucinatory nightmare birthed from the depths of your own psyche.

Shaking, you stumbled out of the alleyway, the rain plastering your hair to your face. You passed Mrs. Chen's convenience store, her worried calls falling on deaf ears. Her voice, however, was distorted, warped into a mocking echo, a grotesque parody of concern. It was as if something else was speaking through her, trying to familiarize itself with you, to claim you as its own.

Keys fumbled in your trembling hands, finally slipping into the lock of your apartment door. You stumbled inside, slamming the door shut behind you with a violent thud that shook the very foundation of the building. Rushing to the bathroom, you collapsed to your knees before the toilet, a torrent of thick, black liquid erupting from your throat.

The world spun, a dizzying kaleidoscope of colors. You felt lightheaded, weak, as if the very ground beneath you was shifting and swaying. Desperate, you tore off your clothes, the sodden fabric hitting the floor with a sickening thud. You turned on the shower, the icy water a stark contrast to the burning sensation that consumed you.

As the water cascaded over your skin, washing away the grime and the chilling fear, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. A wave of horror washed over you. Black, veiny tendrils, like the roots of some monstrous plant, pulsed beneath your skin, then vanished as quickly as they appeared.

"I'm going crazy," you whispered, your voice hoarse and trembling. "It's just… it's just in my head."

You stood beneath the icy spray, the cold water doing little to soothe the burning sensation within. Then, the insistent ringing of your phone shattered the silence. You fumbled for it, your fingers clumsy and trembling. The caller ID displayed "Eddie." You hesitated, fear gripping you. Answering felt like an act of defiance, like inviting the unseen entity within you to take control.

You hung up, the sharp, metallic taste of fear filling your mouth. You glanced back at the mirror, your breath catching in your throat. Something was watching you, a malevolent intelligence lurking behind your own reflection. A scream, raw and primal, erupted from your lips as you stumbled backward, your head colliding violently with the tile wall.

The fluorescent lights of the convenience store buzzed overhead, casting long, skeletal shadows across the aisles. Rain lashed against the windows, mirroring the storm raging inside you. It had been months since the incident, a gaping wound in the fabric of your life. You'd become a recluse, your apartment a tomb where you barely slept, the only excursions forced by the gnawing hunger that clawed at your insides.

Weight had melted away, leaving you gaunt and hollow-eyed. Your voice, once a vibrant melody, was now a hoarse croak, a testament to the silent screams that echoed within. Eddie's calls went unanswered, his texts unanswered, his knocks on the door met with the cold, dead silence of an empty apartment. You'd even changed the locks, a desperate attempt to keep him away, to keep yourself hidden from his concerned gaze, from the pity that would surely drown you.

Sleep offered no respite. Nightmares, vivid and terrifying, haunted your dreams. You'd wake drenched in sweat, gasping for air, the memory of the…thing…still fresh in your mind. The thought of seeking help was paralyzing. They'd lock you away, label you delusional, a victim of your own fragile mind. But then, you saw it. Agony, as it called itself, a grotesque alien entity, a symbiote that had chosen you as its host.

Your body, weak and broken, was the only vessel it could find. A desperate act of survival. And despite the agonizing toll it took, you became the perfect host, a conduit for its otherworldly power.

Months later, you found yourself on the sidewalk, a plastic bag overflowing with groceries from Mrs. Chen's clutched tightly in your numb fingers. "Hey!" A voice, familiar and yet distant, sliced through the air.

You froze, your heart hammering against your ribs. Slowly, you turned, your eyes meeting Eddie's. He was breathless, his face a mask of worry, his eyes wide with a mixture of relief and something akin to…fear? "Jesus Christ, I thought you were dead!" he gasped, his voice cracking.

"Eddie…" you whispered, the word catching in your throat. Guilt, a suffocating weight, pressed down on you. How could you possibly explain? How could you tell your best friend that you were now host to an alien entity? "I'm so…"

"Sorry?!" Eddie's voice was a raw, wounded thing. "Sorry is all you have to say?"

You took a hesitant step forward, reaching out a trembling hand towards him. Words failed you, so you simply took his hand, your fingers interlacing with his, and pulled him towards your apartment.

