#if I do write these I have a feeling it's going to
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A Night Of Symphony



∿➤ Word Count: 15.2k (wowza...)
∿➤ Tags: Sylus x fem!reader, brat taming, dom/sub undertones, exhibitionism, public sex, jealousy, rough sex, possessiveness, unprotected sex, creampies, humiliation, overstimulation, teasing, nicknames like kitten, sweetie, dirty girl, aftercare at the end,
∿➤ Summary: The dress was just too sexy to leave on a hanger. He said no, that it was for his eyes only. Buuuut you wear it to the date anyways. After all, what's he going to do? Send you home? What was supposed to be a normal date turns into a punishment you'll never forget...
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"Please! Wait, I'm sorry! Not in front of all these people...Sylus!" you whined, trying to squirm away from him. But Sylus was unforgiving. Red mist curled around your limbs, spreading your legs apart and holding you in place to prevent you from escaping. You felt a surge of fear and coiling heat in your groin as you heard the sound of his zipper being undone. He was going to take you...right here?! As he leaned over you on the table, lining his hard cock up to your soaking entrance, you felt your walls squeeze in anticipation. You were horrified, but at the same time, you couldn't deny the excitement and arousal that was building inside you. "What's wrong? You wanted attention," Sylus whispered, his voice low and husky. "I'm giving it to you."
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∿➤ AN: Hi guys!! I was on a road trip, finally got back and had time to finish this!! You guys wanted more brat taming/jealous Sylus so I just had to deliver! First time writing public sex kinda nervous xDD. This has been sitting in my drafts for a bit. Pretty sure an anon asked for this scenario but I couldn't find the ask (つ╥﹏╥)つ. Quick reminder that my fics have no specific skintone or body type for the MC, I just used the image I felt best represented the dress! This is a self insert fic after all!! Enjoy! :33
@chwesuh-imnida @skylarkse @tapiokay @birdiegirl-jpeg @mcdepressed290 @zhrqnklii @hyphensei @cherrywinetuscany @fallen-herondales
“What are you still doing awake, kitten?”
The velvet rumble of his voice startled you so sharply that you jumped beneath your covers, sending your phone clattering painfully onto your face. You bit back a small yelp, heart racing so fiercely that it felt like it might burst through your ribcage.
He was back already? How was that possible? More importantly, how was he so utterly silent? You hadn't heard the soft creak of the door or the whisper of footsteps on the floor—nothing. Just silence, as if he'd materialized out of thin air.
Slowly, your eyes adjusted to the dimness, making out Sylus’s figure looming gracefully by the doorway. He leaned against the frame casually, but there was an unmistakable, amused gleam in his eyes.
“You startled me, Sy” you breathed, heart still hammering wildly.
He crosses the room quietly, each step muffled by the plush rug on the floor, until he's sitting gently on the edge of the bed. You sense the mattress dip beneath his weight and instinctively clutch the blanket tighter around yourself, cocooned in warmth and nervous anticipation.
Slowly, he leans forward, and you feel his eyes studying you intently through the layers of fabric still drawn protectively over your face. The warmth of his presence radiates through the thin barrier, sending a subtle shiver down your spine.
“Clearly,” he murmured, lips curving into a shadowy smile. “I asked a question. Why are you still up? Don't hide from me.”
You hesitate before responding, gathering the courage to reveal yourself. With a slow breath, you lower the blanket just enough to peek out, meeting his gaze tentatively. His red eyes gleam with a mixture of gentle humor and unmistakable affection, illuminated faintly by the soft glow of moonlight slipping through the parted curtains.
You quickly rack your brain for an excuse, heart racing slightly with the anxiety of being caught. Admitting outright that you'd blatantly defied his clear instructions—spending the night binge-watching the entire new season he'd specifically told you not to—was absolutely out of the question. The thought of confessing made your stomach twist nervously.
Instead, you summoned your sweetest, most innocent expression, softening your features as convincingly as possible. You let your lower lip quiver ever so slightly, eyes widening just enough to enhance your sincerity. Leaning toward him, you pout gently, drawing out a soft, pleading tone.
"I was just so excited about our date that's coming up," you murmured, voice infused with just the right amount of vulnerability. "I couldn't sleep, Sylus. I'm really sorry. I just kept imagining everything we'd do together, and I couldn't settle down at all."
You watched him carefully, hoping your performance was convincing enough to distract him from the truth. The gentle whine in your voice was carefully calculated, aiming to soften his reaction and win him over. Internally, your breath caught in anticipation, awaiting his response and hoping fervently he'd let the matter slide.
Sylus chuckles softly, a low and melodic sound that sends a shiver down your spine, gently tugging the blanket away until your face is completely visible. His eyes gleam with amusement and a touch of affectionate authority as he gazes down at you.
"That's a cute lie, sweetie," he murmurs softly, the edge of a smile playing at his lips, "but you know better. Hand me your phone, its bedtime."
You immediately pout, lips pursing stubbornly, and let out a small, frustrated huff. It figures, your carefully practiced attempt at innocent charm didn't fool him for a moment. You feel your cheeks flush, embarrassment mingling with irritation as the playful challenge in his tone ignites a stubborn defiance within you.
Frustration bubbles steadily up from your chest, intensifying the urge to push his buttons just a bit further. After all, you had been completely absorbed, deeply invested in the climax of your favorite show's newest episode. How could he expect you to stop right at the best part?
Impulsively, and with a hint of rebellious bravado, you slip your phone quickly down your shirt, clutching it tightly against your breasts like a prized possession. You arch an eyebrow challengingly, tilting your head at an angle that you hope appears both daring and irresistibly adorable. Your eyes widen with exaggerated sorrow, a deliberate pout forming as your voice drips dramatically with heartfelt pleading.
"But Sy...I was almost done! Please? Just a few more minutes..." Your voice trails off into a soft whine, perfectly pitched to tug at his patience and affection alike, hoping desperately that perhaps this time, just this once, you could sway him to your side.
Sylus sighs, the weight of authority settling over him like a second skin. The playful glint that had momentarily lit his features vanishes, replaced by a steady, unflinching seriousness as his eyes fix on you with unrelenting focus. His tone drops, calm but absolute.
"You know how this ends. Hand it over or get the belt."
You meet his gaze without flinching, your chin tilting up in that familiar display of defiance, eyes narrowing with mock challenge. "Actually," you say, voice laced with sass and boldness, "I've decided I rather enjoy the belt."
A slow chuckle rumbles from Sylus's chest, his body relaxing ever so slightly as he straightens. There's amusement dancing behind his serious exterior now, though it doesn't soften the power in his presence. "Is that so?" he murmurs, his smile spreading into something more dangerous. "Then I suppose I’ll need to get creative. Clearly, the belt isn’t much of a deterrent for such a feisty kitten."
Your curiosity flares, mixing with adrenaline. The tension between the two of you is thick enough to cut. You shift slightly, leaning toward him on instinct, drawn in by the dangerous allure of his words. "What kind of punishment?" you ask, voice low and teasing, though your heart skips a beat in anticipation.
Sylus doesn’t blink. His gaze sharpens like a blade honed for a single purpose. The warmth vanishes completely again, replaced with that signature calm intensity that always has you second-guessing your next move. He leans in slowly, bringing his face inches from yours, the air between you thick with challenge.
"Trust me" his voice low, voice like ice over fire, deliberate and slow. "You won’t like it."
You feel your confidence falter slightly, the weight of his words cutting through your boldness like a slow-burning ember. A small, involuntary shiver rolls down your spine, and you grit your teeth against the urge to show weakness. You could still play this off. But part of you knew he’d already won this round.
Alright, enough playtime then.
Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing you waver, you let out another dramatic huff, shoulders stiff with attitude. With a deliberate, theatrical flourish, you pull the phone from your shirt and toss it beside him on the bed like it meant nothing. Your pride bristles, cheeks flushing slightly with a mix of frustration and reluctant submission. Crossing your arms tight across your chest, you turn your back to him with a final flick of your hair and yank the blanket up to your chin in an exaggerated sulk.
Behind you, there's a pause. Then a low chuckle rumbles from his chest—a rich, amused sound that coils around your spine like velvet rope. It only fuels your frustration. Of course, he was enjoying this. You bite your lip to keep from saying something snarky.
You hear the faint click as he picks up your phone and plugs it into the charger on the nightstand. The soft rustle of clothing follows, as he unbuttons, unzips, and shrugs out of the day’s attire with slow, practiced movements. Each sound, normally so mundane, seems deafening in the charged silence of the room. You can picture it perfectly: the way he moves with controlled precision, like everything he does is measured and intentional.
The mattress dips behind you as he climbs in, the shift in weight pressing toward your side. Your body tenses instinctively, but it’s too late to retreat—his arms, still cool from the air outside the blanket, wrap around you from behind. You shiver again as his bare skin meets yours, his touch both startling and grounding.
His hands are slow and deliberate as they slide beneath your shirt, fingers splaying wide across your stomach. The chill of his touch sends goosebumps across your skin, but it’s the quiet authority in his movements that leaves you breathless.
You try to keep your breathing steady, to ignore the heat creeping up your neck and the flutter in your chest.
To distract yourself, you start tracing lazy circles on his arm with your fingertip, the motion slow and repetitive. The silence stretches between you, comfortable but thick with unspoken things.
"Are you going to sleep?" you whisper quietly, voice almost lost in the stillness. "You don't usually lay down at this time."
Sylus shifts slightly behind you, then gently captures your hand with his, intertwining his fingers through yours. The grip is firm but tender, as if anchoring you in place. "No," he says softly, voice rumbling low and warm, close to your ear. "But you should be. I just wanted to hold you."
You exhale slowly at that, a small sigh slipping from your lips as you finally shut your eyes. The weight of the day and the tension from earlier begin to pull at your limbs, making them feel heavier beneath the blanket.
The room falls into a deeper silence, the only sound a low hum from the air conditioner. It's rhythmic, almost soothing, blending with the warmth of his body and the faint scent of his skin. You try to focus on that—on the quiet, on his presence, on the safety of being wrapped up like this.
You really do try to sleep.
But your mind won’t stop.
Thoughts begin to unravel in the dark, slipping past the quiet and creeping in from the corners. What if he was truly upset? What if he decided not to take you dress shopping tomorrow after all? The thought lands heavy in your chest. You'd been so excited for that. It wasn’t just about the clothes...it was about being with him, about that shared promise to spoil you and spend time together.
You shift slightly under the covers, trying not to disturb him, but your chest tightens at the thought. You didn’t want to admit it, but the idea of upsetting him unsettled you more than you expected. Regret starts to swirl low in your stomach.
You hesitate, lips parting but no sound comes out. The words feel heavy and unformed, sitting at the back of your throat like a storm refusing to break. Your heart pounds louder with each passing second, but still you stall, caught between the need to speak and the fear of what might come out if you do.
"Speak, kitten. What is it?”
His voice startles you slightly. You hadn’t realized you were being so obvious—but then again, you’re not truly surprised. Sylus didn't need to see your face to know exactly what’s going on inside your head. Of course he read you. Of course he pulled the words straight from your silence before you even formed them.
His arms don’t loosen around you, but you feel the subtle shift in his breathing, the change in energy that lets you know he’s listening. The silence that follows feels like a space made just for your voice.
Swallowing the tightness in your throat, you squeeze your fist together out of nervousness.
"I'm really sorry I didn't listen," you murmur, your voice fragile and laced with guilt. "Please don't be mad at me..."
The words trail off into a soft whimper, barely audible, as though your throat might close up from the shame of it. There’s a pause—long enough for anxiety to twist deeper into your gut—then a low, comforting hum from Sylus. Not angry. Just...aware. As if he’d been expecting your apology all along.
Instead of scolding or lecturing, he simply tightens his embrace, pulling you flush against him. The warmth of his chest at your back, the steady rhythm of his breathing—it’s all grounding. Then, without a word, he leans in and places a gentle kiss at the nape of your neck. The touch is tender and slow, but it ignites a quick, involuntary squeal from you as the ticklish sensation catches you off guard.
"I'm not mad, sweetie," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your skin with each syllable. "You're so cute when you talk back to me. Just makes me want to put you in your place."
A wave of heat rolls through you—part embarrassment, part flustered excitement—and before you can formulate a reply, he’s already planting more kisses along your neck. One after another, feather-light and teasing, like he’s drawing out your reaction on purpose. He moves with methodical affection, pressing his lips into every spot he knows will make you squirm.
"S-Sylus—! Hah—s-stop! Hahaha—"
You writhe beneath the onslaught of sensation, laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. It’s not just giggles—it’s full-on helpless, breathless fits of laughter. You can’t escape him, not that you want to. Each kiss, each whisper-soft graze of his lips fuels the warmth between you, washing away every lingering trace of anxiety.
Your fingers dig lightly into his hand, still entwined with yours, as your body folds into his in surrender. His chuckle vibrates against your back, deep and satisfied, and he finally relents just enough to let you catch your breath.
"That’s better," he murmurs, voice low and amused. "There’s that sweet laugh I love so much."
You can only nod, breath hitching with the last of your giggles, your heart still fluttering wildly in your chest. The sound of your laughter lingers briefly in the air, mixing with the low hum of the air conditioner and the warmth of Sylus’s breath at your neck. You take a few deep breaths, letting your body finally begin to relax, pressing a little more into his body as his arms remain wrapped firmly around you.
Still, a flicker of uncertainty gnaws at you, making your thoughts race in circles again. The feeling of peace threatens to slip away before it can settle fully. Almost cautiously, you shift slightly in his embrace, enough to turn and catch a glimpse of his face. The room is dim, shadows playing across his features, but his eyes—crimson and sharp—lock onto yours with that familiar, unreadable calm.
"So...you’re still taking me dress shopping tomorrow?" you ask softly, tentatively. Your voice barely breaks the silence. "For our date later this week?"
His expression doesn’t change immediately, and for a breath, you brace yourself. Then he raises a hand and gently cups your cheek, thumb brushing lightly against your skin. His palm is warm, steady, grounding. His gaze softens, the hard edge in his eyes mellowing into something closer to fondness.
"Of course," he replies, his tone low, patient, reassuring. "I'd never go back on a promise for a punishment."
Relief blooms quietly in your chest, loosening a knot of tension you hadn’t realized you were still holding. Your eyes flutter closed for a moment, just feeling the safety of his presence. But before you can fully settle into that comfort, he adds, almost casually—
"I'll find some other punishment, though."
Your heart skips.
Just like that, your excitement sinks like a stone. His voice wasn’t threatening, just certain. Of course. Just because he wasn’t angry didn’t mean you’d gotten away with anything. Sylus didn’t yell. But he remembered everything. And he always followed through.
You feel your smile waver, the momentary joy dimming under the reminder. You glance down, unsure how to respond, suddenly very aware of how small you feel curled up in his arms. A punishment was still coming. That fact hung in the air between you—unspoken, but undeniable.
Still, you nodded, trying your best to swallow the unease rising in your throat. You deserved it. But maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe it would be something small. But then again, this was Sylus. He didn’t do anything halfway.
You glance up at him once more, but his eyes are closed now, his face unreadable in its stillness. Calm. In control. Like he’s already made up his mind.
At least the shopping trip was safe. That much you could hold onto.
"Do you like this one? I don't like the way it makes my hips look," you say, fidgeting slightly as you turn yourself from side to side in front of the full-length mirror. The soft fabric clings just a bit tighter than you'd expected, hugging your frame in a way that feels more exposing than flattering. Your brows knit together in mild frustration as you tug at the hem, trying to make sense of how you feel in the dress.
The lighting in the boutique is warm, casting a soft glow on everything, and yet you can’t shake the tiny insecurity worming its way into your chest. Maybe it’s the cut. Maybe it’s just you being overly critical. You glance over your shoulder, checking the back view, before turning back toward Sylus.
True to his word, he had taken you dress shopping, just as he’d promised. Just the two of you combing through hangers of fabric and color, trying to find the perfect look for your upcoming date. It had been surprisingly peaceful—well, as peaceful as it could be under Sylus’s intense, unwavering gaze.
He sat relaxed but purposeful in a sleek, high-backed chair inside the dressing room. One leg crossed over the other, his posture almost regal, he looked as though he belonged there. His gaze hadn’t left you since you tried on the first outfit, and now, he was studying you in this one like you were the only thing that existed.
His eyes followed your every move, drinking in the dress, your posture, the subtle discomfort written across your face. And yet, he didn’t look unimpressed. Quite the opposite, actually.
"Well, I surely do," he said, voice smooth and steady. The words weren’t rushed. They landed softly, but firmly, like stone against silk. "What's not to like about this one?"
It wasn’t really a question. Not the way he said it. His tone had a quiet authority to it, the kind that offered no room for negotiation. No doubt he was already planning to buy it for you.
"I mean...it is cute. I'm probably overthinking it. But I can't choose," you sigh, turning back to the mirror with a dramatic pout. You shift your weight, spinning slightly from side to side as you examine yourself from every angle.
The dress you're wearing is undeniably flattering—a soft blue color that complements your skin perfectly. It's cinched at the waist with delicate, hand-stitched pleating that cascades down into a fluttery, layered skirt ending just above the knee. The fabric moves like air, graceful and light, and the subtle sweetheart neckline lifts the entire silhouette into something that feels almost ethereal.
Your eyes drift down to the way it hugs your hips. Not tightly, but just enough to make you hyperaware. You smooth your hands over it, hesitating. "I just don’t know if it’s right for me."
Sylus, still seated in a sleek leather chair inside the fitting room area, watches you with a steady, unreadable gaze. In one hand, he flips a silver coin between his fingers, the metallic shimmer catching the boutique lights.
"Then don’t choose," he says, voice calm, almost indulgent. "I can buy all the dresses here and you can pick later."
You turn toward him, the corners of your mouth pulling into a greedy, amused smile. There it was—classic Sylus. Always ready to buy you an entire store.
"No, no, Sy," you giggle, stepping back toward the mirror. Your fingers fumble for the zipper as you glance at him over your shoulder. "We don't want to stress out the seamstress like last time. Remember the look on her face when you cleared an entire rack?"
He chuckles lowly, a soft, knowing sound, still flipping the coin like it’s second nature. The casual rhythm of metal against his fingers provides a quiet percussion to the moment. He leans back slightly in the chair, eyes following your every movement. His gaze doesn't falter—not when you turn, not when your hand reaches for the zipper, not when you begin to slide the fabric down.