Inside, Eddie paced like a caged animal, his voice a torrent of anguish as he poured out his frustration. "Months! You disappeared for months without a word!" He was unlike anything you'd ever seen him – vulnerable, raw, utterly heartbroken. And it hurt. It hurt knowing that you were the cause of this pain.

He stopped pacing, his gaze locking with yours. "I…I have this…" you began, your voice trailing off.

And then, it happened. Agony, its form shifting and coalescing, materialized before you, its head emerging from your shoulder. But it wasn't alone. From Eddie's chest, another symbiote, sleek and obsidian, erupted, mirroring Agony's movements.

Eddie's eyes widened in disbelief. This wasn't supposed to happen. You weren't supposed to become a host. He'd always been so cautious, so protective of you. He'd even kept his distance at the beginning of his and Venom's symbiosis, terrified of hurting you, of becoming the reason for your demise. "H-how?" he whispered, his voice thick with shock.

You recounted that night, the agonizing pain, the suffocating fear that had consumed you for months. You didn't care what happened to you. You just wanted to survive. You didn't want to hurt him. But you had no idea he was also…bonded.

You sat in a heavy silence, the air thick with unspoken emotions. You talked, not just about the symbiotes, not just about the pain and fear, but about everything. About your lives, your dreams, your fears. And then, you said it. "I…I love you, Eddie."

He was speechless, his eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and disbelief. "I…I…" He stammered, unable to find the words.

"Eddie," Venom hissed inside his mind, its voice a low growl. "You are being a complete pussy! Tell him! We love him!"

Eddie rubbed his face, his gaze finally meeting yours. "We…I…I love you too," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "That's why I never said anything. I was scared. Scared of ruining things. Like I did with Annie."

You nodded, understanding the fear that mirrored your own. "I understand, Eddie. I do."

Another silence fell, heavy and awkward. Then, his hand found yours, his fingers intertwining with yours. "Interspecies boyfriends?" he joked, a hint of a smile gracing his lips.

"Wouldn't have it any other way," you replied, a genuine smile finally breaking through the gloom that had settled over you.

The rain continued to fall outside, but inside, a different kind of storm was brewing – a storm of hope, of love, of a future that, despite the challenges, held the promise of something beautiful.

[narcissistichedonist]

hidden between her whimpers and sobs is the sweetest kind of surrender—the moment where she finally stops trying to squirm away, where her body goes limp, where she realizes there's no escape, no mercy, just my rough hands and my throbbing cock and the cruel pace that keeps pushing her past every limit

"what’s wrong, darling doll ? you wanted to act tough, and now look at you—shaking, drooling, leaking all over yourself. thought you could take it ?"

her thighs twitch, clenching uselessly around my waist, but she’s too spent to fight, too wrecked to do anything but take what i give her. every commanding thrust shoves another pathetic little noise out of her swollen lips, every brush against her overstimulated clit sends another violent shudder through her body. her hands push weakly against my chest, as if she even has the strength to stop me now

"oh? you’re begging ? you can’t even form coherent words anymore, just making those sweet little sounds for me—so fucked out you don’t even know if you want more or less, do you ?"

i press down against her stomach, feeling the way i fill her up, the way she spasms beneath me, so fragile, so ruined. she sobs, trembling, gasping something that sounds like too much—but she’s gripping me so tightly inside, her body contradicting her every plea

"too much ?" i mock, dragging my cock glistening in her juices out only to slam back in, drinking in the way her back arches, the way her nails claw desperately at my skin

"poor thing. i know it hurts, but you should’ve thought of that before you let me break you."

[multific]

The Emperor’s Witch

Emperor Caracalla x Witch!Reader

Summary: Summoned by Emperor Geta to heal his sickly twin, you are imprisoned within the palace, and forced to perform a ritual every new moon to cleanse his blood.

The torches flickered against the cold stone walls, casting long shadows as you were dragged through the grand halls of the imperial palace. Soldiers flanked you on either side, their grip strong, though you did not struggle. 

Resistance would be pointless.

You had been summoned.

Not with honour, not by choice, but with force.

At the throne stood Emperor Geta, his face a mask of barely controlled fury and desperation. He was younger than you expected, but power sat heavily upon him. His fine tunic was wrinkled, his posture rigid. He had the look of a man haunted.

"You are the witch who can heal the dying," he said, his voice demanding. "You will heal my brother."

You straightened yourself. "And if I refuse?"

Geta took a step forward, fists clenched. "Then you will rot in the dungeons, and my men will ensure you are made to regret your defiance."

A heavy silence fell.

You did not fear him, not truly. 

But there was something in his gaze, a desperation so raw it almost hurt to see. His brother was dying. He would do anything to stop it.

With a slow inhale, you nodded. "Take me to him."

Caracalla lay in his chambers, death wrapped around him like a veil. His skin was pale, sweat-slicked, his breath shallow. 

The fever had hollowed out his cheeks, his lips cracked and dry. He barely stirred when you approached.

But when his eyes flickered open, you saw something there, something sharp, he was aware.

"Who... are you?" His voice was hoarse, but the arrogance beneath it still burned.

"Your salvation, it seems."

He chuckled weakly. "A pretty witch sent to save me. How poetic."

"Quiet," you murmured. "Save your strength."

You placed your hands upon his chest, feeling the heat of sickness radiating from him. 

You knew what you needed to do.

The ritual would not be easy. His blood was tainted, corrupted. It would take time, and many moons to purge the poison from his veins.

You begin your work.

The scent of burning herbs filled the air.

Caracalla has been moved to lay upon a slab of marble, his skin fevered, his veins darkened beneath his pale flesh. 

To purge the illness it would take more than medicine.

You stood over him, your fingers stained red from the bowl of sacred oils and crushed roots. 

The potion was mixed to call upon the spirits of the moon, to grant you the strength needed to pull the sickness from his body without it latching onto your own.

"Restrain him," you ordered.

The soldiers exchanged glances, hesitant, but Geta stepped forward, telling them to obey. They held Caracalla down, though, in his weakened state, he barely resisted.

He opened his eyes. "What… are you doing?" His voice was rough.

"Saving you," you murmured.

You drew a ceremonial dagger, and with careful precision, you traced the edge over your own palm, slicing just deep enough to draw a line of crimson.

Blood magic required sacrifice. And the strongest magic demanded a piece of the healer.

You pressed your bleeding palm to his chest, just above his heart. "Let my strength be your strength. Let my blood call forth yours."

Caracalla shuddered beneath your touch as you began to chant, the ancient words rolling from your tongue like a song lost to time. 

The air grew thick, charged, as though the gods themselves were watching.

Then, the pain began.

His body arched violently, his breathing turning ragged as the sickness was forced from his veins. 

The soldiers struggled to keep him still as his muscles seized, his back lifting from the stone as if an unseen force was trying to tear him apart.

Sweat slicked your brow, your own body trembling from the strain. 

The sickness did not want to leave him easily, it clung to him.

Caracalla let out a choked cry, his eyes rolling back, his fingers clawing at the stone.

"Hold him!" you commanded.

Geta stepped forward, grasping his brother’s arm, his face carved from stone but his eyes betraying his fear. "It’s working, isn’t it?" he demanded.

You did not answer. 

The ritual was at its breaking point, the magic tipping between life and death.

Then in a flash, it was over. The candles blew out as a gush of wind passed.

Caracalla collapsed against the stone, his chest rising and falling in deep, steady breaths.

The silence in the chamber was deafening.

Your knees buckled beneath you, exhaustion crashing over you in waves. You barely registered Geta catching you before you hit the ground, his voice sharp with concern.

"He lives," you whispered, barely able to keep your eyes open. "But it is not finished."

Geta’s grip on you tightened. "What do you mean?"

"The sickness will return… if the ritual is not repeated every new moon."

His jaw clenched. "Then you will stay."

You wanted to argue, to say that your work was done, but as your vision blurred, the last thing you saw was Caracalla’s face. His golden eyes, now clear, locked onto yours.

And just like that, your fate was sealed.