As the dress loosens at your shoulders, you feel the air kiss your skin, and the warmth of his gaze makes your breath catch. Even though he hasn't moved from his seat, the weight of his attention alone is enough to make your heart flutter. He looks at you like he’s committing every detail to memory—like he’s not just looking at the dress, but at you in it, and everything that it implies.
You carefully hang the dress back on its hanger, smoothing it one last time before turning toward the next set of options. Sylus is still watching, the coin now resting idle in his palm. He doesn’t speak, but the message is clear in the slight curve of his lips, the content gleam in his eyes.
He’s enjoying this—every second of it.
Trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck as you sort through dresses in nothing but your underwear, you let your hand glide slowly across the rack of delicate fabrics. The cool air of the boutique brushes against your bare skin, making every brush of silk and satin feel that much more intimate. You keep your back to Sylus, focusing on the colors and textures before you, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing how flustered you are.
You only have a few selections left, each one more dramatic than the last. Your fingers finally stop on one—a strikingly short dark red dress, smooth and heavy beneath your touch, rich like wine and just as bold. It cowl neckline that drapes softly across the chest, the kind of piece that demands attention. You slide it carefully from the rack, holding it up in front of you to get a better look. The color deepens in the light, casting a sensual glow against your skin.
"Do you think I'd look good in red, Sylus?" you call out, trying to keep your voice light, playful, though there’s a hint of challenge tucked beneath your words.
From behind you, you hear the low, familiar rumble of his chuckle. It's quiet but unmistakably amused.
"I think you already know the answer to that, kitten," he replies, his tone dripping with confidence. The sound of his voice washes over you and you don’t have to turn around to know he’s watching you closely—his eyes locked onto the smooth lines of your back, the subtle sway of your hips, the blush rising beneath your skin.
You smirk faintly, keeping your back to him. "Just testing you," you murmur, letting the fabric slip through your fingers with calculated ease. The dress flutters slightly as it falls against your side, your fingers tightening around the hanger as if deciding whether to commit to the game you're playing or to let it end here.
Then he speaks again, voice slightly lower, smoother. "Keep testing me, and I might just decide you don't need to wear another dress. Or anything else for that matter."
Your breath catches, and you bite your lip to keep from smiling too much.
You slip the deep red satin dress on, the fabric gliding over your skin like melted silk. It fits like a second skin—clinging to your waist, tracing your curves with deliberate elegance. Thin straps rest gently on your shoulders, while the cowl neckline drapes low across your chest, soft and suggestive without trying too hard. The dress pools and hugs down your hips, smoothing over your body until it parts at your thigh with a daring slit, flashing skin with every step.
You step back a little, breath catching as you see yourself in the mirror. This one is different. There's something magnetic about the way the fabric clings to you, as if it knows exactly what kind of power it's meant to wield. Your eyes sparkle with awe as you take in the full effect, twisting slightly to see how the dress moves with you, every sway of your hips bringing it to life.
Excitedly, you turn toward Sylus, unable to keep the thrill out of your voice. "What do you think? I love this one!! It’s so flattering!"
He lifts his gaze slowly, taking you in from head to toe. His eyes drag over every inch of you with methodical precision, lingering just long enough at every curve to make your skin heat under the weight of it. His nod is subtle, but there’s no mistaking the approval in his expression. Then he makes a small circling motion with his finger, the command in the gesture unmistakable.
"Spin for me, sweetie."
A touch of shyness creeps into your expression, but it’s laced with something else—something charged. You obey, slowly turning on the spot. The dress flares with your movement, the slit revealing your thigh as the dress shifts gracefully. You can feel his eyes following every shift of fabric, every breath you take. You finish the slow twirl and meet his gaze, your smile wide, heart fluttering.
Sylus uncrosses his leg, his smile deepening as he leans forward slightly. There’s a quiet hunger in his eyes, but it’s tempered by that unshakable control.
"Very flattering..." he says finally, his voice smooth as silk. Then he tilts his head slightly, the corners of his mouth curving. "Not for our date though."
Your smile falters, the excitement flickering like a candle in a sudden gust of wind. You blink, caught off guard, and your shoulders pull in slightly as your brow furrows. Crossing your arms, you let out a soft, incredulous scoff.
"Why not? I actually like this one! It looks great on me..."
He pockets the coin he was flipping and stands up, the smooth glide of metal vanishing into his jacket as he rises with effortless authority. "It does. I'll still get it for you," he says, his voice calm but resolute, "but you're not wearing it on our date. That's the kind of dress only I should see you in."
He walks closer, his steps slow and deliberate, each one echoing with purpose across the boutique floor. His presence expands with every stride, until he's standing directly in front of you. You have to tilt your head up slightly to meet his gaze. His eyes roam over you with a possessive intensity, gleaming with satisfaction as he takes in your pouty expression. The small frown on your lips only seems to amuse him more.
The air shifts subtly between you. The way he looks at you makes your pulse quicken. You cross your arms instinctively, trying to hold onto your resistance, but it’s slipping, bit by bit.
"Besides," he adds, his voice dipping lower, the words curling around your ear like silk, "this should also teach you to listen to me when I tell you to go to bed."
Now you're irritated. More than irritated. Your arms remain crossed tightly over your chest as you drop your gaze to the boutique floor, jaw clenched as if it might hold back everything you want to say. Your mind spins, cycling through a dozen snarky, smartass retorts that would feel so good to throw in his face—each one sharper than the last. You want to bite back. You want to push him, just one more time. But even as the words form on your tongue, something stops you.
Frustration builds thick and fast, coiling hot in your chest and rising behind your eyes like a tide. You blink rapidly, but it's no use—you feel tears welling, traitorous and burning.
Bastard probably planned this from the start, huh? Getting you all worked up, making you try on that dress just so he could take it away from you the second you liked it. It had felt like power in your hands, and he’d reminded you, with maddening ease, who it truly belonged to.
You sniff quietly, trying to force the storm back down. But Sylus, of course, notices everything. He always does. And he definitely senses the shift in your posture, the tension in your breath, the subtle quake just beneath your skin. Without a word, he steps closer, and his hand reaches out gently, his fingers curling under your chin.
He lifts your face with controlled, deliberate care, guiding your eyes to his. There’s nothing harsh in his touch.
His gaze is steady, piercing but calm. His crimson eyes, so often intense and unreadable, are soft now—yet no less commanding. There’s no trace of mockery.
Just firm understanding.
"Think about what you're about to say before you say it, kitten," he murmurs, his voice low and unwavering. "You know just as well as I do that this isn't for no reason, don't throw a tantrum now."
You glare at him tearfully, biting your tongue hard enough that it almost hurts. Your throat feels tight, and you try to keep your breathing steady, even as frustration and emotion swirl in your chest. You don't want to cry, but the pressure is mounting fast. He's right, you do deserve this for your little stunt last night. Plus part of you already knew he'd never let you go out in a dress so revealing, as possessive as he is. And yet...
"I said I was sorry though..."
"I know. Just breathe, it's okay," Sylus says softly, his voice calm and steady, like he's done this a hundred times. He steps closer, gently leaning in to plant a series of soft, grounding kisses across your forehead. The contact is light, careful, and entirely focused—likely an attempt to soothe you, to keep the tears from spilling.
His touch is gentle but assured, the warmth of each kiss lingering as if to remind you you're still safe, even in this vulnerable moment. You close your eyes briefly, soaking in the sensation, letting his presence steady your spinning thoughts.
"You do look beautiful, sweetie," he murmurs, his lips brushing the skin just above your brow. "That dress makes me want to hide you away forever."
He chuckles lightly, the sound low and rich, more amused than possessive, but the intent behind the words still lands. It’s a compliment, wrapped in a veiled promise. The way he says it makes something flutter in your chest—equal parts flustered and comforted.
You let out a long breath, the tension slowly melting from your shoulders. A slight laugh escapes you despite yourself, soft and short. The moment stretches quietly between you as you finally meet his eyes again, that little laugh bridging the gap between too much and just enough.
Sylus makes you take breaths to calm down, standing close as he grounds you with soft words and steady hands. The sting in your chest slowly eases, not gone but muted under the heat of his presence. Eventually, with a few deep breaths and a few more kisses, the emotional storm begins to clear. You cling to those small touches like lifelines, letting the strength of his calm cut through the noise in your head.
You end up picking out several other dresses—more modest, more suitable to Sylus's liking—though you don’t leave behind the red one. The forbidden one. No, that one you make sure he remembers his promise to buy it too, even if you’re not allowed to wear it out. It’s a small victory, tucked in a shopping bag, but a satisfying one. A quiet reminder to both of you that you still have him wrapped around your finger.
You understand his intentions. Sylus wants to teach you. Guide you. Protect you. But he also likes it when you push. And push. And push. It’s what drew him in the first place. You almost never follow his instructions without a little twist, a challenge in your eyes, a stubborn flicker in your smile. You toe the line on purpose. He knows it, and even when he pretends to disapprove, you can feel the way his eyes heat every time you do.
And so, the night of the date arrives.
The reservation is set for 9:30. The day has been a slow crawl of anticipation. You’d spent hours preparing—showering, shaving, choosing every accessory with intention. You're dressed and ready, hair styled just the way he likes, makeup subtle but striking. The kind of effort that looks effortless. You examine yourself in the mirror and smile, knowing exactly the reaction you want to get.
Sylus had some last-minute business to wrap up and called to inform you that Luke and Kieran would be driving you to the restaurant instead.
You're just about to add the finishing touches to your makeup when your eyes shift toward the walk-in closet. You pause, brush in hand, frozen mid-motion as something glittering catches your attention through the open door.
The dress.
It hangs there like a promise and a threat all at once, its deep crimson fabric shimmering under the soft closet lights. Just enough sparkle to catch your eye. Just enough memory attached to make your pulse skip.
You stare at it for a long second, your reflection caught between the mirror and the open closet. The neckline, the slit, the way it hugged your body when you tried it on—it all flashes through your mind in vivid detail. You can practically feel the sensation of the cool fabric against your skin again.
No...don’t. That’s the first thought. The logical one. If you showed up wearing that, you wouldn't just get a lecture. You’d be in trouble. Real trouble. Sylus had been crystal clear—this dress was not for the public. It was too much. Too exposed. Absolutely, unquestionably off-limits.
But then your mind drifts.
God, it would be satisfying to see his face. To watch that flicker of emotion crack across his usually controlled expression. Shock. Disbelief. Fury, maybe. But that other thing too…heat. Possession. The way his jaw tightens and his eyes narrow when he sees you in something you’re not supposed to wear.
You press your lips together, heartbeat thumping louder in your chest. It would be the ultimate power move. The perfect rebellion. The sweetest revenge—all wrapped in satin and silk.
Your hand lowers the makeup brush slowly to the counter, a new kind of clarity settling over you. You glance at the clock ticking steadily in the background. You’ve got time. Enough time to change, to slip into that forbidden second skin and still be ready before the car pulls up.
Then your eyes drift back to the dress, and you make the decision before you even realize it.
A spark lights in your chest.
It was worth it.
You move toward the closet, the rustle of your current outfit the only sound in the room as you reach for the hanger. The fabric feels just as dangerous as you remember. And the thrill that surges through you as you unzip your current dress and step into the red one?
Unmatched.
If you were going to make Sylus mad, you were going to look damn good doing it.
You fastened the last strap on your heels, stood tall, and gave yourself one last look in the mirror. The dress clung like it had been made for you, sculpting your shape and catching the light with every small movement. You smirked at your reflection, applying a final touch of gloss to your lips.
Luke’s arrival text arrived just as you finished adjusting your earrings.
You hurried down the stairs, each step echoing with the click of your heels. Your pulse was racing—not with anxiety, but exhilaration. The air outside was cool, brushing against your skin like a secret. The night felt charged, alive, and your anticipation buzzed just beneath the surface.
The sleek black car was already waiting at the curb, headlights low and humming softly. You walked with practiced elegance, hips swaying, shoulders back.
The moment you approached, Luke's voice called out from the driver's seat. "Hi Miss! Are you—oh..."
His words trailed off awkwardly. You couldn’t see his face through the mask, but the way his back straightened, the stiffness in his posture, it told you everything. He looked down and away, clearly trying not to stare.
Kieran, seated in the passenger seat, leaned out the window slightly to greet you, but the words caught in his throat the moment he saw you. His body tensed, and he quickly turned his head forward again. "Y-you uh...look nice, Miss! Very nice! Hold tight, we’ll be there in thirty minutes."
You smiled to yourself as you opened the back door and slid into the car with the grace of someone who knew exactly what they were doing. The cool leather met your skin, and you crossed your legs slowly, deliberately, shifting your dress in the right position.
The door shut with a soft click behind you, and you leaned back into the seat, exhaling slowly through your nose. You could feel the heat of your own boldness rising through your chest.
You peered over curiously when Kieran’s phone rang, his screen lighting up with a contact you didn’t need to see to recognize. The way he straightened in his seat told you everything.
"Yes, bossman? Yes, we have her," he said calmly, though the tips of his fingers twitched nervously, betraying the tension rising in his voice.
There was a beat of silence. Then—
"She is. Yes. Red."
Your heart jumped. A thrill sparked in your chest. Was he referring to the dress? Of course he was.
Now you were really intrigued.
Kieran’s posture stiffened with each passing second, his fingers tapping anxiously on his knee. "Yes...I’ll try and forget what I saw of it, sir."
The call ended abruptly.
You sat back with a sly little smile tugging at the corners of your lips, your heart pounding with excitement. So Sylus knew. You imagined the look on his face, the way his jaw would clench, that barely restrained tension in his voice. The idea alone made your blood buzz. You’d pulled off your little rebellion—and now he was waiting for you.
Neither twin turned to look at you for the rest of the ride. Their usual banter and light conversation vanished entirely, replaced with stony silence. Every so often you caught Luke adjusting the rearview mirror, only to look away again immediately.
It was kind of funny, honestly.
Even when you were dropped off at the restaurant and turned to thank them for the ride, both Luke and Kieran kept their eyes fixed anywhere but on you—the dashboard, the sidewalk, the sky, the inside of their own eyelids if they could.
Luke gave a stiff nod, his voice a little too formal. "Have a good evening, Miss."
Kieran didn’t even try to speak. He just gave a small wave without making a sound.
The doors closed behind you with a soft finality, and you stood on the curb in your red dress, heels perfectly balanced, the night breeze curling around your legs. You smoothed your hands down the sides of your dress, feeling the heat of anticipation crawl up your spine.
You tilted your head toward the front doors of the restaurant, already picturing Sylus inside. His eyes narrowing. That slight scowl of his lip as he realized nothing was stopping strangers from getting a good look.
You readjusted the back of your dress as you walked through the doors, tugging the hem down slightly. For the first time that night, you almost—almost—regretted choosing such a short dress on a chilly evening in the N109 Zone. The air bit at your skin with each step, but you refused to let it show. You had a statement to make.
Just as you reached the entrance to the restaurant, one of the tall, polished doors swung open abruptly.
Sylus.
He stood framed in the doorway, and you nearly jumped out of your skin at the sudden appearance—but you caught yourself, forcing your body to still and quickly recollecting your cool.
He looked devastatingly composed. He wore a tailored dark red suit, deep burgundy that matched the storm in his eyes. The jacket was sharp at the shoulders and tapered flawlessly at the waist, paired with a black shirt underneath—no tie. The top buttons were undone just enough to hint at the inked lines of his collarbone. Gold cufflinks glinted subtly at his wrists. Every inch of him screamed wealth, danger, and absolute control.
You felt your heartbeat pick up just looking at him.
Not wanting to seem thrown off, you quickly approached him, heels clicking confidently against the ground. Your chin was lifted, your pace graceful. You had come this far. You weren't going to flinch now.
Heart pounding, you lean up and press a kiss to Sylus’s cheek, your lips brushing the sharp edge of his jaw. "I'm honestly shocked you finished up in time to be here first."
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he stares at you. Slowly. Thoroughly. His gaze sweeps from the curve of your shoulder down the edge of your chest, across your waist, and along the hemline that danced dangerously high on your thighs. It’s not just a look—it’s an inspection, like he’s committing every inch of forbidden fabric to memory. And yet, there’s no fire in his expression. No sharp inhale. No trace of visible disapproval.
A slow smirk curls at the corner of his mouth. "Well," he drawls, voice like velvet over a blade, "some provocations require a live audience."
Your breath catches. What was that supposed to mean? You brace yourself. Surely, now he’ll say something about the dress. A warning. A quiet reprimand. That delicious falter of control in his voice, the one that always signaled you’d gone too far—just far enough. You wait for the shift, the cold edge in his tone, the tightening of his grip.
But it never comes.
Instead, he leans in, presses a slow, deliberate kiss to your lips—one that lingers just long enough to confuse you. It isn't possessive. It isn’t punishing. It’s maddeningly gentle. It offers no ground to react to, no footing for you to push against. Just soft pressure and warmth.
"You look gorgeous," he murmurs, his voice low and even, as if it’s the most obvious statement in the world.
Then he places a firm hand on your waist and guides you smoothly inside. You blink, slightly thrown.
That's it? That was all he had to say?
Your heels click against the polished marble of the entryway, and the restaurant’s soft ambient lighting bathes you both in gold as you move together like something choreographed. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t break stride. Every step he takes is unhurried, precise, like he has every second of the night under control.
The silence between you doesn’t break. It thickens. It hums beneath your skin, pressing in around the edges of your thoughts. You can feel it—the restraint. The deliberateness. He hasn’t said a word about the dress. Not even a glance that scolds.
And somehow, that’s worse.
When you reach the table, he pulls out your chair for you with the same graceful control. His hand doesn’t leave your waist until the moment you sit.
Then he takes his seat across from you, unhurried, leaning back slightly like he has all the time in the world. Like he’s letting you stew. Like he’s waiting for you to realize something you haven’t yet.
His expression is unreadable, lips neutral, eyes sharp. Razor sharp. But not angry. There’s no tension in his jaw. No crack in his composure. That makes it harder. Makes you second-guess every choice you made tonight. Every breath. Every inch of red fabric clinging to your skin.