The first few weeks passed in silence.

Caracalla was too weak to speak much, and you had little interest in entertaining him. 

The ritual left you drained, exhaustion sinking deep into your bones. Each time, you poured your strength into him, cleansing his blood, and drawing out the sickness.

And slowly, it worked. Every ritual became less and less exhausting. 

His fever broke. His voice, once weak, grew steadier. His eyes, once clouded, sharpened.

He began to watch you.

"You never answer my questions," he murmured one evening as you squeezed a damp cloth over a basin. "Why do you help me?"

You glanced at him. "I was given no choice."

A smirk tugged at his lips. "Yet, you do not resent me."

You frowned, dipping the cloth into the water. "Should I?"

"Most would."

You pressed the cool fabric to his forehead. "I am not most."

His gaze flickered with something unreadable.

As the moons passed, Caracalla grew stronger.

He no longer lay in bed, frail and dying. 

He walked the halls with you and sat beside you in the gardens. He challenged you with questions, with sly remarks, with knowing glances.

And you let him.

"Do you think I'm cruel?" he asked one night, as you sat beneath the open sky, with the scent of rain in the air.

"I think you are feared."

His lips curved. "And you do not fear me?"

You met his gaze. "No."

Something passed between you then. 

A shift. A breath. A truth unspoken.

He reached for your hand, tracing his fingers over your wrist. "You should."

But you didn’t pull away.

The final ritual was the hardest.

It drained you more than you expected and left you shaking, and cold. But when it was done, Caracalla stood before you, unbroken, alive.

He cupped your face, his touch firm yet reverent. "It is finished?"

You nodded. "You are free."

His thumb brushed your cheek. "And you?"

Your stomach twisted. "Geta will release me now. I am no longer needed."

A pause. His grip tightened. "No."

Your breath caught. "No?"

He exhaled sharply. "I will not let you go."

And when Geta came, when he declared your service complete, Caracalla stood before him, determined.

"She stays."

Geta blinked. "What?"

Caracalla turned to you then, his voice quieter, meant only for you.

"Stay. Not as my healer. As my wife."

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

"This is not an obligation," he murmured. "Not anymore."

"Then it is love?"

His breath was warm against your skin. "It always was."

And when he kissed you, in front of Geta, in front of the gods, you knew you had been bound to him long before you ever stepped foot in this palace.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[the-fiction-witch]

Little Bump P2

Media - House Of The Dragon Character - Jacaerys Velaryon Couple - Jacaerys X Reader Reader - Y/n Velaryon (Pregnant Wife) Rating - Sweet AF Word Count - 2957

Warning - childbirth / gore / horror elements

Jacaerys goes out with Daemon for the afternoon, the two go out and climb the jagged and impressive cliffs and valleys of the hot volcanic island, all to fetch a dragon egg for him and Y/n's baby. The two chatted and had some real conversations, the likes of which he hadn't really ever, had as stepson and stepdad. However, when they returned to the castle a sweet bright blue Dragon Egg selected a maid and rushed down the hall towards them,

"Prince Jacaerys!" The maid yelled, "Prince Jacaerys!"

Jacaerys' head turns sharply confused as to why this maid was running to them, "Yes, what is it?"

"it's Y/n -" the maid gasps,

Jacaerys' stomach drops to his feet at these words, but he forces himself to remain calm. "What has happened to my wife?" he demanded an answer,

"She has begun her labours Prince Jacaerys," The maid said,

Jacaerys' heart skips a beat as if he suddenly cannot breathe. He forces himself to remain calm, even if he feels like punching the wall, or throwing up, or any number of other things. "How long ago did this begin?"

"A meer our after you left," the maid said.

Jacaerys feels his heart drop at this news, suddenly feeling a deep sense of shame that he had been gone so long in this crucial time. If something had gone wrong... He shakes the thought out of his head and forces himself to remain calm. "Who has been with her, this whole time?"

"the maester. And maids. And the queen" The maid explained

Jacaerys nods and begins racing through the halls as quickly as he can, He keeps walking with Daemon and the maid, trying his best to hold a serious face and not let his tears flood. Y/n was in good hands, but he still desired to be there and see their son being born. His heart still races within his chest, however, flooded with adrenaline from the situation.

finally, they reach his and Y/n's chambers both the maid and daemon rush inside without a second thought but for a moment Jacaerys stops in the doorway, the sound of muted screams from within the chambers causing his heart to race even quicker. He grips his hands, nervous to step inside the chambers. He knows he should enter, but the thought of it terrifies him. He has to go in. He has to be there, for his wife. He steps inside.

Their bed is crowded with maids, the maester, his mother with Daemon at her side all of them arguing and debating the methods to be used. But all of it is mere background noise as all Jacaerys can focus on is his wife.

Y/n sits with her back against the headboard her knees on the bed so she's almost crouching on it, her sky blue nightie around her drenched in blood and sweat, her hair a matted sweaty mess, her eyes full of tears, her mouth hung open to scream, her hands ball up her nightie clawing at her own thighs in her agony. The sounds she made were enough to chill his very soul, they reminded him of the cries in violent pain that a dragon screams out when hurt and she seemed just as vicious and dangerous

"Where is my husband!" She screams,

Jacaerys cannot believe what he is seeing. He runs towards his wife's side, and stares at her with a mix of horror and concern. He cannot help but notice the blood, the sweat, in the state she is in. His first reaction is to reach out for her, to comfort his love, hold her, comfort her, to hold her close. But... her pain is immense, and her cries of agony are almost violent. Jacaerys feels like he is watching her being tortured. Jacaerys feels as if this statement cuts him deeper than any sword. " I... I'm here, my love..."

she grabbed him by the hand her grip tight and yet weak at the same time proving her exhaustion. "Jace... They wouldn't tell me where you were, they wouldn't find you, they wouldn't let me see you... I was so worried something might have happened to you" she cried hysterically

Jacaerys' heart was struck a blow. She had been concerned for his well-being. After the hours and hours she had been through, she was still thinking of him, his well-being. He couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt at her words. He squeezes her hand tightly. "I am here now, my love. Nothing could stop me. I am okay, do not worry about me. I am so glad to be with you now..."

"I ask one thing of you, my love"

Jacaerys looks into her eyes, kissing her hand and meeting her gaze nervously. "Anything."

"get. These. People. Out! Of! Our chambers!"

"Are you sure? All of them know more than we do."

"NOW!" she screamed, 

Jacaerys nods instantly. He would do anything to ensure his wife's comfort, and to see her pain end as quickly as possible, "Everyone out. Leave my wife to me,"

"Jacaerys-" His mother began,

"Now. She wants you gone just go." He demanded, 

the room clears of everyone but Y/n and jacaerys, which calms her slightly she kneels on the bed still gripping her thighs as she gasps

Jacaerys takes a seat next to her on the bed. He reaches out and places his hands on her shoulders, stroking her carefully. “Calm yourself, my love. This too shall pass. Do not worry about the pain. What you are experiencing is a natural part of life, my sweet. There is no need to fear it…” Jace smiles, hoping to comfort her, even though he knew well how difficult childbirth could be. He was only trying to ease her mind.

"I am so frightened... I'm am so so scared" she muttered between her tears

Jacaerys rubs her back gently, trying to comfort her. “I promise you, my love, nothing bad will happen to you. I have never seen a stronger woman than you, and I know, deep in my heart, that you can do this. You are going to be a mother.” Jace smiles, and squeezes her hands. Nothing bad will happen. “I am here, for you.”

she grabs his shirt as another contraction forces it's way through her and she screams loudly her voice echoing off the stone walls of Dragonstone

Jacaerys grips her hands, squeezing them tightly as he watches her suffer this pain. He fights the urge to call someone in, as he knew that more people would be of no help at all. But... he feels so useless, watching her writhe in pain. He wants to help. He wants it to stop. He wants his son to be born, too, but he hates seeing Y/n suffer like this.