You shift slightly in your chair, adjusting the hem of your dress even though you told yourself you wouldn’t. His eyes follow the movement, subtle but unmistakable. You offer a sheepish smile, trying to play it off—trying not to let him see that the tension was starting to get to you. That the silence, the composure, the absence of reaction—it was all beginning to unravel your confidence. It was maddening. He should've said something by now. Anything. But instead, he just sat there, poised and unreadable, like the calm before a storm you couldn't predict.
You force yourself to breathe and glance down at your hands resting in your lap. You were supposed to feel powerful right now. That was the whole point. To wear the dress. To catch his attention. To push the boundary just enough to feel the crack in his control. But he hadn't cracked. Not even a hairline fracture. And now, the silence felt like a trap.
Then something clicks.
You frown slightly and glance around, your eyes moving slowly across the room. A host hadn’t guided you to your table. There was no maître d’, no smiling server waiting with menus. This wasn’t some casual diner where people just sat wherever they wanted. This place was luxurious, upscale, the kind of restaurant where every detail was curated. There should have been someone at the entrance, someone offering champagne, someone announcing your name.
But there wasn’t.
You look around again, this time more carefully.
Your stomach begins to twist as your eyes move from one empty table to another. The tables around you are vacant. So are the ones farther in. There’s no clinking of cutlery, no background hum of conversation, no servers weaving between tables balancing trays. You hadn’t passed a single person on the way in. Not even another guest.
The soft background music playing is the only sound, and suddenly it feels loud against the unnatural stillness of the room.
What was going on? This place is usually packed. Especially on a weekend, there should be people everywhere.
Your pulse picks up. You shift again in your chair, this time out of unease rather than vanity. You open your mouth, ready to ask—something, anything—when Sylus finally speaks.
"How was the ride here?" he asks casually, his voice smooth, calm, as if you hadn’t just stumbled onto something that suddenly made the room feel colder.
You blink, caught completely off guard by the question. Your eyes snap back to him. He’s looking at you like nothing’s wrong, like he hasn’t noticed a thing. But you know better. You know him.
He knows exactly what you’ve realized.
And that’s when it hits you.
He planned this.
The lack of other patrons. The way the restaurant had looked open from the outside, but felt like a stage once you stepped in. He'd arranged every inch of it. Every absence. Every silence. Every second without interruption.
You don’t know whether to be flattered or terrified.
Your mouth opens, then closes again. You force a little smile, trying not to show how unsettled you suddenly feel. "It was...fine," you reply softly, your voice thinner than you intended, the words barely registering as your thoughts race.
Sylus hums in response, reaching for his glass of water with an easy, deliberate motion. "Luke and Kieran didn’t give you any trouble, did they?" he asks, casual as ever.
You shake your head slowly, still processing—but your mind is no longer on the car ride. It’s spinning, unraveling one realization after another. He had bought out the restaurant. That much was obvious now. Not a single patron in sight.
You wonder how. How had he managed to do something so drastic in the short amount of time between your phone call and your arrival? Or...had this been in motion long before that? Had he known you would wear the dress? Had he anticipated this rebellion and calmly, masterfully, set the stage to counter it before you even stepped out of the house?
Your head spins with the possibilities. He hadn't reacted when you arrived. Hadn’t even flinched at the sight of the dress. Because he didn’t need to. He had already moved the board. He had already made the first move—maybe the only move.
"H-how can I help you two this evening?" you hear a nervous voice ask, his voice quivering just enough to give away his discomfort.
You look up, blinking in disbelief, as your eyes land on the source of the voice. A waiter stands beside your table, notepad clutched tightly in his gloved hands. His posture is stiff, formal, as if standing at attention for inspection. The uniform is flawless—crisp white shirt, pressed black vest, a silver pin gleaming at his collar—but none of it matters.
Because he’s blindfolded.
A smooth, black silk cloth is tied neatly over his eyes, concealing them completely. There’s a slight tremor in his posture, the stiffness of someone trying very hard not to get something wrong. He tilts his head slightly toward the sound of your breathing, the notepad in his hand held in an awkward, overly formal grip, pen poised yet clearly tense. He doesn’t stumble, but there’s a certain tightness in his jaw, a hesitation in his chest like he’s holding his breath. It’s clear he was trained for this, but not comfortably. A fresh wave of unease crawls down your spine.
Your brain halts. The absurdity of it seizes your thoughts for a moment, like static noise blanking out everything else. You glance around, searching for context, for someone else, for anything to make this make sense. But the restaurant is just as silent as when you entered. The same dim ambient lighting. The same soft music. Not a single clatter of cutlery. No clinking of glasses. No hushed conversation. Every table still empty.
No guests. No chatter. Just you, Sylus, and this man in a blindfold.
Your gaze snaps to Sylus.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t so much as blink.
Instead, he sits in his chair with the same unshakeable composure he’s held all night, his dark red suit as flawless as the rest of this illusion. He rests his hands on the edge of the table, fingers loosely interlaced, then speaks in that same smooth, commanding tone that never fails to carry authority.
"I’ll have the wagyu—rare—and a gin, neat."
The waiter nods soundlessly, jotting it down without question. His movements are practiced, routine. Like this was normal. Like serving food in the dark was just another Tuesday night.
"And for the lady?"
Then Sylus turns his attention back to you.
That smug, knowing smile spreads across his lips, slow and deliberate. It’s the look of someone who has prepared every last detail in advance. Someone who saw the dress and raised you a whole evening of silent dominance. He doesn’t need to speak a word—his expression says it all.
Checkmate.
You grit your teeth, jaw tightening against the urge to say something sharp. Of course he was behind this madness. Every piece meticulously placed, like a play you never even knew you were cast in.
You shift in your seat, gripping your napkin like it might tether you to something sane. The waiter remains patiently at attention, his blindfold unwavering, still waiting for your answer like none of this is remotely strange.
"I’m…still deciding," you say, carefully measuring your tone to keep it light and syrupy sweet. You force the words through the heat rising in your chest. "I’ll just start with some wine."
You're definitely going to need it to get through tonight.
Your gaze snaps sharply to Sylus as you say it, your eyes narrowed, your mouth drawn tight in a controlled smile. It’s a challenge—daring him to explain, to admit how far ahead he’s been playing.
He doesn’t react.
Instead, he lifts his water glass with maddening ease, takes a slow sip, and sets it back down with a delicate, calculated clink against the crystal.
That damn smile remains.
The waiter nods in affirmation, jotting things down in his notebook with shaky hands. You can see the pen tremble slightly as he scrawls something—there’s no way he’s writing anything legible through that blindfold, right? His posture is rigid, his shoulders high with tension, and he flinches subtly every time a floorboard creaks beneath his polished shoes. Every movement screams discomfort, like he’s walking a tightrope blindfolded—because he literally is.
"I…I will be right back," he stammers, voice thin and strained. With one unsteady step backward, he turns, attempting to maintain grace, but ends up brushing his shoulder against the corner of a chair. He murmurs an awkward apology under his breath—though to whom, you’re not sure—and shuffles off, disappearing behind a velvet curtain. You watch him until he vanishes completely, lips parted in disbelief.
You’re not sure whether to laugh, scream, or start throwing silverware. What the hell was this evening turning into?
Your gaze whips back to Sylus, your heart pounding with a mix of confusion and irritation.
"Are you genuinely insane?" you hiss, the words sharp and precise, clipped with disbelief. You’re trying to stay composed, but your patience is unraveling. You bite down on your tongue to stop yourself from saying more—too much more.
Sylus leans forward slightly, elbows resting on the table, fingers lacing together in a slow, deliberate motion like he’s assembling a weapon out of calm. There’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes, deep and infuriatingly entertained.
"Possibly," he replies, smooth as silk, "but your face just now might’ve been the highlight of my evening. Worth every cent."
You glare at him, your eyes narrowing into slits. Your lips press together tightly, your nostrils flaring in quiet fury. A flush creeps into your cheeks, whether from embarrassment, frustration, or something else entirely, you can’t tell. He doesn’t look sorry. Not even close. If anything, he looks proud. Like this is all going exactly how he planned.
You shift back in your chair and cross your arms, the motion defiant. He watches you, head tilting just slightly, like he’s analyzing your reaction frame by frame. His smile lingers—calm, unreadable, and absolutely insufferable.
He raises a single eyebrow, the unspoken challenge hanging in the air between you like a loaded gun. You want to wipe that expression off his face, to see him falter just once.
You exhale slowly through your nose, forcing your pulse to settle, forcing yourself to match his poise. Because this isn’t over. Not by a long shot.
He goes through such lengths to make sure no other man can lay eyes on you? Fine. You weren’t just going to sit there and let him have the last word. If he wanted a show, you’d up the ante. He wanted to pretend this was all some curated kingdom where you were his to protect, display, or hide away? You were about to remind him you didn’t come without fire.
"I'm going to the bathroom," you announce coolly, standing up from your chair with deliberate grace. The legs scrape softly against the marble flooring, echoing slightly in the silence that seemed far too engineered.
"Take your time, sweetie," Sylus replies, calm as ever. There’s a lilt in his voice, a smooth, coaxing edge that makes your skin crawl. He reaches out and takes your hand as you pass, pressing a swift kiss to your knuckles. It’s polite, charming even—if it hadn’t felt so much like checkmate.
You yank your hand back a heartbeat too late, his touch lingering on your skin as you turn away. Your heels click sharply against the polished floor, the sound loud in the otherwise eerily quiet space. Each step you take is measured, your stride fueled by irritation and the ache of needing to reclaim your footing. You were done letting him hold all the power tonight.
As you move further from the table, the background music begins to rise, no longer a soft ambiance but something stronger, richer. It spills into the hallway like velvet, curling up the walls and seeping into your spine. It felt too alive to be a recording. Something about it pulled at your curiosity, enough to veer your path slightly.
The corridor darkens the deeper you walk, soft lights embedded into the floor guiding your way. The walls, lined with mirrors and heavy velvet drapes, seem to swallow the sound of your footsteps. The music builds—strings climbing, winds weaving between melodies with practiced elegance.
Then you turn a corner.
And freeze.
At the back of the room, elevated on a grand, arched stage framed in gilded molding, an orchestra performs. A full ensemble—violinists, cellists, flutists, a pianist, even a harpist—playing in perfect harmony. The sound is breathtaking. Full, sweeping, cinematic.
But something is wrong.
Every single musician is blindfolded.
Elegant black silk wrapped over their eyes, tied tightly and deliberately. Yet not a single note falters. Violins hum with emotion. Bows glide with flawless precision. Fingers move over keys, strings, and brass like they’ve memorized the space with their skin. They don’t miss a beat. It’s not just talent. It’s training. Discipline.
You step forward slowly, mesmerized and unsettled all at once. The contradiction of beauty and control sinks its claws into you, and you can’t look away. It’s haunting, like watching something holy that’s been rewritten with sinister intent.
Your mouth parts slightly. A soft gasp escapes you before you can hold it back.
Sylus.
How far had Sylus gone? How much time, power, influence had it taken to orchestrate this? The staff. The guests gone. The waiter. The musicians. All blindfolded. All bound to this strange, almost cult-like performance. No one else’s eyes but his on you.
You wrap your arms around yourself instinctively. Your breath is tight. This wasn’t just a dinner. This was an environment, an ecosystem—and Sylus had shaped every inch of it. A game he had set in motion long before you ever slipped into that dress.
Your heart pounds faster as you slowly back away from the performance. You turn, forcing yourself to regain composure, squaring your shoulders even as the music chases you like smoke. The hallway feels narrower now, like the air itself is pressing closer.
You almost laugh, the sound caught somewhere between disbelief and defiance. The absurdity of it all—the blindfolded staff, the orchestra, the sheer scope of Sylus’s calculated control—it should’ve had you unraveling. Instead, it sparked something else entirely. A decision. A wicked little idea that formed like a flame in your chest. Forget the bathroom. If he wanted a performance, you’d give him one.
With a quiet inhale, you spin on your heel and walk back toward the table, your stride more confident than before. You pass through the velvet-curtained corridor with your head high, the echoes of the Fifth Symphony following you like a taunt. Every note seems to mock you—yet also embolden you.
You spot him at the table, still relaxed, still composed, like nothing in the world could touch him. That smug calm only steels your resolve further.
You return to your seat and swiftly lower yourself into the chair. Sylus’s eyes flicker upward as you settle in, a flick of subtle surprise in his expression. It’s gone in an instant, replaced by that maddening amusement.
"Back already?" he asks, his voice lazy and smooth, as if he hadn’t orchestrated an entire psychological maze for you to walk through.
You nod once, lifting your chin slightly. "The orchestra plays beautifully," you reply, your tone laced with irritation. There’s no use hiding it now. He wanted you upset. Let him feel it.
His lips curl into a knowing smile, and a low chuckle escapes him, deep and unbothered. "Yes," he says with an air of satisfaction, "they’re playing one of my favorites—Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony."
He reaches for his glass again, sipping with deliberate leisure.
"You’ve heard this one many times on my records, kitten," he adds, his voice softening just slightly on the pet name. The way he says it feels both intimate and commanding.
You snarl inwardly. Prick. Just you wait.
The tension simmers between you like a pot left too long on the stove. Every smile Sylus gives you is a challenge. Every sip of water, every flick of his gaze—measured, smug, deliberate. The orchestra plays on in the background, the blindfolded musicians serving as a haunting reminder of just how far he’s gone to stage this night. Every note is perfectly in place, and every piece of the evening is perfectly, terrifyingly choreographed.
You trade a few curt remarks—witty, clipped, charged—but the weight of the performance around you makes it difficult to stay composed. The opulence is suffocating, and Sylus’s calm demeanor feels like a wall you can’t scale. Still, you're determined not to let him win.
Before the tension can bubble over, the blindfolded waiter returns. He approaches the table with the same careful precision, balancing a tray that holds Sylus’s wagyu, your wine, and his glass of gin. His movements are deliberate but cautious, the kind of performance that only comes from intense training—and possibly fear. There's a subtle tremble in his fingers as he sets each item down, aligning the dishes with unnatural symmetry. He sets the silverware beside your plate, just a fraction off from center.
That’s when your eyes light up with mischief. Your heart pounds, not with nerves, but with wicked glee.
A wicked smile spreads across your face as you watch him fumble blindly, standing straight again, hands folding against his apron. You lean forward sweetly. "Let me help," you say, voice syrupy and soft, reaching for the utensils as if to correct their position.
Then, with a swift flick of your wrist, you "accidentally" knock over Sylus’s glass.
The crystal tumbles from the table’s edge, falling in a slow-motion arc before shattering dramatically on the floor near the waiter’s feet. The clear, high-pitched ring of glass breaking pierces the quiet elegance of the room. Liquid spreads in jagged streaks across the marble like a wound opening.
The waiter gasps, recoiling instinctively at the sound. "Oh! I’m so sorry, sir!" he stammers, clearly panicked, arms half outstretched as if unsure what to do. He fumbles for a cloth, despite being unable to see where the mess is.
You rise from your chair instantly, pressing a hand to your chest as if genuinely alarmed. "Please let me get that!" you exclaim, your voice dripping in performative sweetness, laced with mock concern so sugary it could rot teeth. Your tone alone is a middle finger.
Then you bend down in front of the waiter, making a theatrical show of retrieving broken pieces that staff protocol would never allow a guest to touch. As you lean forward, your shoulder "accidentally" brushes against the waiter’s groin, just barely grazing him. Your movements are slow, intentional, a silent dare to the man behind you.
The waiter stiffens, nearly jerks back, confused and clearly thrown, muttering apologies he doesn’t need to make. His hands hover awkwardly, unsure of what is safe to touch, his face burning even beneath the blindfold.
Behind you, you can practically feel Sylus’s gaze sharpen. It cuts through you like the chill before a lightning strike.
You don’t turn around. You don’t need to. The silence is weighted now, stretched tight with the tension of a drawn bowstring.
Checkmate.
"Alright. Enough," he snarls, his voice low but cutting, the sharpness in it tense enough to touch glass. The sound slices through the charged silence, freezing you in place. A chill crawls down your spine, skin prickling, your breath halting. The hairs on the back of your neck rise involuntarily, every nerve going taut like a wire stretched too far.
Shit.
Was that too far? Was brushing up against another man too much?
You shift slowly to look at him, your pulse thudding in your ears like warning drums. Sylus’s face has lost all semblance of that smug calm. The collected, composed man who sat sipping gin minutes ago is gone. What stares back at you now is something cold and calculating—his crimson eyes burning with barely restrained jealousy. The kind of rage that simmers, measured and lethal.
"Leave. Clean this up later," he says, voice clipped and laced with steel. The words are directed at the waiter, who stiffens instantly. He nods frantically and scurries away without another word, eager to vanish from the blast zone.
Your heart slams against your ribs as the air between you thickens. You force your body to move, pushing yourself to stand up, arms crossing over your chest in a defiant barrier. You're determined not to let him see your nerves—even as they scream in warning. Your jaw tightens as you begin to speak, but you don’t get the chance.
Sylus is on you in a blink.
"H-hey!"
In one fluid, deliberate motion, he grabs your arm—not harshly, but with a grip that brooks no argument. He pulls you in close, the proximity overwhelming. You can feel the heat radiating off him. He smells of bergamot and danger. The tension rippling off his frame is magnetic.
Your breath catches in your throat.
His face is barely inches from yours. His gaze pins you in place like a blade pressed to your throat. The entire room falls away in that moment, and all you can focus on is the fury simmering just beneath his skin.
"Enough playtime, kitten," he growls, the words slow, venom-laced, deliberate. "You think you can keep acting up without consequence? You actually want me mad at you? Fine."
A humorless chuckle rumbles from his chest—low, guttural, and void of any warmth. It’s the sound of a storm forming, a warning with teeth. You shiver, though you refuse to look away. You give him the same smug expression he’s been giving you all night.
Before you can find your voice, before you can breathe a word in return, Sylus turns on his heel, dragging you along with him by the arm. His grip is tight, purposeful, every step laced with intent.
You yelp softly, startled. Your heels scramble to keep up as you stumble forward. The sharp clicks echo through the cavernous space, each one sounding louder in the impossible quiet. Your heart pounds wildly in your chest.
He leads you toward the center of the grand dining hall. It’s still empty—eerily so—but that only amplifies the pressure. The vastness of the room makes you feel exposed.