"Jace... It's happening. It's happening the baby!" She screamed tears flooding down her face as she clawed as her thighs and her body shaking as she goes though this intense pain she screams louder then anything he has ever heard cursing and swearing at the child inside her as it forces her body to conform. She grabs Jace by the hair and puts her forehead to his as she cries and screams violently

Jacaerys grits his teeth, trying his best to remain strong for his wife. He squeezes her hands, tries to calm her, but cannot find the words. Her screams fill him with fear and worry. He doesn't want her to suffer like this, but he has no way to take away the pain. It is worse, by far, than anything he could have ever imagined for her with childbirth. He is almost helpless as he pulls her head down against his chest, wrapping his arms around her and squeezing her tight.

she screamed and leaned back clawing her thighs as she pulls up her nightie and as she does he sees the strange both beautiful and deeply horrifying sight of the birth of his child. Jace had only briefly seen the birth of his younger brothers but this moment was never something he had witnessed, he knew of course how children were born of course but he supposed in his mind he always imagined just crying, screaming and then being handed his beautiful baby, his idea was this was a beautiful and magical moment and in some ways it was but... It was also the sight of his wife convulsing with pain, screaming, clawing her thighs to the point of blood, as the blood and fluid covered head of Thier child ripped her open

Jacaerys stares as his wife experiences the worst pain he could imagine. A beautiful moment, indeed, but one filled with pain and a mess of blood and fluids. His face contorts as he watches this process, the screams of his lover filling his ears. He is filled with fear, seeing the woman he loves in so much pain. Jace looks away, but cannot help but look back at the process. It is almost like a horrific wreck, where you must watch. A mixture of beauty and horror, something that has no equal.

she is unable to stop now even if her body is tired even if she can't handle any more her body is physically unable to stop now, leaving her to cry hysterically and scream out a long scream that took her whole breath, she demanded Jace to take a blanket which he did as it was sudden. The baby's head appeared then it's neck, then it's shoulders and once past the shoulders the baby dropped out like an apple from a tree have quickly picked up the baby in the blanket wrapping it up,

Jace’s entire body is filled with shock and relief as he sees his child born, wrapped in the blanket. A surge of relief washes over him, and he breathes a sigh of gratitude to every god above, thankful that his wife and his son are both well. He stares, amazed, at the sight of the child. It is a mixture of awe and fear, the tiny life which he brought forth with Y/n. The baby moves in the blanket, still covered in fluid and blood. Jacaerys takes a step back, almost mesmerized and overwhelmed by emotions.

the baby whined and coughed bringing the first little cry

Jacaerys cannot help but smile at the first noises from the baby. The sounds are weak and hoarse at first, but begin to get stronger with every moment. He wants nothing more in that moment than to hold the tiny life that he helped bring to this world in his arms. However, he is too fearful to go any closer towards the child, as the fluid and blood which still cover him are not an inviting sight. He is unsure now which emotion is winning inside him: fear or relief.

Y/n doesn't even have time to react to their child as the process of the after birth strikes her but luckily given the agony she just went through this pain felt to her like nothing more then a stomach cramp and luckily goes off without a hitch, the after birth is quickly delivered and she flops on her back on the bed covered in her own blood and sweat as she holds her stomach "Is he okay..."

Jacaerys lets out a sigh as the afterbirth is delivered, The sounds of the baby’s cries grow stronger with each moment. Jacaerys turns to face his wife, still nervous by the sight of her covered in blood and bodily fluids, but he forces himself to focus on the positive. He cannot hold back a smile, one filled with relief and gratitude, “Yes, my love. He is okay. He is beautiful, and I cannot even describe how much I love his cry.” Jacaerys tries to look past the blood on her body, instead focusing on her face and looking for a smile. He wants to see her joy, her happiness at having given birth, to see that she is okay. His hands clench into fists as he looks at her, wanting so badly to hold her close but not wanting to make things worse by coming too near.

she smiled and opened her arms wanting to hold their baby

Jacaerys smiles in response, and watches as his wife reaches out her limbs towards their child. His heart flutters, as he realizes how much she is already loving the baby. He walks closer, and gently pulls the blanket away so she can hold him in her arms. Jacaerys also can finally take a good look at the small life he helped to create, his son, Lucaerys, which is now lying safely in Y/n’s arms.