The blindfolded orchestra continues in the background, the music rising to a stirring, ominous crescendo. Each note seems to underscore the tension, heightening the surreal drama that now pulses around you.
Your eyes dart around instinctively, but there’s no one to witness this. They're all blindfolded. No one to save you from the storm brewing in his expression.
"Sylus! What the he—” you start, your voice rising in disbelief, confusion twisting your stomach into knots.
But he’s already moving.
In one swift, violent motion, Sylus’s arm lashes out, sweeping the table in front of you clean. Silverware clatters to the ground in a loud, jarring cascade. Plates crash and spin, tumbling off the edge in a violent rain of porcelain. Wine glasses burst against the marble like shrapnel, crimson staining the floor like blood spilled at a crime scene. The destruction is dramatic, deafening, and intentional. There’s nothing subtle about it.
You barely have time to flinch before he grabs you—fast, deliberate, and without hesitation. His hand clamps around your wrist, his grip like iron.
You gasp, a yelp caught in your throat, eyes wide as he spins you toward the now-cleared table. It happens so quickly that you barely register your surroundings. He pushes you down, hard enough to make your palms slap against the cold surface. His hand presses flat between your shoulder blades, locking you in place. The sudden shift knocks the breath right out of you, leaving you reeling.
“Stop—! Sylus—!” you shout, twisting violently beneath him. Your legs kick back instinctively, your body writhing in pure reflex. But it’s no use. He’s stronger. Impossibly steady. The way his body anchors you, unbothered by your flailing, makes it clear—this isn’t a struggle for him.
His hand remains locked against your back, unshakable, like a steel brace anchoring you to the table. No matter how much you twist or strain against it, he doesn’t budge. That quiet, effortless control of his is worse than brute strength; it tells you he’s not even winded.
Your chest tightens, breath hitching as panic bubbles just beneath the surface, colliding headlong with the heat of your anger. You hate that you’re trembling. Fear and also...excitement begin to build an aching heat between your legs.
Then his voice cuts through the air—steady, smooth, and eerily level. A voice that sounds almost bored, except you can feel the tension curled behind it like a blade coiled to strike.
“Careful what you wish for.”
There’s no shout. No raised tone. Just that cold, calculated authority, the kind that doesn’t need volume to be felt. It wraps around you like a noose, the final punctuation to a line he’s just stepped over—and dares you to drag him further.
The blindfolded orchestra in front of you keeps playing, seamlessly transitioning into a different composition—something softer, slower, but no less dramatic. Their bows sweep across strings in perfect unison, brass and piano following as though nothing out of the ordinary is happening just feet away from them. They act indifferent to the clear chaos unfolding before them, as if blindfolds had turned them into ghosts within the room, present but untouched by the tension between you and Sylus.
Your face burns, heat rushing to your cheeks in waves of disbelief and embarrassment. It’s one thing to have him corner you in private, but this? This was happening in front of so many people—an entire orchestra, even if they were blindfolded. It didn’t matter. The exposure was real.
"Sylus, wait...the orchestra..." you whimper, the sound of your voice trembling as the realization sets in. You felt like you were going to die from embarrassment, like you wanted to melt into the floor and disappear.
He leans down close, his breath brushing your skin like a shiver. "Shh..." he whispers, the single syllable almost tender—but it only sharpens the tension. Then, without pause, he begins to kiss a trail down your neck, slow and possessive, his lips grazing the delicate line between your shoulder and spine. Every press of his mouth sends another pulse of heat spiraling through you, clashing with your mortification, your confusion, and something far more electric.
As Sylus's fingers slipped underneath your dress, you felt another surge of panic and embarrassment. He slid your panties down to your ankles, and you gasped as the cool air hit your pussy, making you squeal in mortification. "Please! Wait, I'm sorry! Not in front of all these people...Sylus!" you whined, trying to squirm away from him.
But Sylus was unforgiving. Red mist curled around your limbs, spreading your legs apart and holding you in place to prevent you from escaping. You felt a surge of fear and coiling heat in your groin as you heard the sound of his zipper being undone.
He was going to take you...right here?!
As he leaned over you on the table, lining his hard cock up to your soaking entrance, you felt your walls squeeze in anticipation. You were horrified, but at the same time, you couldn't deny the excitement and arousal that was building inside you.
"What's wrong? You wanted attention," Sylus whispered, his voice low and husky. "I'm giving it to you."
With a single, powerful thrust, Sylus pushed his rigid, hard cock inside you. You gasped at the sudden fullness, your body stretching to accommodate him. A sharp, pleasurable pain shot through you, and you bit your lip to stifle a cry. Your fingers gripped the edge of the table, knuckles turning paler as you tried to anchor yourself. The cool air against your exposed skin and the heat of Sylus's body pressed against you created a stark contrast, heightening your senses.
You could feel every contour of him, every ridge, every throb. The red mist holding you in place seemed to intensify your sensations, trapping you in a whirlwind of humiliation, fear, and an overwhelming, undeniable arousal. Sylus began to move, each thrust deliberate and controlled, drawing a whimper from your lips with every retreat and a moan with every push.
"Mghn! Ahh! Stop...!"
As Sylus continued to pound into you, you couldn't help but moan, panting and whining at the sheer force of his movements. His cock was like a piston, driving into you with a relentless rhythm that left you breathless and gasping. You felt like you were being split in two, your body stretched to its limits as he took you with a ferocity that was almost animalistic.
He hadn't even bothered to take his time with you, and you could tell that he was clearly very pissed. The way he was taking you was almost brutal, and you felt a surge of pain and pleasure mixed together as he struck your cervix with a particularly forceful thrust. You cried out, gripping the edges of the table again as it shook with the momentum of his movements. The sound of the orchestra was still playing in the background, but it was almost drowned out by the sound of your own ragged breathing and the pounding of your heart.
Your body was on fire, your skin burning with a heat that seemed to emanate from your very core. You felt like you were being consumed by the pleasure and embarrassment, like it was eating you alive from the inside out. Your muscles were tense, your body arching up to meet Sylus's thrusts as he plunged himself deeper and deeper.
"Mmm, I don't think they can hear you over the sound of the music, kitten," Sylus teased, his voice low and husky. "You need to be louder." He delivered another few hard pumps into your inner walls, and you felt yourself responding, your body shuddering with pleasure as he slammed into the spongey spot inside you.
You let out a low, throaty moan, the sound echoing through the room. "Ahhhh...oh god...Sylus..." you moaned, your voice trembling with pleasure. Your body was on fire, your senses electrified by the sensation of his cock molding its shape within your walls.
Sylus's eyes gleamed with excitement as he heard your moans, his face twisted in a mixture of pleasure and concentration. He pumped into you again, his movements becoming more intense and frenzied. "Louder, kitten," he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. "Let them hear how good you feel".
You obliged, your moans growing louder and more intense as he took you to new heights. "Mghn...Sylus...please...!" you yelled, your body shuddering with ecstasy. Your voice was hoarse, your throat sore, but you couldn't help yourself. You were lost in the sensation of his cock thrusting into you, your body responding to his every move.
You were still acutely aware of the orchestra, of the people listening to you, but you couldn't care anymore. You were too caught up in the feeling of your slick running down your leg, Sylus's hands gripped at the sides of your dress and your heart beating wildly out of your chest as the table shook with every thrust.
Your face was slick with sweat, your eyeliner no doubt streaking down your cheeks like black tears. Your hair was coming undone, strands falling loose from your updo and framing your face in a messy, sweaty halo. You felt like a complete mess, but you couldn't do anything about it. You were still held to the table by Sylus's Evol, unable to move or escape the pounding he was giving you.
The sounds of Sylus's own groans filled your ears, his hands gripping onto your body like a vice. You felt his hot breath on your skin, his voice deep and husky as he whispered cruel taunts in your ear. "You dirty girl," he whispered, his words sending a shiver down your spine. "Begging me not to fuck you and yet you're dripping all over this table. What would that waiter think if he saw you like this?"
You gasp, gritting your teeth in anger at the slimy taunts in your ear. All the snarky words sitting on your tongue dissipate though as he changes the angle of his cock, beginning to hit a spot that makes your eyes roll back in your head. You gasp, your mouth opening in a silent cry as he begins to thrust into you with a newfound intensity, his cock rubbing against your G-spot with a precision that makes you feel like you're going to lose your mind.
All your anger and frustration melt away, replaced by a wave of pleasure that threatens to consume you. You feel your body start to tremble, your muscles tensing up as you prepare for the inevitable. Sylus's taunts are forgotten, replaced by the sound of his heavy breathing and the feeling of his hot skin against yours.
And then, Sylus's words sent a shiver down your spine, slow and creeping like ice melting down your back. He leaned in closer, his breath brushing against your skin as he spoke, his voice smooth and sharp, curling with something dark and dangerous. "Should I call him over here and have him take off his blindfold, hm?" he whispered, each word deliberate, every syllable thick with menace and mockery. "Let him get a good look at you...see exactly what you were trying to show off so badly."
You felt a surge of fear and excitement at the thought, your mind racing with the possibilities. Sylus wouldn't really let another man see you like this would he?
You stiffened, your breath catching in your throat as you shook your head no, but he didn’t stop. "That’s what you wanted, right?" he continued, his tone quiet but biting, as if he were carving each word directly into your pride. "A little attention. A reason to act up again. You were so desperate to see if someone else might notice what’s mine."
You whine and find yourself on the edge with those words, the symphony of pleasure within you swelling to a crescendo, your entire being quivering with an almost unbearable anticipation. Every nerve ending feels electrified, every muscle taut with the impending explosion of pleasure. Sylus leans into your ear, his breath hot and heavy, and whispers, "Close? You wanna cum?" You nod desperately and beg loudly, "Please, Sylus, I need to cum... please, make me cum..." Your voice is loud and desperate, but not quite a yell. You're begging him, pleading with him to give you the release you so desperately need.
You're not caring about the audience anymore, you're not caring about anything except for the sensation building inside you. You just need to cum, and you need Sylus to make it happen.
Sylus's voice is low and husky, his words dripping with excitement. "Go ahead, let them hear how beautiful you sound," he whispers, his breath sending shivers down your spine.
His voice is all you need. The pressure explodes and transforms.
As you cum, your body convulses and trembles, your muscles contracting and releasing in a rhythmic pattern. Your voice is a loud, keening cry that fills the room, a primal expression of pleasure and release. Sylus's cock is still thrusting into you, his pace steady and unrelenting as he drives you deeper into the orgasm.
Your hips buck and writhe, your body arching and twisting as you ride out the wave of pleasure. Your skin is flushed and sweaty, your hair disheveled and tangled. You're completely lost in the sensation, your mind and body consumed by the intense pleasure that's washing over you.
As you come down from your high, you face plant into the table, breathing heavily as drool pools from your mouth and onto the table cloth. You can barely move, but you manage to muster up the energy to speak, your voice barely above a whisper. "P-please... can I get up now?" you ask, reality starting to come back to you and the embarrassment of your situation hitting you like a ton of bricks.
You just came in front of like twenty plus people. Loudly.
You glance up at the orchestra, all still blindfolded thankfully, but you catch sight of one of the musicians, a man playing a cello, and you notice that his cheeks are flushed a deep red. You feel a surge of mortification.
You begin to beg louder on the table, voice cracking with desperation. "Please, Sylus, let me up. I'm s-so sorry...I didn't mean it... I'm sorry I wore the dress, I'm sorry I touched him!"
The words spill from your lips in a rush, your breath uneven as the cool surface of the table presses against your skin. Shame coils in your chest, hot and relentless, twining with the sharp edge of regret.
But Sylus is having none of it. He chuckles, a low, husky sound, and says, "Oh, you thought we were done? Cute." He pulls his cock back as far as he can, and then plunges it back inside you again, the searing ache of overstimulated nerves ricocheting throughout your lower half. You choke out a groan, your body trembling with the sensation, your mind reeling with the embarrassment and shame of your situation.
“They’re still playing for you, kitten" Sylus grunts, picking up the tortuous pace again. Don’t you think it’s rude not to sing along? Wouldn't want them to think we're not enjoying the show”. It continues, him plunging himself inside you over and over, your slick making a white ring around his length and dirtying the tablecloth even more. Its soaked now. You writhe and moan as your overcome with the torturous sensations of him making you cum again, and again, and again.
All while the orchestra plays. And listens. Tears stream down your face. Every nerve in your body felt frayed and electric, each new movement setting off sparks you couldn’t contain. It was too much, too fast, too deep—but impossible to stop. You were unraveling, caught between pleasure and collapse, breathless and begging and burning alive.
You couldn’t tell if you were still moaning or just sobbing his name now. Your thoughts were gone, scattered somewhere far behind the rush of sensation drowning you, your body straining and shaking as if it couldn’t decide whether it wanted more or mercy.
Finally, finally, Sylus's own moans become erratic and his hips begin to stutter, signaling that he's reaching his own climax. He slams his hand down on the table next to your face, the sound echoing through the room as he shoves his cock inside you as deep as it could go. The force of his thrust is almost overwhelming, and you feel like you're being stretched to your limits.
What comes next is nothing short of exhilarating as hot spurts of his seed shoot into your abused cunt, filling you with a warmth and a sense of completion. You both pant and sweat, your face stricken with tears and sweat as you lay limply on the dinner table. The orchestra continues to play, their music a distant hum as you both bask in the aftermath.
The red mist dissipates from your limbs, leaving only the echo of your own breathing and the steady thrum of the orchestra behind you. Sylus's grip softens. His movements slow. Carefully, almost reverently, he turns you over on the table. You blink up at him through tear-blurred lashes, heart still racing, breath shallow and shaky. You're now facing each other—your chest rising and falling with residual tremors—as his gaze locks onto yours.
His face is just inches above yours, the weight of his body not pressing down but hovering protectively. Strands of his hair fall forward, brushing your cheek in a ghosting touch that contrasts sharply with the ferocity from moments before. The shadows in his expression have softened. Whatever anger had once burned in his crimson eyes seems to have vanished, replaced by something unreadable but gentler.
The change, the tenderness, is what finally breaks you.
Tears spill freely now, hot and silent at first, then building into soft, broken sobs. The embarrassment floods in—the surreal setting, the blindfolded audience, the helplessness. Layered on top of it all is the overstimulation, the ache in your body and your mind, and the emotional crash that follows too much intensity.
You clutch at him instinctively, fingers grasping the fabric of his shirt like it’s the only thing grounding you. Your voice trembles as you begin to babble apologies, words tumbling over each other in a desperate rush.
“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—I shouldn’t have—I didn’t think—”
Sylus hushes you, voice much quieter and calmer now. His thumb brushes slowly beneath your eye, wiping away a tear with the same care he uses to load a gun. "Look at me," he says softly, his eyes locked on yours like they’re the only anchor keeping you in the room. "The punishment’s over, you don’t have to apologize anymore. You took it quite well."
He leans closer, resting his forehead gently against yours. "I know you were just trying to get a reaction out of me. And I let you. But you don’t have to touch other men just to make me prove that I care. sweetie."
You blink back fresh tears, his words settling in your chest like they belonged there all along. Deep down, you know he’s right. You had been pushing him—testing him—not because you truly believe he didn't care, but because some part of you always needed to see it play out. It wasn’t about malice. It was about reassurance. You needed to know you mattered enough to stir something in him.
"But I took it too far this time and...and I knew it, even when I did it..." Your voice trembles, barely more than a whisper. The words catch in your throat, raw and heavy with guilt. Your chest tightens, eyes burning as the emotions you’d held back now push forward all at once.
His hand moves to cradle the back of your neck, grounding you with his touch. "You’re mine. And when you act out, I handle it. That doesn't mean I don't love you anymore."
You sniffle, making eye contact again, your lashes still damp with tears. "But what about...them?" you ask hesitantly, your voice barely above a whisper, rough from emotion and the strain of everything that just unfolded. Your eyes flick toward the orchestra at the far end of the dining hall. They're nearing the end of their song, the strings trembling in a rising cadence, brass winding beneath it. The musicians remain blindfolded, their faces unreadable, every movement deliberate. They're still playing as if nothing has happened, as if the chaos that filled the room was just another note on the page.
Sylus follows your gaze for a moment, then his eyes return to you with a slow, lazy amusement. He chuckles low in his chest, the sound vibrating softly against you as he leans in. His lips brush yours with a tenderness that surprises you, then linger for a moment longer in a kiss that says more than words.
"I can assure you, kitten," he murmurs, his voice rich and smooth, "they were paid more than enough to keep their mouths shut. Blindfolded for their own good, and very aware of what silence buys them." He tilts his head, smiling slightly against your lips. "And if any of them do talk...well, they’d have hell to pay."
You let out a shaky laugh, some of the tension loosening from your shoulders, though a soft moan of pain escapes as you instinctively try to shift and sit up. Your body protests the movement, still overstimulated and sore. Sylus notices instantly, and without a word, his arms are around you. He moves you with care, guiding you into a seated position like you're something fragile he knows exactly how to handle.
He crouches beside you, retrieving your underwear and slipping them gently into your hands. You don’t even have to ask—he helps you get them back on, his touch now patient and precise. Then, without any sign of frustration or impatience, he pulls a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket and begins to wipe away the smudges of eyeliner trailing down your cheeks. Each pass of the cloth is slow, gentle, almost reverent.
He brushes your hair back, fixing it the way he always does, smoothing it with his fingers like a habit he’s never had to question. It’s all very soothing, each action grounding you, reminding you that the storm has passed. And if there’s one thing you’ve always known about Sylus—something buried beneath all the power and punishment—it’s this: he always fixes what he breaks.
When he's satisfied, he cups your face in his hands for a moment, his thumbs resting just under your jaw as he studies you. Whatever intensity had been burning behind his eyes earlier has cooled now, replaced by something steadier.
Finally, he stands and offers his hand. You place yours in his without hesitation.
"Let’s finish dinner, shall we?" he says smoothly, voice low and rich.
Finishing dinner sounded amazing. Despite your disheveled appearance and sore body, you found yourself able to relax, your shoulders finally easing as the heavy tension that had lingered between you and Sylus faded into something softer, quieter. The storm had passed, and in its wake came a strange, satisfying calm.
When the waiter returned—blindfold still firmly in place—you ordered a light meal, opting for the seared duck with grilled vegetables and a glass of red wine to help relax yourself further. Sylus, as composed as ever, placed a second, more indulgent order, watching you with that familiar glint in his eye as you scanned the menu with flushed cheeks and trembling fingers.
But of course, things between you and Sylus were never truly over. Not really.
You shifted slightly in your seat, biting your lip as you felt the unmistakable heat of lingering evidence trickle slowly down the inside of your thigh. You could feel his cum pooling beneath you, warm and humiliating, a constant, sticky reminder of your place and what just transpired. And Sylus clearly got a visible kick out of it. He watched you squirm with barely concealed satisfaction, sipping his wine slowly as if nothing were out of place.
He said nothing about it. He didn’t need to. The amused curl of his mouth said it all.
You were his. Marked. And now you had to sit there, order food, and try to eat while the proof of it slowly slipped down your leg. All in front of the waiter you had barely touched. It was surely gratifying for him.
You gave a sheepish smile, knowing full well this dinner would stay with you far longer than any course served at the table.
#umi writes ♡︎#sylus#love and deepspace#love and deepspace sylus#sylus x reader#lads#love and deepspace smut#sylus x reader smut#sylus smut#lnds sylus#love and deep space sylus#lads sylus#sylus x mc#l&ds sylus#sylus love and deepspace#sylus qin#qin che#lads x reader#lads smut#love and deep space#loveanddeepspace#sylusposting
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lessons in lovemaking [part five]
marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader
You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.
Tags: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fingering, kissing, making out, kitchen sex/foreplay???, reader guiding bucky, praise, fem reader, panic attacks, bucky is touch starved, mentions of previous sa, stake-out mission, wow! they're actually doing their jobs this chapter!!, ex black widow reader, very consensual, safe words, bucky barnes needs a hug, angst, bickering, reader is lowkey not doing good, trauma, mentions of past violence and death, no use of y/n, gif does not represent reader's appearance, lmk if i've missed anything
Word Count: 13.9k
A/N: it's finally here! this was... a fucking beast to write. only took a month of agony. this got so, so long, i ended up cutting an entire scene near the start so hopefully it doesn't jump around too much. let me know if you enjoy! on a more personal note, just wanted to give you all an update. i had put a few posts mentioning how i've been very unwell mentally and physically. it's made it really hard for me to write while also studying full time. but um yeah basically i was diagnosed with a?? kinda scary?? chronic disease lol?? which explains why i've spent the last 6 years of my life exhausted and feeling awful, and turns out my depression/anxiety is likely a result of this. but yeah, after all these years of dismissal and misdiagnosis, i know what's wrong so i'm getting medicated for it. i'm hoping it gives me a big energy boost to juggle uni and my hobbies (like writing) more efficiently. anyway, this authors note is so long, if you have any questions or thoughts on this chapter, reblog or send me an ask! thank you all so much. as always, sorry for any typos!
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Bucky didn’t respond at first.
His jaw ticked, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. From the way he shifted, feet planting wider, shoulders drawing back just enough that you almost suspected he was bracing. Not for a conversation, but for a hit. As if he expected you to launch across the balcony, heels and all, and pummel your fist directly into his face.
As absurd as it was, it almost didn’t surprise you. You’d become strangely used to his defensive reactions, the expectation of raised voices and violence, the way he always prepared his body for pain, like he expected even you to punish him.
And maybe the worst part was that deep down, he thought he deserved it.
Maybe you could’ve hit him. Pounded against his chest or disarmed him with words, if nothing else. You could’ve demanded, snarled questions as to why you were some secret mistake he didn’t dare let anyone see. Why are you ashamed to be around me? Why are you embarrassed?
Do you even care about me?
Do you care about me in the same way I care about you?
The ache in your chest flared thinking about it. Deep down, you knew the answer.
So, you held yourself back. Quiet, still, observing. Not because you weren’t angry, not because you weren’t hurting, but because you had become disturbingly good at packing that raw pain into tidy boxes and sealing them away.
Bucky adjusted the wrist of his leather glove, tugging it tight like it gave his hands something to do other than shake. You lifted your chin.
“Alright.” He spoke finally, voice a little hoarse, and for a split second, you wondered if he had been crying. “Talking… that’s usually where the trouble starts, isn’t it?”
His attempt to be light-hearted, to gauge your reaction, was short-lived. You met him with silence, exhaling slowly from your nose as you looked him up and down. He immediately folded, metaphorical throat bared as he met your gaze with his signature puppy-dog eyes.
For all your guilt, for the sadness and longing you had felt these past weeks, you still had enough self-respect to keep it together. You’d spent too many years of your life making excuses, compromises for those around you. For once, you would stick up for yourself, for once, you’d let someone other than yourself know you were hurting. You weren’t sure if that was a strength or a weakness. You were sick of being the one who met insults with sarcasm, tired of being the one who shouldered every blow and sting for the sake of others' comfort.
For once in your life, you would take the teeth you were born with and learn how to bite.
“You hurt me.”
Bucky’s fidgeting stilled instantly, face taut, his eyes searching yours already wide with creeping dread. “I—”
“Let me finish.” You cut over him, and his mouth clamped shut.
“I know this…whatever it is between us is complicated. There isn’t exactly a rulebook for this stuff. I know it’s messy, I know we never defined anything, and maybe we should’ve talked more…” Your body shuddered as you sighed, hesitant as you decided on your slow wording. “But what I understood, what I thought we both understood, was that there was trust. If there wasn’t anything, there was always trust… and what you said, that broke it.”
You paused, trying to steady your voice. Bucky had gone deathly still across from you. You watched his expression crumble. Guilt bled into every crease on his face, each of your words weighing down on him.
“I know that I lied to you about Nat, and I’m sorry. I know I should’ve said something, but I was scared that you’d react badly. That you’d react in the way that you did. I’ve never pretended to be easy to be close with. I know that I can be guarded, cold, or distant but…” You hesitated, sucking in a sharp breath.
The words burned behind your teeth.
“I always cared. I do care.” Your voice softened momentarily, despite the bile rising in your throat. “I gave you my time, my trust, I took you seriously, Bucky, I told you things I haven’t even really told anyone, not even myself, I—”
You crossed your arms over your chest, fingers digging into your sides. You could feel that stone in your gut, tears pressing just behind your eyes. You wouldn’t cry, not here, not now. You’d say your peace, lay it all out before him and see what he did with it.
“I get that you’re scared. I get that you feel shame, shame that you don’t quite understand. I understand that you have an instinct to protect yourself, to control how others see you because you’re afraid to push it too far, afraid to upset anyone…” The words tasted bitter, but they kept coming like a flood, hot and vile even as Bucky looked across at you like he was seconds away from crumpling to the floor. “But what you said was cruel. It hurt me. I just need you to understand that. I need you to understand that whatever it is we’ve been doing, friendship, lessons, whatever… It was never a joke to me.”
As you met his gaze directly, he flinched, jaw clenching so tightly that a muscle in his cheek twitched.
“You acted like I was beneath you, like you needed to downplay all that has happened for the sake of saving face. I understand you want to keep things private, I respect that, but a desire for privacy is very different to belittling me in front of Steve.”
Bucky’s shoulders slouched, his entire body shrinking in on itself. You half expected him to drop to his knees then and there from the way his eyes locked onto the balcony, too ashamed to meet your eye.
“I can be your secret, I can help you, but we are equals,” you muttered, quieter now. “I won’t chase after you, begging for scraps of decency. I’m not going to accept you pretending I’m invisible, that you’re disgusted by me the second someone important walks in the room.”
You looked away, breathing deeply through your nose as you willed the weight pressing on your chest to leave. “I’m not asking you to be perfect, god knows I am anything but that. I just need you to understand that I’m… I’m sick of making myself smaller just so other people can feel comfortable. I’m sick of the constant judgment, the way people don’t think I realise. I’m sick of all of it.”
When you finally looked up again, he looked like he had been punched in the gut. Not physically, but in that hollow, breathless way that left someone stunned and struggling to stand upright. Like every word you’d laid out between the two of you had knocked the air clean out of him.
His mouth parted, but no sound came. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, staring past you without actually seeing. You could see it written across his face, the guilt, the lingering panic, the way his whole body trembled. It was the slight hitch with each inhale, the way his shoulders rolled tight beneath the strain of his suit jacket like he wanted to crawl out of it, crawl out of his own skin.
He was close. Too close, seconds away from spiralling into the kind of anxiety that devoured everything in its path.
So, you gave him space. Silent and steady, let him work his own way through it.
The breeze stirred around you, catching a few strands of loose hair. They tickled against the nape of your neck. Below you could hear the hustle and bustle of the city nightlife, the chatter, the cars. The muffled sound of the party music just beyond the glass windows separating the balcony from the rest of the tower.
Bucky’s chest rose, then held, then he released it slowly. You watched him, silent, as his eyes flicked around. One smell, two things he could feel, three things in his line of sight. Good. He was grounding himself.
You watched without interfering, letting him work and find his own rhythm. You could practically read his mind now, how the cogs turned, each minuscule mannerism telling you which step he was at. You’d coaxed him through enough of these moments to know the signs. And maybe there was something bittersweet about it, the fact that he was steady enough to guide himself, no longer dependent on the comfort of your voice to guide him through.
“You’re right,” Bucky said at last, the words rasping out like they had been lodged in his throat for hours. “You’re right, I hurt you. And I hate myself for it.”
His hands flexed at his sides, fists curling and releasing as if unsure of what to do with them. A flicker of movement crossed his face, a wince, maybe, and then he lifted his eyes.
“I was a coward.” He continued, voice hoarse. “I’ve been replaying it in my head every day since. Over and over and… thinking about you. About how I made you feel.”
He took a half-step forward, caught in the pull of wanting to close the gap. His foot faltered mid-air, stopping him. He planted it back on the ground, shoulders locked, as if he was worried you’d dash if he closed the distance between you.
“I should’ve apologised that day, the second it left my mouth,” he muttered, words almost lost to the breeze. “I should’ve followed you instead of hiding and hoping it would fix itself.”
He swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “And I know it’s not an excuse… I was just so afraid.. Afraid that I had fucked up so badly that I would lose you. Guess it didn’t matter in the end because I lost you anyway—”
“You didn’t lose me,” you cut in, firm but soft. “I’m right here.”
He blinked hard at that, as if he couldn’t believe what you were saying. His chest trembled as he dragged in a sharp inhale.
“I’m sorry.”
There. That was it, the moment you’d been waiting for, the thing you’d needed from the very beginning. Not grovelling, not guilt, not the sight of him unravelling, just understanding. You hadn’t wanted to watch him spiral or flinch beneath the weight of his own remorse. That was never the point. You only wanted to be seen. For him to see you, the ache you’d swallowed, the silence you’d worn like armour.
You weren’t the kind of person who held pain like a weapon, who dangled forgiveness just out of reach. But you were tired, bone-deep tired, of being stepped over, of shrinking yourself to keep the peace. Tired of wearing humour like a mask, sharp and dry, to cover the bruises he couldn’t see. All you’d wanted was for him to get it. And now… now he did.
All you ever wanted was for someone to listen to you. Truly listen.
“Yeah?” Your voice cracked slightly despite yourself.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “I’m so sorry. I’m not embarrassed by you, if anything, I’m embarrassed about how I acted—”
“Bucky…”
“And don’t you dare say it’s okay,” he interrupted quickly, almost desperate. “Because it isn’t. I should never have said that, never have even thought that. After all you’ve done, after all the kindness and patience you’ve shown me, and I repay you by shaming you—”
“Repayment…” You cut over him, rolling the word slowly over your tongue, head shaking. “You don’t owe me anything, remember? That’s how it works with us, yeah?”
He exhaled hard. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Handle all this so gracefully…Have such a pure heart despite everything.”
“If I were to describe my heart,” you said with a dry little huff, “it would not be pure—”
“You’re killin’ me here—” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation, and for the first time in days, the edge of your mouth twitched into a smile. Sly, wicked, and entirely involuntary.
His gaze caught it instantly, and his breath stilled.
You took the initiative, closing the distance between you in a handful of steps, until his breath hitched slightly, his eyes locking onto your face.
“I am sorry.” He murmured, voice less desperate now. “Seriously. I don’t expect forgiveness, hell, I don’t want forgiveness unless you really mean it, and you’re not just saying it to spare my feelings—”
“Bucky—”
“No, don’t say it—!”
“Bucky.” You breathed his name. Your hands found the front of his tie, fingers curling around the black silk. You wondered if it was the same tie you had blindfolded him with, if he had subconsciously chosen it to feel closer to you. You nearly smirked at the thought, a warmth in your belly despite the surprised expression flooding his features. You tugged gently, and he didn’t resist. He leaned into the pull, breath catching again as you drew him in close, close enough for your foreheads to nearly touch, for your breath to ghost across his lips. “I forgive you.”
His eyes fluttered shut, like the words had struck him physically. “I don’t know if I deserve you—”
“Bucky.” You hummed, almost scolding. “If I’m honest, I forgave you weeks ago.”
His eyes opened, a spark of confusion flickering.
“I was just… sabotaging myself,” you admitted, voice quieter now. “Because that’s what I do when things get complicated. I cut people off, I burn bridges, I destroy my own life. I convinced myself that you hated me, because I lied to you about Nat.”
He quickly shook his head. “I could never hate you.”
And there it was.
You exhaled, something soft breaking inside you, not the kind that shattered and left shards punctured into your heart and lungs, but the type of crack that let the light in. Your hand slid from his tie to his chest, resting lightly over his heart. Beneath your palm, it thudded unevenly and wildly.
“Stop looking at me like I’m not real,” you muttered.
“I’m not—”
You shook your head with a snicker, fingers tracing across his shirt to the lapels of his suit jacket. You tugged at it, and he stiffened in surprise, but didn’t stop you as you twisted around him, easing the jacket from his shoulders. He shrugged it off wordlessly, leaning into your guidance, and you knew he was secretly relieved to be rid of the thing.
“I know you hate these things,” you murmured, voice teasing. “Can’t move properly, too tight around your shoulder ‘cause Tony never gets them tailored right.”
Bucky blinked at you, lips parting slightly, some of the tension still lingering in his brows.
“You remembered that?”
“Of course,” you smiled faintly, smoothing the sleeve as you folded it over your arm. “You know, at this point I think I remember more about you than I do about myself.”
His lips curved at that. “Tell me something then?”
“Like what?”
“Something I don’t know about you. Something you’ve never told anyone.”
You blinked, caught off guard. For a long moment, you just stared at him, stunned into stillness. No one had ever asked you that before. Not really. Not with that quiet, open curiosity. Not like they actually wanted to hear the answer. People were always eager to talk, to fill the silence with their own stories and needs. But here he was, waiting, willing to listen.
It left you a little breathless.
There were still entire corners of your life shrouded in fog, moments you hadn’t unpacked, parts of yourself you hadn’t dared to explore. You’d spent so long watching others, peeling back their layers, learning what made them tick. It was instinctual how you kept yourself safe. Quietly observant, always listening, always careful. You didn’t mean to be secretive. It wasn’t some deliberate act of mystery. It just… never came up. No one had ever made space for you like that. No one had ever lingered long enough to want something beyond the surface.
Until now.
“I don’t know.” You mumbled, gaze dropping. “I guess… I guess pick at my nails when I’m nervous?”
He let out a soft, almost fond huff of laughter. “Yeah, I picked up on that one months ago.”
“Shit. That obvious?” You glanced down at your hand, suddenly extra aware of the damage. The nailbeds were raw and uneven, the skin around them puffy and inflamed from restless fussing.
Then Bucky did something unexpected. He reached out, slow and careful, the soft creak of his leather gloves barely audible. His gloved fingers brushed against yours first, the cool and smooth material almost foreign in feeling. You watched, breath caught in your throat, as he gently threaded his fingers between yours.
“Maybe a little,” he murmured with a quiet snort, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
Without a word, he began to tug a glove off, leather resisting slightly before giving way. You swallowed and helped him, pinching the fingers and easing them free, and then repeated with the other side.
His bare fingers closed gently around yours again, his palm warm and calloused. Your jaw snapped shut as he traced his thumb over the jagged cuticles in a comforting, rhythmic motion.
You didn’t pull away. Instead, you breathed in, sharp and shallow, and shrugged in a small, embarrassed motion. “Well… I don’t know, then, I’m probably an insomniac who relies too heavily on coffee to get by.”
That earned a proper laugh from him, and warmth pooled in your belly like sunlight breaking through the clouds.
“You and me both,” he said, eyes crinkling at the corners.
You hesitated then, teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek as your faint smile faltered. Your mind turned inward, digging past the surface, searching through the fog for something true, something buried a little deeper. Your brow furrowed as your gaze dropped again, fingers twitching faintly in Bucky’s grasp like they wanted to pull away but didn’t quite make it.
“I’m claustrophobic,” you admitted at last, so quietly you didn’t think he had heard you.
His laughter cut off mid-breath, a soft sound dying on his tongue. The stillness that followed was immediate. His hand stopped mid-motion, thumb frozen against your knuckles
You forced yourself to keep going. “I don’t like small spaces. Feeling… trapped. It’s why I never take the elevator. It’s why I… freaked out on you at training the other week.”
“I’m sorry—” he began, voice already thick with regret.
“It’s okay.” You shook your head quickly, eyes flicking away. “You didn’t know. It just… it just reminds me… reminds me of things I’ve tried to bury.”
His free hand rose then. You didn’t flinch as his fingers brushed your chin, tilting it upward with such deliberate tenderness that it made your breath catch. His touch was featherlight, and when your eyes met his, the air sucked out of your lungs.
“I understand.”
You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “I’m sorry that I freaked out on you. I should’ve—”
“No.” His tone deepened, firm but gentle. “It’s okay. You don’t apologise to me for that. Ever.”
His voice was low now, so low it vibrated in his chest, a soft rumble that thrummed through the narrow space between your bodies. “You never have to apologise for setting boundaries.”
The words hit you square in the chest, like the impact of something you didn’t see coming. Your knees weakened, just slightly, and you gripped his wrist to steady yourself, though whether it was to anchor you or to keep from moving closer, you weren’t sure.
For a moment, everything else faded, the hum of the distant city life, the soft swish of the breeze, even the bass from the party. All that remained was him, warm, close and achingly sincere.