Y/n holds the baby against her bare skin, the widest smile on her lips, she cares so life the blood and fluids that coat the both of them she kisses the head of baby Lucaerys and lets a tear slip as he cries

Jacaerys smiles wide at the scene of his wife with his baby in her arms. The tears of joy, the gentle, protective kisses she is placing on Lucaerys’ head... it is almost enough to make him cry as well. As the baby cries, Jacaarys comes forward again, and wraps his hands around Y/n, holding her tightly against him once more, wanting to comfort her, protect her, and comfort himself. He wants to be there for her, and their son. He wants to comfort them both.

"he's perfect. So very perfect." She muttered "our little boy, I praise all the gods in this universe for him"

“He's beautiful, Y/n. So beautiful.” Jace smiles softly as the baby cries. “Our little Lucaerys... he even has your eyes, I think.” Jace strokes his hands over her hair slightly, taking her in and realizing that he too was filled with that same sense of relief from seeing that she was well.

"he's perfect. So very perfect." She muttered "our little boy, I praise all the gods in this universe for him"

He wraps his arms around her again, pulling her and the baby into him, embracing his family. She smiled and laid her head on Jaces shoulder as she made sure they could both cradle baby Luke. Jace smiled, enjoying the sweet feeling of all three of them sharing that special, beautiful moment. He held her close, caressed her head once more, then looked down at their baby boy. The boy had calmed somewhat. He was still crying, but not as frantic as before. Jacaerys felt the most content he had ever been in his life, as he sat there, holding his wife and his son against himself.

The two share kisses and sweet words cooing over their baby for hours Y/n rests on the bed and jacaerys paces the room bouncing baby Luke in his arms as he once saw his father do to his brother's

Jace bounces the baby, trying his best to soothe him. He speaks kindly to him, uses a voice that he hopes would be calming and sweet. He whispers to him with words of encouragement, hoping that the child would be soothed. Eventually, his efforts pay off as the baby grows quieter. The baby stops crying, and only his light breathing could now be heard. Jace feels a rush of relief wash over him as he continues to bounce and hum to the baby, not wanting to put him back into Y/n's arms just yet.

"ohh ‘he's’ tired. I feel somewhat offended" Y/n chuckled as she noticed Luke fell asleep in jaces arms

Jace laughs at her comment, amused at her reaction. “The audacity of him,” He joked and He continues to hold Luke, not wanting to give him up just yet. There is something about holding your own child that is so precious and special. Jace knows he must return him to Y/n soon, but he cannot help but enjoy this time with little Lucaerys. He continues to hum songs quietly to the baby, holding him close to his chest.

"you have to put him in his crib sometime, Jace" she teased him

Jace rolls his eyes, chuckling. “Yes, my love. I suppose that is true. Though... I enjoy holding him. I have not let him go at all since he arrived. I wish I could carry him everywhere.” Jace laughed, holding him close.

"umm my boys, my sweet boys" she cooed at them enjoying the sight of her husband and son together, "come on, let me have a cuddle" she cooed opening her arms

Jace’s face flushes red slightly, as he knows he cannot deny that request. He looks to Lucaerys for a moment, then smiles and hands him over to Y/n. He loves to see her with their son.

"ohh hello little man, yes hello. Your daddy is giving you all the attention today. I get the feeling he shall spoil you" she cooed to baby Luke

Jace chuckles, watching her love their baby with such intensity. He knows she is going to provide him with the most love and attention, and he could not ask for a more perfect mother for his child. Jace takes a seat next to her, watching her with the baby, as she speaks. He does not want to break her focus from the child, but he also wants to be close to them both.

"You were so much trouble. So much trouble for such a little boy" she chuckled "worth it though. A thousand times over"

Jace laughed, his chest filling with warmth when he heard that. What was this feeling within him? Pure joy, mixed with the pride of being a father to such a beautiful child. He was proud of Y/n, for what she had gone through, for how well she handled it all. All of his previous fears had evaporated. “He was worth everything in this world, my love.”

This was not a moment to be afraid, but rather to celebrate the miracle of birth.