A part of you wanted to kiss him. Badly. The urge bloomed like heat in your chest, climbed up your throat, burned behind your lips. But then your gaze flicked, just briefly, to the giant pane of glass windows behind him, floor to ceiling, offering a clear view into the party beyond. You were almost certain Steve and Nat were watching from somewhere, probably with popcorn.
So instead, you smiled, small and almost rueful, and didn’t move. Didn’t lean in.
But he did.
His hand, still cupping your chin, shifted just slightly, tilting your face upward with a touch so gentle it barely registered as pressure at all. His eyes searched yours for a heartbeat longer, as though committing you to memory, as though asking are you sure? without even speaking a word.
And then his lips met yours.
Every nerve in your body buzzed, and his lips were warm and plush against yours. You could feel the way he held himself back, like he was afraid of falling too deep into hunger.
His hand hovered at your waist, fingers brushing your side, hesitant to pull you closer unless you gave him a sign. The other remained at your jaw, thumb stroking the hinge of it in a gentle rhythm, anchoring you. His breath mingled with yours, sweet with the faintest trace of spearmint, his chest rising and falling unevenly against the few inches that still lingered between you.
When you finally pulled back, your eyes blinked open as though waking from something half-dreamed. A breath of laughter broke from your lips, soft and stunned, and you shook your head slightly. Still, you didn’t move far, fingers tangled loosely in his tie. “People could be watching, you know—”
You were beginning to think that none of it mattered anyway, not when he looked at you like that.
“Let them.”
You didn’t even flinch as he pressed in again, slow and exploratory, the faintest drag of his lower lip over yours, testing the shape of your mouth with a tenderness that sent a ripple down your spine.
But something in him had shifted, restraint thinned, weeks of built-up tension bleeding into a desperate need.
His mouth moved with more certainty, lips parting yours just slightly, enough to deepen the kiss without taking too much. He coaxed rather than claimed, a subtle tilt of his head aligning you closer, a soft press of his tongue just barely tasting the seam of your mouth.
Your fingers curled tighter back into the front of his tie, tugging him closer as that familiar rush of heat flooded your chest and belly. You responded, parting for him, letting him in, and the reward was a low, pleased hum from deep in his throat, vibrating through his chest and into yours.
When you finally pulled back, breathless and dazed, the slick warmth of his mouth lingering, his gaze was heavy-lidded, pupils dark, lips parted just slightly. A faint smear of your lipstick sat crookedly above his upper lip—evidence, as obvious as a lovebite
You blinked at him, lightheaded, dizzy in the best way, like the floor had dropped out from under you and all that held you upright was him. And then, to your own surprise, you giggled. Actually giggled, breathy and unguarded, a sound you hadn't heard from yourself in far too long.
“They’re going to be insufferable now, you know that?” you said, grinning against the glow that refused to leave your cheeks.
He tilted his head, lips quirking. “Who?”
You gave him a pointed look. “Steve and Nat.”
“Because their little scheme worked?” He snorted. “Shit, you’re probably right.”
“I’m already bracing myself,” you muttered, mock-exasperated. “Nat gets this tone in her voice when she’s feeling particularly smug. It’s the worst, she doesn’t even try to hide it. Drives me crazy, I swear—”
“Sam knows too,” Bucky said, a little too casually, but his voice dipped just enough to betray him, quiet like he almost hoped you wouldn’t catch it.
Your smile faltered. “Oh?”
He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking briefly away. “Yeah… after the little, uh… slip-up in training, he knows everything now.”
“Everything?”
Bucky winced, shoulders hunching slightly. “Yeah. I may have told him and Steve the whole story.”
You gaped at him a moment, speechless, before you found the sense to speak up. “The full story… as in, lessons and everything?”
“Maybe…” He gave you a look so sheepish it bordered on boyish. “Do you wanna know what Sam said when he found out?”
You groaned, almost too afraid to ask. “What?”
“‘That sounds like an HR nightmare.’”
You broke into laughter, a real, bubbling laugh that rose out of you before you could stop it. “Shit. We’re in deep now.”
He watched you, fondness etched into every line of his face. His expression had softened again, that rare, open version of him shining through. You pulled back enough to look up at him properly. His eyes were gentle, amused, but earnest—so goddamn earnest it made your chest ache.
“I feel… good about this,” he said, and the quiet conviction in his voice struck you deep. It rasped low, his tone threaded with a sort of rough certainty that made your stomach flutter. “For the first time in… I don’t know. I feel good.”
You blinked up at him, eyes wide and a little dazed. Warmth bloomed steadily in your chest, curling beneath your ribs and climbing up your throat. It spread like honey through your limbs, soft and molten, loosening something inside you that had been wound tight for far too long.
“Careful, Bucky.”
“I’m tellin’ the truth, doll.” His hand brushed your arm, knuckles grazing like static, his eyes trailing down your body as if you were committing you to memory, curve by curve, inch by inch.
“Keep talking like that,” you murmured, “and I might kiss you again.”
His smile curled slowly, crooked and dangerous. “Oh yeah? Just kissing?”
You tilted your head, letting your gaze drop to his mouth. “Maybe more… if you’re lucky.”
He laughed, a low, husky sound that vibrated through you. Then he took a single step closer. You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek, once, then again, just to see the way his expression shifted. Bucky let out a sound somewhere between a growl and a groan, one hand snaking around your waist as he pulled you in again for just one more kiss.
—
After the disaster that had been the training session—where you and Bucky had gone so hard it probably qualified as attempted murder in at least three jurisdictions—Steve, Natasha, and Sam had clearly smashed their heads together and prayed they could cook up a plan to get you two talking again. The infamous balcony had been plan B, and to their endless delight (and your mutual dismay), it had actually worked. But that small victory left them scrambling, because now they had to try to cancel the other contingency plans they’d set in motion, like overexcited matchmakers who’d gone past their pay grade.
God only knew how many schemes they’d cooked up. From your current predicament, it seemed they’d well and truly scraped the bottom of the barrel. Because here you were, wedged into the backseat of a car far too small for three muscled idiots, on what was technically a stakeout, but what felt more like slow torture. You were hours into waiting for some crypto-genuis kid, Karpin’s pet money launderer, to finally come home. And the whole reason you and Bucky were here at all? Steve and Sam had begged Fury to approve your presence on this op, convinced this was plan C, the masterstroke that would fix things between you two if the balcony gambit failed.
But the balcony hadn’t failed. The balcony had worked spectacularly, and now Steve and Sam were left trying to undo their apparent meddling, scrambling to pull you off the mission. Too late, Fury had signed off, likely with one of his signature scowls and a clever quip. Everything was greenlit. No take-backs.
You’d managed to pry this information out of Steve within the first three hours, much to the absolute dismay of Sam. Now both of them were currently avoiding your gaze like their lives depended on it, and you were simmering, imagining at least five creative ways to end them before the kid even showed up.
“So this was your brilliant plan C, huh?” you hissed, exasperation curling through every word as you craned your neck forward, arms braced on the back of Steve’s seat, peering between him and Sam in the front. The centre console dug uncomfortably into your ribs, but you hardly noticed over the heat pricking across your skin. “Cram us into this metal coffin and hope the awkward tension does the trick?”
Steve still kept his eyes stubbornly fixed on the street ahead, knuckles white on the steering wheel like he might snap it in two if he had to endure one more minute. The muscle in his jaw ticked, but he said nothing. Sam, slouched in the passenger seat, had perfected the art of looking like he wasn’t there at all, staring out the window, face blank, like maybe if he wished hard enough, he could astral project somewhere far away from this cramped nightmare.
Beside you, Bucky had sunk so low in his seat you half expected him to disappear into the upholstery. His arms were crossed tightly, his long legs awkwardly angled to avoid pressing too much against yours. Though your thigh and shoulder still touched, the contact was warm and sticky. Secretly, you didn’t mind it that much.
“Are you gonna bring it up and whine about it every 5 minutes or—” Sam finally drawled, and you leant over to smack the back of his seat in warning. You could’ve sworn the jolt made his eyes roll harder.
“It wasn’t my first choice—” Steve spoke at last, voice strained, and you scoffed, flopping back into your seat. You shot a glare up at the rear-view mirror, where Steve steadfastly refused to meet your eye. You resisted the urge to kick the back of his seat. Sam’s lip twitched, and you weren’t sure if he was fighting a smirk or a grimace.
“Yeah, yours was the training session, wasn’t it?” you muttered, shifting in your cramped seat, your thigh brushing Bucky’s. “The one where we nearly killed each other?”
“That wasn’t my fault,” Steve protested.
“You paired us against each other—!”
“I thought it would help work out the tension—!”
“Oh, genius move, Cap. Almost as subtle as the balcony stunt. Remind me…” You said, glancing between the two of them with an exaggerated patience. “How much money did you lose to Nat over us making out within twenty minutes?”
Bucky choked on air beside you.
“Nope,” Sam cut back, smirking, eyes on the windshield but clearly enjoying himself. “She made me promise not to spill what she put down.”
“She cleaned up, didn’t she?” you said, grinning despite yourself.
“Let’s just say I owe her a drink…or five,” Sam muttered.
“And you two just went along with it. And when that actually worked,” you went on, voice rising as you gestured vaguely at the cramped space around you, “you didn’t think to, I don’t know, maybe… cancel this mission?”
Steve gave a long-suffering sigh, “I already said we tried—”
You blinked, turning to Bucky, who was doing his best impression of a statue. His ears were pink. God help him, he was blushing. “Are you hearing this?”
“Loud and clear,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his jaw, eyes fixed on the upholstery like it was the most fascinating thing in the car. “I’m starting to think we’re the mission, not the kid.”
Sam barked a quiet laugh at that, then immediately tried to hide it behind a cough.
You smirked, leaning back just enough to make your knee knock into Bucky’s. “At least someone finds this funny.”
“Oh, I do,” Sam didn’t even try to hide his grin now, eyes glinting in the rearview mirror. “You know, Buck folded like a lawn chair after that training room mess. Didn’t even need to interrogate him, he just started confessing.”
You blinked, glancing sideways at Bucky, and sure enough, his shoulders tensed, jaw tight, face flushed red. Yeah. You’d heard about that. After you and Bucky had practically torn each other apart during that disaster of a sparring session, it hadn’t taken long before Bucky caved. All it took was one pointed look from Steve, and he’d apparently spilt everything. The lessons. The gala mission. The whole messy, complicated truth. He hadn’t wanted to hide it anymore, and they hadn’t judged him. If anything, they’d been supportive, but god, had it given Sam and Steve endless material to work with.
“I didn’t fold,” Bucky muttered, dragging a hand down his face, trying to hide the red creeping up his neck.
Sam’s grin widened. “Oh no, you practically snapped in half. ‘It’s not what it looked like! I swear!’”
Steve, who had been studiously pretending to focus on the rows of beach houses, finally let out a quiet snort.
Sam continued his onslaught. “He was trying so hard to be chill. Said something about ‘It’s not like she was giving me sex lessons or anything!’ Swear to god, I thought you were about to write us both a formal apology letter.”
Your brow shot up, heat blooming warm and easy in your chest. Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face.
“Jesus, can we not—”
“So…” Sam began, tone too casual to be innocent. He swivelled half around in his seat, arm slung over the headrest. “What exactly do these lessons involve?”
Bucky shot him a glare that could have melted steel. “Not talking to you about this.”
“Right. Right, of course.” Sam nodded solemnly, lips twitching. “Just curious. Is there, like… a syllabus? A final exam?”
Sam looked over to you, and you rewarded him with a blank, unbothered expression. All of his attempts to get under your skin so far had fallen flat.
“I swear to God, Sam—” Bucky huffed.
“Okay, okay!” Sam laughed, hands raised in surrender. “Damn, Barnes. Touchy!”
Bucky grumbled, scrubbing a hand over his face as if to physically wipe away the heat creeping across. He exhaled through his nose, visibly trying to collect himself, jaw working like he was biting back another groan.
The moment stretched, the car settling into a beat of silence.
Then Bucky leaned back, voice dry as bone, as if he was looking for punishment, “I still haven’t forgiven you for not packing snacks, by the way.”
It earned a sharp bark of laughter from you before Sam twisted around, indignation written all over his face. “You were supposed to pack snacks!”
“You’re the reason we’re here in the first place!” Bucky shot back, arching a brow, the edge of a smirk threatening his mouth.
Sam groaned, tipping his head against the headrest like a man resigned to his fate. “God, please. Can you just shut up—?”
“You’re the one who has been talking this entire time—”
“Eyes up.” Steve’s voice cut through the bickering, sharp enough to snap the tension like a taut wire. His grip tightened on the steering wheel as his gaze fixed out the windshield.
You straightened instinctively, pulse kicking up, the lingering humour of the quarrel evaporating as your attention followed his line of sight.
A sleek, silver car, a little too flashy for the neighbourhood, rolled up the driveway of the house you’d been watching for hours. The low purr of its engine smothered the quiet hum of distant gulls in the air. The driver door swung open, and out stepped a kid who looked like he belonged more at some overpriced frat party than tangled up in Karpin’s operation. Early twenties, hair artfully messy, sunglasses pushed back onto his head like he thought he was some kind of tech mogul already. His clothes screamed new money, designer labels, logo-heavy, just subtle enough to look casual if you weren’t paying attention.
From the back of the car, the trunk popped, and a scruffy golden retriever leapt out with a thump, tail wagging like mad as it bounded up to the kid, nearly bowling him over. The kid laughed, ruffling the dog’s ears, before slinging a backpack over one shoulder and heading toward the front door.
“Target’s home,” Steve muttered, already shifting into command mode. His voice went flat, but with that edge of anticipation that always crept in when the waiting was over.
Sam sat up straighter, his earlier grin gone, eyes sharp. “Finally.”
Bucky leaned forward, his knee brushing yours, the tension humming back into his frame like a coiled spring. “What’s the play?”
Steve didn’t take his eyes off the house. “We move in quietly. Sam, you cover the back in case he spooks. Buck, I’ll need you two with me at the door. No heroics. We’re here to talk, not smash up his house.”
You gave a tight nod, hand already sliding to the door handle. “Copy that.”
“Let’s move,” Steve said, and the car doors clicked open almost in unison, the stale warmth of the vehicle giving way to the salty breeze as you slipped out into the early afternoon air.
— The dog’s tongue lolled out of its mouth as it bounded after the tennis ball you lobbed down the yard for what had to be the fiftieth time. The poor thing was all enthusiasm and no aim, skidding through flowerbeds and trampling what was clearly someone’s expensive landscaping project. You didn’t have the heart to stop him. The quiet thunk of the ball hitting the fence made you sigh, shading your eyes with one hand as the retriever scrabbled to chase it down.
The house loomed behind you, modern, sleek, soulless, and through the open patio doors, you could hear muffled voices. Mostly Steve’s, low and steady. Occasionally, Sam’s sharper edge cut through, exasperation bleeding into his tone. You couldn’t make out the words, but you didn’t need to. This was dragging. Of course, it was dragging.
You glanced at the sky. How long had it been? Too long. Definitely too long.
The dog trotted back, panting, ball slimy with slobber, and you took it with a grimace, wiping your palm on your thigh before tossing it again.
The screen door creaked, and you turned just in time to see Bucky step out, rubbing the back of his neck. His jacket was off, henley sleeves rolled to his elbows, expression carved from tired frustration.
“Well?” you asked, arching a brow, catching the ball one-handed as the dog dropped it at your feet.
Bucky exhaled, dropping onto the steps beside you. “It’s not going well. Kid’s a wreck. Just keeps freaking out, throwing out half-baked lies, hoping we’ll get bored and leave him alone.”
You smirked, tossing the ball lazily. “He doesn’t know those two very well then, does he?”
Bucky’s lips quirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “They’re trying for a good cop, bad cop thing… don’t think it’s going too well.”
You dusted off your hands, straightening. If this dragged on any longer, it would be nightfall, you were entirely sure there was a better and faster way to get the kid to spill. “It’s my turn to play cop, don’t you think?”
Bucky looked up at you, wary. “You sure? He’s on the verge of passing out.”
“All the more reason to cut the bullshit.”
The living room was too clean, not lived-in, just staged, like everything else in this house. The kid sat on the edge of the pristine white couch, hunched over, elbows on his knees, wringing his hands so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His chest hitched, breathing fast and shallow. Steve was standing nearby, voice soft, like he was talking him down from a bridge. Sam loomed near the window, arms crossed, scowl in place.
You didn’t bother asking. You just dragged a chair across the floor, the legs screeching deliberately against the polished hardwood as you flipped it around and straddled it, resting your arms along the back. The kid’s red-rimmed eyes snapped up at the sound, wide with panic, sweat beading at his temple.
“Okay, everyone, let’s take a breath.”
Steve shot you a sceptical look, brows knitting together like he wasn’t sure if you were serious. Sam, arms still folded tight across his chest, arched a brow, glancing at you like, really? The kid—Brandon, that was his name, you remembered now—just looked outright bewildered, as if the suggestion was the most alien thing he’d heard all afternoon.
“One deep breath. All of you.” You spoke pointedly, daring a glare over at good cop and bad cop respectively. You dragged in a slow inhale through your nose, filling your chest until your ribs ached, then let it out in a long, audible exhale. You exaggerated it, not for theatrics, but to show there was nothing complicated about it. Just air. Just calm.
Steve, bless him, always the good soldier, mirrored you next, drawing in a slow breath like he was trying to set an example. Sam followed reluctantly, like he hated admitting that maybe you had a point. His chest rose and fell, but he kept side-eyeing Brandon the whole time.
Brandon hesitated, his gaze flickering between you all like he was waiting for someone to yell gotcha! His knee bounced erratically, fingers twitching. You half expected the kid to bolt—not that he’d make it far, you were sure either of the three men would take absolute delight in tackling him to his shiny, expensive floors.
“C’mon, Brandon,” you coaxed, leaning forward just slightly, head tilting. “You’ll feel a whole lot better. Just one breath. Try it.”
For a beat, you thought he might refuse, too locked in his panic to even try. But then his shoulders sagged a fraction, and he sucked in a shaky breath, a wet, uneven sound that hitched halfway through. He let it out in a rush, but it was something.
“There we go,” you murmured. “Better, huh?”
Shit, maybe you were good cop.
He stared at you, wide-eyed, chest still shuddering from the uneven breath he’d managed. Like he couldn’t quite believe the panic hadn’t immediately swallowed him whole.
You didn’t rush him. Instead, you took another slow, deliberate breath, and with just the faintest glance to the side, you caught Steve doing the same. Bucky too, silent and steady at the doorway, setting the rhythm without a word. Even Sam, though he tried to look like he wasn’t following your lead, let his shoulders loosen as he exhaled through his nose.
“Good,” you murmured after another long beat. “Let’s just stay right here for a second. Was getting far too tense in here, wasn’t it?”
Brandon sucked in another breath, still ragged, but at least it wasn’t the frantic gasping from before. His hands were still trembling on his knees, but they weren’t clenched into fists anymore.
“Okay. Let’s rationalise this, yeah? One step at a time.” Your voice dropped low and warm, the kind of tone you’d use with a skittish animal. The type of tone you used with Bucky when he was spiralling.
“Do you know who he is?” You tilted your head toward Steve.
Brandon hesitated, but his eyes flicked to Steve, and he gave the smallest nod.
“Say it out loud for me,” you urged gently, fingers drumming softly on the back of the chair.
“H-he’s Captain America,” Brandon whispered, voice weak, almost like he wasn’t sure if saying it would make it more real.
“That’s right,” you said, offering a small smile. “Good. That’s good, Brandon. You’re thinking straight.” You pointed with a lazy flick of your finger at Steve. “And do you really think Captain America of all people is going to hurt you?”
“No.”
“Good. But those other two—” you jerked your thumb toward Sam and Bucky, your voice dipping into dry humour, “—those ones you wanna watch out for. Absolute wildcards.”
It earned you a quiet snort from Sam, and Bucky’s mouth twitched, but Brandon let out a breath that was almost a laugh. His face was pale, but some of the sheer panic had started to ease at the edges.
But the hyperventilating wasn’t gone. His chest was rising too fast again, his eyes darting around the room like he couldn’t help it.
“Hey, hey. Just breathe.” Your voice stayed patient, casual but focused, like you had all the time in the world. “I just need to ask you a few questions. Can you handle that?”
Brandon’s throat bobbed with a hard swallow. His wide eyes glistened beneath the overhead light, flicking between you and the silent figures of Steve, Sam, and Bucky like a cornered animal. Though, it wasn’t the wild panic of a man about to bolt. It was something else. Defeat, maybe. The heavy, sinking weight of realising he was out of moves.
His mouth opened, shaky. Closed. Opened again. He wet his lips, voice barely a whisper.
“They’re gonna kill me if I snitch—”
“Who’s gonna kill you?” Steve’s voice cut in, instinctively taking a step forward.
You lifted a hand, a silent hold up, and Steve froze mid-stride, eyeing you warily but ultimately submitted to your lead.
You exhaled slowly, studying Brandon, the trembling hands on his knees, the sheen of sweat at his temple, the way his leg bounced like he might still have been weighing the odds of making a run for it. Your head tilted, voice dropping just a hair softer.
“How about this,” you hummed thoughtfully. “I tell you what we know… and you help me fill in the gaps, hm?”
Brandon blinked, uncertain, but you saw the subtle slump of his shoulders. “O-okay…” he croaked.
“You’re from a middle-class family. Did well in school. Kept your head down. Got all A’s in college, IT, tech stuff, right?”
His eyes widened. He glanced at Sam like maybe he’d confessed those details without realising. Sam just arched a brow, impressed despite himself.
“You got into cryptocurrency to make a little money on the side…” You continued, your tone easy, conversational. “And that’s when Karpin found you. Asked you to help him move his money until it was basically untrackable. Paid you more than you’d ever seen in your life to keep quiet and work with his buyers.”
Brandon’s mouth parted, but nothing came out.
“You probably don’t even know what he’s really selling,” you added, shrugging lightly. “Just that it’s illegal. Because you’re smart, you could see it a mile off. But you didn’t ask. Why would you? You’re making more money than you ever dreamed of.” Your gaze swept the room, the expensive furniture, the sleek floors, and the view of the ocean just beyond the windows. “Beachfront property? At your age? You’re making more than most people see in a lifetime.”
Brandon gave the faintest, almost imperceptible nod.
“But now you don’t want to talk. Not to us. Not to anyone. Because Karpin’s dangerous, right?” You softened the words further. “Because he told you as much, because you know you’re in deep…Because he threatened you. Maybe even people you care about, said if you ever ratted him out, it wouldn’t end with just you?”
That hadn’t been in the brief, but you’d spent enough time in Karpin’s club, in his VIP rooms, hanging off his arm like his latest pet to know his game.
You didn’t even need to hear the confirmation from Brandon, just one look in his glassy eyes told you the truth. You were right. Your eyes flickered over to Sam and Steve, watching as they exchanged a look.
Bucky hadn’t moved, leaned quietly against the doorway, face carefully neutral. But his eyes—oh, his eyes tracked every word, every shift of your body. And though his mouth was set in a firm line, there was something under it. A shameless flicker of pride. That soft, secret warmth, like he was quietly glad to see you work your magic.
Brandon’s breath rattled, his fingers fisting the fabric of his shorts. His wide eyes darted from you to Steve, then to Sam, as if one of them might swoop in and end this interrogation—or maybe mercifully his life. His voice cracked as the words tumbled out in a rush.
“I didn’t know, I swear! I mean, I knew—I knew it had to be something illegal, but not this illegal! I thought it was just drugs or something!” His chest heaved, breath coming fast again, panic starting to claw its way back up his throat.
“Hey.” Your voice cut through the rising spiral of his fear, leaving no room for argument. “We’re not here to decide if you’re guilty or not. That’s not why we’re here. We want to talk to you about one of the buyers, the one Karpin does the majority of his sales to. Do you know who I’m talking about? The Russian?”
Brandon hesitated, throat working as he swallowed. “Yes…”
“Good.” You hummed, slow and encouraging. “I need you to tell me anything you know about him. A name, a bank number, an address. Anything you can give us.”
Brandon’s shoulders hunched, his head shaking, wild-eyed. “I can’t—”
“Why?” you pressed.
“Because… because they’ll kill me!” He burst out, breath hitching again. “If it’s this bad, if it’s really this bad, I know they’ll hunt me down if I say anything—”
“They’re not going to be able to reach you, Brandon.”
His head snapped up, desperation shining in his eyes. “How can you guarantee that?!”
You sat a little straighter, drawing in a slow breath yourself. You knew the feeling currently roaring through Brandon’s veins, you recognised it like an old enemy. The panic, the sick weight of fear coiled tight beneath your ribs. The terror of the unknown. It was like wading blind through pitch-dark water, searching for a foothold, for anything solid to cling to, with no promise of light ahead. You’d felt it too many times before, felt it in your bones, felt it define you. And like every time before, your mind scrambled to make sense of it, to wrestle the chaos into something you could control. But how could you, when you didn’t even know the shape of the fight you were facing? How could you rationalise the storm without knowing where it might end, or if it ever would?
If only, you thought bitterly, if only you’d had the foresight back then. The knowledge. The map that would’ve let you navigate those shadows instead of stumbling through them, bruised and broken.
You knew exactly what the kid needed to hear.
“Do you want me to explain what’s going to happen to you after this conversation?”
Brandon nodded wordlessly.
“The police are going to come.” You reassured, recognising the instant dread in the kid’s wide eyes. “They’re going to arrest you, not hurt you. They’re going to keep you in custody while Karpin and his buyers are investigated, tracked down, and arrested. You’ll be safe. No one can get to you inside.”
“You’ll hire a lawyer,” you continued, voice even, matter-of-fact. “And that lawyer is going to tell you to take a plea deal. That means you’ll testify against Karpin. The deal might mean you walk free under witness protection, or maybe you serve a few years, but nowhere near as much trouble as if you stonewall us now.”
You smiled softly, leaning forward, lowering your voice to a comforting hum. “Brandon, all you need to do is cooperate with us.”
He blinked hard, tears threatening now, though he fought them, swallowing against the lump in his throat. “I’ll be protected? Will my family be protected? You’re sure?”
“If you help us?” You shrugged, glancing at Steve and Sam. “You’ll be protected. So will your family. By the people we work for. There’s no shame in having made a mistake, Brandon. You think we’re innocent?”
Your grin tilted, dry and a little wry as you thumbed toward the guys. “These three destroy half of New York every other week, and you think people are just fine with it?”
Sam gave a short huff of laughter, shaking his head. Steve smirked faintly, arms crossed over his chest, watching the way you worked with no small amount of admiration.
“We can do what we do because we have the right friends in the right places,” you went on, gaze locked steady on Brandon’s. “If you tell us what we need to know, we’ll make sure you and your loved ones are protected. That’s a promise.”
Brandon let out a shaky breath, the tension bleeding from his frame, if only slightly. He swiped the back of his hand across his damp face, voice rough as he finally nodded.
“O-okay. Okay. I’ll help.”
—
The mission had wrapped up without much fuss once Brandon finally cracked. A little breathing room, a few well-placed reassurances and the kid had spilt more than you’d hoped for. And after a long morning of waiting and watching, the team had been cleared to stand down. The beach house, a backup in case the op had dragged on, was yours for the night. No one had expected things to go so smoothly, but no one was about to complain either.
Now, with the sun bleeding gold over the horizon and the promise of an early flight hanging over your heads, you were determined to steal a few hours of peace.
You lay stretched out on a sunbleached towel at the base of the porch, toes buried in the warm sand. The last of the afternoon rays bathed the world in honey light, glinting off the waves as they lapped the shore. The ocean breeze lifted your hair and carried with it the brine of the sea, the faint tang of salt settling on your skin where the sweat had dried in the heat. You tilted your face up now and then, soaking in what little warmth was left, letting your eyes fall half-shut.
The beach house itself was small and sweet, worn blue paint with white trim, seashells lining the windowsills, wind chimes and catchers swaying and singing softly in the breeze. The kind of place that felt like it belonged to the sea as much as to the people.
On the porch steps, Bucky sat like a man trying to blend into the scenery. His arms rested heavily on his thighs, his boots planted solidly on the wood. There was tension in him, subtle but sure. He watched the waves, mostly. Sometimes he watched you. His gaze would flicker your way when he thought you weren’t looking, then back out to the horizon like it could give him answers. He’d tried the sand once, made it a few steps before muttering something about not wanting it grinding into the plates of his arms. The steps were his compromise, close enough to be near you, far enough to avoid what unsettled him.
Steve and Sam had gone into town, promising a dinner worth eating—something fresh, not from a takeaway joint or gas station, which was the usual menu for missions, especially stakeouts—before you all shipped out at dawn. The house, the beach, the world itself felt hushed in their absence. Just the occasional cry of gulls, the gentle crash of waves, and the music of chimes above.
It was Bucky who broke the quiet first. His voice was almost tentative, as if he’d been sitting with the thought some time before letting it out.
“You were good with that kid today.”
You cracked one eye open, shading it with your hand from the sun. The breeze caught his hair, tugged at the soft cotton of his shirt, ruffled the hem where his sleeves strained over the gold and black glint of vibranium.
“You’re good at talking to people,” he went on, not looking at you now, but at some fixed point beyond the waves. “Understanding them.”
A soft, tired huff escaped you. You let your eyes fall closed again, the sun warm on your cheeks. “What I understand about people is that everyone wants kindness. That’s all. They want to be seen, heard, given a little grace.”
You let your head loll to the side, gaze following the slow roll of the sea. His eyes were on you again, you could feel it, watching, like he was trying to piece you together, to see past the practised ease of your words.
“How did you know all that?” he asked after a beat, quieter now. “About lawyers, plea deals, witness protection?”
Your lips curved, a wry, sad little smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I lied.”
You felt him shift. His boots creaked against the steps, his spine straightening. “You lied?”
You rolled onto your back, brushing the sand from your skin, fingers playing idly at the tie of your bikini. “I told him what I knew he wanted to hear. That’s all. A kid like that, scared, cornered…He responded well to knowledge. It doesn’t matter if I don’t know what they’re gonna offer him, maybe they will offer him a plea deal, but at least he won’t feel like he’s in the dark.”
The breeze tugged at the chimes again, the gentle clatter filling the quiet that followed. Bucky didn’t speak, just watched you, thoughtful, a crease between his brows. His gaze was steady now, no longer flickering away like he was seeing something in you that you didn’t want him to.
“I just…” His voice was gentler now, but insistent. “I just think that version of you, the one who talked that kid down, the version I know... sometimes I think it’s the real you.”
You turned to him properly then, one hand propping you up, the other shading your eyes against the glare. “The real me—Jesus. Are we doing this right now?”
Bucky didn’t flinch, didn’t look away.
“I think they’re still in your head,” he said simply. “The same way… the same way H.Y.D.R.A is still in my head. You just wear the mask better. Pretend better. It took me too long to see it, but now I do, and I can’t unsee it.”
The air left your lungs like you’d been tackled from behind, a cold rush tearing through your veins, leaving you sick and hollow at the centre. H.Y.D.R.A. Bucky almost never said it aloud. That name lived in the shadows. But now he had given voice to it, like he was fucking invoking it.
You stared at him, heart tight, the sincerity in his voice cutting deeper than you expected. He was right. Of course, he was right. There had been far too many occasions where he had seen through you, seen through the walls, the humour, the deflection—and for what? For you to be afraid, to continue to pretend, to deny him entry to the truth you both knew he had already discovered?
“What are you trying to say, Bucky?”
He hesitated, just for a breath, as if he was weighing his following words before he went all in. “Why are you still in this job?”
Your pulse spiked.
“Because it’s what I’m good at?” you snapped back, a little too fast, a little too brittle.
“Bullshit.”
You sat up fully now, towel forgotten beneath you, heat rising to your cheeks. Whether it was anger or shame, you weren’t too sure anymore.
“What do you want me to say?” Your hands lifted, fingers splayed in frustration. “This is all I know, this is what I was trained for. There is no other alternative, and you of all people should understand that.”
There was a pause. A longer one than you expected.
“Do you know what Sam said to me after today?” His eyes met yours, sharp, intent, almost fierce in their focus. It pinned you where you sat. “He said, ‘I think I finally get what the hell those lessons were about’. He saw it. He saw you. The way you connect, the way you see people. I think you’re far more than what you limit yourself to.”
You let out a breath that tasted of defeat, bitter at the back of your throat. Or maybe it was a laugh. You couldn’t tell anymore. “I do this job because I want to make a difference, Bucky. Maybe I want to make a difference because no one ever tried to help me, or Nat or Yelena. We had to help ourselves.”
“And you think the only way to do that is by tearing yourself apart in the process?”
You snorted, shaking your head, though the motion felt heavy. “Tough words coming from you.”
He huffed his own small laugh, but there was no humour in it.
“I just…” His voice was lower now, the edge of frustration softening into something that sounded almost like pleading. “You really plan on doing those missions forever? The ones where you use your body to get information? I see how it weighs on you. How it tears you down piece by piece.”
You dug your fingers into the towel beneath you, staring at a seashell half-buried in the sand—anything to avoid the look in his eyes.
“What am I supposed to do instead, huh?” Your voice was tight, controlled, though you could feel the cracks forming, the storm just below the surface. “I’m good at what I do. That’s why I do it. I know how to get what the team needs. I know how to play the part, no one expects me to be anything else. So I stay in that box, because it works. End of story.”
Bucky was shaking his head before you had even finished your stubborn spiel.
“I think you have more potential. I think you get people. Really get them, in ways none of us do. You always say the right thing, know how to calm a room, and make people feel seen. I think you’re wasting that, wasting you, because you’re too afraid to ask for more.”
You forced a laugh. “Bucky, just because I’m nice to you doesn’t mean I’m good with people—”
“Steve told me what you said that day,” Bucky cut over you, quiet but unyielding. “What you said when he walked in on us. He told me how genuine you were. How much you cared. Said he never expected it, not from you.”
For a moment, your throat closed up tight as your mind skidded, fishtailing toward anything that might sound coherent.
“This all just sounds like you’re the one who’s got a problem with my line of work,” you said finally, trying for lightness, humour, anything to take the weight out of his words. “What, you jealous or something?”
But the joke fell flat between you. Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver. His voice carried an assured edge like he was giving up hiding behind anything. “No. I think you have a problem with it.”
Your breath snagged, ribs pressing in tight like you’d sucker punched.
“I think you’re destroying yourself,” Bucky went on, tone stripped bare, nothing left but truth. “I think, deep down, you’re punishing yourself. And I don’t know why. Or what for, but I know the signs, doll. Because I do the same damn thing.”
You stared at him, heart hammering. The wind stirred between you, the gulls cawing above and the hush of the surf. The world felt too still, too intimate, like the air itself was holding its breath.
“Where is this coming from?” you managed, voice smaller than you intended.
He let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe because watching you today, watching you work, impressed me. I know it impressed Steve and Sam. Maybe it just got me thinking about how things could be. How things should be.”
“I don’t want things to change,” you said, too fast, too sharp. “I like it how it is now.”
“Oh yeah?” His gaze still unflinching. “And what about all this makes you so happy?”
You opened your mouth, then closed it. Swallowed hard.
“You,” you said quietly, bitter as the ocean air. “You make me happy. I like helping you and talking things out with you. I like lessons, or when we just hang out.”
Your voice softened, as if that could make it truer. “I’m comfortable. I’m happy.” But even as the words left your lips, they curdled. They felt wrong. Hollow, like smoke in your mouth, like ash on your tongue. And you knew—God, you knew—he could see it. He could see right through it, through you.
Deflect. Deny. Subvert. The old playbook. Your armour, your sanctuary. The instinct that came too easily, a reflex honed by years of keeping the world at bay. You reached for it like a lifeline, tried to wrap it around yourself before he could press further, before he could dig up what you’d buried so deep even you barely dared look at it. Anything was easier than letting him see the soft, frightened parts. Anything was easier than letting him reach them.
You sat still for a heartbeat longer, the weight of his gaze heavy as a hand at the base of your throat. And then you moved. You pushed up from your towel, brushing sand from your palms as you crossed the short distance to where Bucky sat, stiff and watchful on the porch steps, his eyes lifted to yours, wide and unsure, as if he wasn’t sure if you’d strike him down or pull him in.
You lowered yourself, just enough to meet him, just enough to cage his face between your sand-dusted hands. You knew the grit would drive him a little mad, would catch in his stubble, smudge across his cheekbones, probably lodge itself somewhere in the joints of his vibranium arm. But you did it anyway. You did it because it was the only way you knew how to say what wouldn’t form on your tongue.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” you murmured, voice low, breath hitching in your chest. The wind tugged at your hair, lifting it from the damp heat of your neck. Your thumbs traced his cheekbones, light as the breeze. “Is that okay?”
His lips parted, maybe in a silent plea. “Yes.”
It wasn’t neat or gentle. It was messy, hungry, your mouth slanting over his, tongue sliding past his lips as he groaned low in his throat. His hands came up, tentative at first, like he didn’t know where to touch you. Then the dam broke, and his fingers threaded through your hair, pulling you closer, his other hand bracing your hip. The taste of him was salt and heat, the faint bitterness of coffee from earlier lingering on his tongue. Your breath mingled, quick and uneven, as you poured everything into it, the frustration, the fear, the need.
When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. The windchimes clattered softly, like they’d been eavesdropping on the whole thing.
You gave him a look—part promise, part challenge—and turned, heading inside. You knew it was wrong. Christ, maybe he knew it too. Knew that this was what you did when the truth got too close, when his gaze stripped you bare and the panic rose sharp beneath your skin. You’d reach for what you knew worked. The kiss, the heat, the distraction. Anything but the raw honesty of what was unfolding between you.
Your bare feet padded across the worn wooden floors, the little beach house warm with the last of the sun’s heat. You shook out your towel by the door, brushed sand from your legs and arms as best you could, then made for the tiny kitchen, rinsing your gritty hands under the tap.
You were just reaching for a towel to dry your hands when you felt him behind you, the silent, solid press of his body, the familiar weight of his hands wrapping around your waist. His fingers splayed across your bare skin, like he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to be but couldn’t stay away. His breath was warm against your ear, his nose brushing along the curve of your neck as he nuzzled there, the stubble of his jaw rough but welcome.
“I’m not trying to upset you,” Bucky murmured, voice low and earnest, the words vibrating against your skin. “I’m not trying to argue. I just care about you.”
“I know.” The words barely made it past your lips as you turned in his arms.
His hands framed your face, his mouth on yours. His thumb brushed your cheek, his other hand slipping down to your waist like he knew the shape of you by heart. The scent of salt air clung to him, to you. The kitchen felt impossibly small, the world shrinking down to just this. Just him, just now.
When he finally pulled back, breath warm against your lips, his forehead rested lightly against yours. “You make me happy too, you know,” he murmured, an honest confession. “More than I think you even realise.”
Your heart gave a traitorous lurch, and you swallowed hard, your hands still resting at his sides, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Don’t say things like that,” you whispered, but there was no bite to it, no real protest.
“Why not?” His mouth quirked into a soft, crooked smile. “’Cause you might believe me?”
You let out a breath, half laugh, half sigh, leaning into him. “Hmph…”
His mouth found yours again, slow and searching. His thumb kept stroking your cheek, tenderly, while his other hand slipped lower, fingers curling around the curve of your hips as if to steady himself as much as you.
The worn floorboards creaked softly beneath you both as you shifted, as he nudged closer, fitting his body to yours like a puzzle piece. The scent of him—spearmint, sea salt, the faint leather tang of his jacket still clinging to him—filled your senses, dizzying in its familiarity.
Your hands slid up his chest, fingers splaying over the hard lines of muscle beneath the soft cotton. His heartbeat thudded steadily and sure beneath your palm.
Without thinking, without planning, you found your back hitting the edge of the counter. His hands followed the movement instinctively, guiding, steadying, as you hitched yourself up onto the worn wood.
Bucky stepped in, between your parted legs, his hands finding your thighs, thumbs tracing slow, absent circles over your skin. His lips sought yours again, deeper now, as if he couldn’t get close enough. And you let him, you gave yourself over to it, to him. Your fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him closer, greedy for his touch, his taste.
The kiss deepened, your breath mingling, your pulse thundering in your ears. Your hand skimmed lower, a slow, teasing path along his stomach, until your fingers brushed under the edge of his waistband, intent on taking control the way you always did, the way that felt safe and predictable. A soft sound escaped you, half a plea, half a groan.
He stopped you, catching your wrist gently just as your palm began to slip beneath the fabric. When you looked up, his blue eyes met yours, dark with heat, yes, but steady. Sure.
“No,” Bucky said, voice low, roughened by want, thumb brushing your wrist. “I want to make you feel good.”
You stilled.
Pure, unfiltered, raw panic slammed through your gut like a punch you didn’t see coming. It rose fast, too fast, thick and all-consuming, choking the breath in your throat. The edges of the kitchen blurred, vision tunnelling to just him. The closeness of his body, the heat of him, the solid press of the cabinet at your back—
You dragged in a breath, but it scraped through your chest ragged and raw. Metallic fear coated your tongue, your pulse roaring too loudly in your ears to even think.
Your free hand twitched, half-formed in the start of that signal—the three taps. You could feel the ghost of it against his arm already, your fingertips itching to retreat into that small mercy, that lifeline you’d always given each other without question.
But you didn’t. God, you didn’t.
Because if you did, this would change. He would see. He would know. And then the questions would come, the soft ones, the careful ones, the ones that peeled you open in ways that scared you more than anything. And what then? What would become of you?
No. No, you couldn’t let that happen. The thought made your heart pound harder, made your throat burn. You needed to do this. Needed to show him, show yourself, that you were fine. That you weren’t broken. This was different. He was different. That you could be the person he saw when he looked at you, brave, whole, unflinching.
Even if inside you felt like you were unravelling at the seams.
Your breath shuddered as you forced it deeper, trying to steady the wild beat of your heart. You blinked hard, trying to clear the haze creeping at the edges of your vision, trying to quiet the voice in your head screaming. And you clung to him, to Bucky—
Your Bucky.
He could never hurt you.
You swallowed hard, trying to drown the panic, trying to push it down where he couldn’t see. You could do this. You would do this. You trusted him. More than anyone.
“Can I make you feel good, doll?” His voice was soft, low, threaded with something that almost sounded like hope. His palm glided slowly up your forearm, warm and steady, the rasp of his calloused skin grounding. He didn’t see the storm behind your eyes, didn’t feel the stone lodged deep in your gut.
“Is that what you want?” You whispered, your voice hoarse.
“Yes.” The word came out on a breath, “more than anything.”
And for a moment—just a moment—fear loosened its grip.
Your mind spun back, unbidden, to all the nights you’d lain awake wanting this, wanting him. The ache of it. The sleepless hours where your hand found your own skin, your own heat, and you pretended, just for a heartbeat, that it was his touch. You thought of the months you and Bucky hadn’t spoken, how that want had burned hotter because of it, how his absence had left you hollow and restless.
And now here he was. His body so close, his hands gentle where they held you. And you remembered every time he had touched you. His hesitance, his tenderness, his devotion hidden in the brush of knuckles, the graze of fingertips.
It stirred a molten heat in your gut, one more welcome than panic.
“Yes.” The word tore from you roughly, your forehead tipping to his, your eyes fluttering shut as frustration and need coiled tight inside you.
You felt his breath hitch, felt the tremor, the hesitation in his hands even as they touched you, almost shy as they smoothed along your exposed thighs. His breath was warm against your cheek, his lips hovering just near your jaw, like he wasn’t sure he had permission to go further, like he didn’t trust himself to do this right.
“Bucky…” you whispered, threading your fingers through his hair, coaxing him to look at you. His gaze flicked up, blue eyes wide, the vulnerability in them making your heart squeeze. His palms were broad and heated where they held you, but they trembled ever so slightly, like the weight of wanting was almost too much to bear. “Are you sure?”
“I—” His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his thumb tracing slow circles just above your waistband. “I just don’t want to mess this up.”
The honesty in his voice, the way it cracked around the edges, nearly undid you. You cupped his face, feeling the prickle of stubble under your palms and the tension coiled in his jaw.
“You won’t,” you murmured, stroking softly beneath his eyes. “You can’t. Just… touch me. However you want. I’m right here.”
Something within him eased, you felt it against your mouth as you leaned in, trying to pour every bit of reassurance into the slide of your lips. His hands roamed more boldly, exploring the dip of your waist, the curve of your thigh. It felt like worship the way he took his time, mapping your skin, committing it to memory.
The heat built between you, slow and consuming, and the edge of panic drowned out. You arched into him as his mouth followed, kisses pressing into the sensitive hollow beneath your ear, down the line of your neck. The small kitchen disappeared, the world narrowing again until it was just him, just this. His hands moved as if guided by instinct now, though there was still that delicious edge of hesitance that made every touch precious. His hand skimmed lower, calloused pads slipping beneath the thin band of your swimsuit bottom. You gasped, fingers fisting in his shirt.
And for the first time in far too long, maybe in your entire life, fear didn’t spike. You didn’t choke, you melted—
His breath stuttered, and he froze just over your mound. His forehead rested against your shoulder, his voice uncertain. “Tell me what to do, doll. I want to—I just… I don’t want to hurt you.”
You smiled, the kind of soft, private smile only he ever got to see. Your fingers found his wrist gently, guiding his hand down, slipping it fully beneath the fabric, where you were already warm and wet for him. “You’re not gonna hurt me. You’re perfect. Just… slow. Start slow.”
You saw his lips part, saw his pupils blow wide, felt the tremor in his fingers as they touched you where you wanted him most. His gaze flicked to yours, awed, wrecked.
“That’s good,” you breathed, the words tumbling out on a shaky exhale as your heart thundered against your ribs. Your hips moved instinctively, chasing his touch, tilting into him, desperate for more. “That’s so good, Bucky…”
His fingers trembled, tentative but eager as he explored. He traced the slick heat of you, learning every reaction, every way your body responded to his touch. Your hand slid over his, guiding him gently.
“Here,” you whispered, voice thick with want. His breath stuttered as his fingertips grazed your clit. “Feel that? That’s where I want you.”
A shaky breath left him, and he followed, so careful it made your heart ache. Your own nervousness forgotten, you arched a little, legs falling open wider, encouraging him. “You’re not gonna hurt me. I promise. I want this. I want you.”
That seemed to steady him. His fingers slid through your slick heat, finding your clit again. You shivered. But still, he hesitated, waiting, watching your face.
“Circle it,” you murmured, voice low and pleading, your hand tangling in his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as you gently urged him on. “Gently. Like this…” You rocked your hips, showing him the rhythm, slow and steady, letting him feel how you moved beneath him. And God, he followed, so tentative at first, testing, learning, then growing surer as he felt your breath hitch, your body tense, your pulse race beneath his hands.
“That’s it,” you gasped, pleasure building, slow and deep, coiling low in your belly. “Good. Fuck, that’s good Bucky.”
The praise tumbled from your lips, and it only seemed to fuel him. His fingers moved with more purpose now, every breath, every sigh from you making him more confident. His thumb found a rhythm, steady and sure, as two fingers slid inside you, filling you, and the low groan that broke from him when he felt you clench around him made the heat bloom hotter, deeper.
He buried his face against your neck, nose brushing your skin, breath warm and ragged in your ear. You kept guiding him, your voice cracking as a pleasured sob bubbled in your chest. “That’s good—Please just…You’re doing so well, Bucky. So well.”
And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself just feel. Let him take control, knowing he would never misuse it.
Every time you gasped or sighed his name, you felt him react, his body pressed closer, his kisses growing hungrier, his fingers more confident. His vibranium hand anchored at your waist, holding you steady as he worked you. His mouth brushed your ear.
“You’re… so beautiful like this,” he managed, voice rough, as if the sight of you unravelled him.
Your head fell back, eyes fluttering shut, the world outside the two of you blurring to nothing. The kitchen, the sea breeze, the clatter of seashell chimes, all of it faded, lost beneath the crash of pleasure building inside you. His thumb kept that perfect rhythm, his fingers filling you, stroking you. Your hips rolled, chasing him as you found yourself already trembling on edge.
You tried to keep guiding him, tried to tell him how perfect it was, how right, but the words blurred as the pleasure built, as he guided you through every tremble, every sharp breath, every subtle roll of your hips.
“You feel so good,” he muttered, voice wrecked, lips brushing your jaw, your ear. “So fuckin’ good like this…”
And then you couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but hold on as he pushed you over the edge, his name falling from your lips in a broken moan, toes curling, back arching, body trembling apart under his hand. Your breathing was ragged as Bucky’s fingers kept moving, slow and sure, guided by every gasp, every shiver he coaxed from you. His forehead pressed to yours, fingers gentle now, soothing you through the aftershocks. His focus was absolute, blue eyes darkened, intent, watching you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing. And you were. To him, you always had been.
“I think I get it now,” he murmured, voice rough-edged, low like a secret.
Your lashes fluttered, your mind hazy with the pleasure he so patiently built inside you. “Hm?” you managed, head tipping forward. You opened your eyes to find him watching you, like you were the most incredible thing he’d ever seen.
Then, softly, with that mix of wonder and affection that always, always undid you, he spoke.
“Why you like watching me finish.” His voice was a rasp, reverent and wrecked all at once. And before you could reply—before you could even think—you watched as he brought his fingers to his mouth, slow and purposeful, tasting you, sucking his fingers clean with a soft, satisfied hum.
It was obscene.
Your body nearly gave out. You gripped the edge of the counter for support, chest rising and falling, heart pounding so hard it drowned out the sound of the sea and the chimes.
“Jesus Christ,” you whispered, dragging a shaky hand through your salt-tangled hair, trying to catch your breath. The strands clung to your damp skin. Your bikini bottoms were twisted at your hips, darkened with wetness, your thighs still trembling from the slow burn of his touch. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
---
hello! thank you for reading, let me know your thoughts! i no longer have a taglist because it got too long and was reaching the tag limit. if you want to keep being notified of my updates please follow @artficlly-updates and turn on post notifications! <3
#bucky x reader#bucky x y/n#bucky barnes#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes x you#bucky barnes x y/n#bucky barnes smut#bucky fanfic#beefy bucky#bucky smut#bucky barnes fanfiction#james buchanan barnes#james bucky barnes#winter soldier#marvel fic#thunderbolts*#marvel au#marvel#lessons in lovemaking
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𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘵𝘺𝘱𝘦.
ꜱᴀᴊᴀ ʙᴏʏꜱ🎵
𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 2 - 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘤𝘶𝘵𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭
Fem!Reader x Saja Boys
Summary: Reincarnated in the body of a demon from the last film you saw before you died, you have decided to change the script of the story in your favour. But you didn't count on your presence in the story changing everything.
Warnings: slow burn, swearing, Abby being touchy, ooc (probably), cringe (probably), no proofread (oops)
Word count: 3000
A/N: OMG THANK YOU ALL FOR YOUR SUPPORT! I actually started this on a whip, I just needed to let it out but I couldn't even imagine how many of you would read it!! I'm sorry if the quality isn't the best, it's been a long time since the last time I wrote, and I'm not used to do it fully in English. Also, this is my first time writing for this fandom, I hope to do it well enough for your criteria (/へ\*) this chapter is kinda messy (the whole story is, actually) but I hope you like it!
Ch. 1
︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿
The Saja Boys in their human form were even more breathtaking than you remembered. I mean, you'd seen the movie a bunch of times, you'd seen edits, but this… wow. Another level.
When you helped them get ready to look a little more like how you remembered them appearing in the human world in the movie (because it turns out Abby's hair was blonde, not magenta, and Romance had extremely long hair), they still had pointed ears, large fangs, and even horns, just like you. But once they took their human form, the one they used to have before Gwi-ma took his cut… holy cow. Jinu didn't change much, but the others… Why didn't they go around like that in the underworld? Didn't Gwi-ma allow it? Was the king of hell completely blind or did he just have the worst taste in the world?
On the first day after their human transformation, it was hard not to stare at them. But what could you do? When something so appealing is put in front of you, it's impossible to ignore it completely, right? Even though you knew they weren't for you. Jinu would end up falling in love with Rumi, clearly, and your main idea was to be cupid with the others to satisfy Zoey's fantasies about Mystery (or Baby, who knows) and prove to Mira that pink-haired boys could feel things.
Jinu was aware of how hard it was for you to look away from the others sometimes, and also that little by little you were snapping at them less and talking to them more, with less fear and less embarrassment. He was aware of how you were getting closer to them, how you were starting to laugh at their jokes… And that, for some reason, made him feel a little itchy.
He found it hard to understand you. You were cheerful and at the same time the grumpiest, foul-mouthed person he had ever met. He noticed that when you told them things, you never said everything and always kept bits of information, secrets, to yourself. You were bossy, but at the same time you were attentive and loving. And, although he found it hard to admit, unfortunately you were intelligent. And as much as he wanted to deny it, he loved how proud you could be: you never let anyone walk all over you, you turned red with anger if you weren't listened to, and you were always (always) right, even if deep down you weren't. Plus, for some strange reason, even though you were rude, bossy, and grumpy, when you sensed that the boys weren't in the mood, you were kind. You didn't ask for anything in return; that's just how you were. When the boys got frustrated because the choreography Abby came up with was too complicated, you encouraged them to keep trying, and you reasoned with Abby so that everyone would be happy with the result. You helped Baby write his parts, always gave Mystery his space, and were extremely patient with Romance. Clearly, you didn't behave like a demon, and that caught his attention. You had horns, you had patterns, you were there with them... but at the same time, it seemed like you were somewhere else.
You used to hum when you were concentrating and thought no one could hear you, you bit your nails when you were nervous, you tilted your head when you didn't understand something, you narrowed your eyes when you were angry... these were details he learned to see in you over time. Familiarity breeds affection, I suppose. But he would never, ever admit that he liked your company, that he liked the way you were. He'd rather suck Abby's toe.
Time passed, and the moment to negotiate with Gwi-ma was approaching. Soda Pop was almost ready, thanks in part to the fact that you knew the lyrics by heart from listening to the film's soundtrack too many times. You had given the boys some freedom with certain things because you were starting to trust that, despite the chaos they caused and the moments when they weren't bothering you, they were more or less normal boys (they were demons) who had made bad decisions. And also, what if some little details changed from the original plot? That was kind of your idea since the beginning, right?
Since one of your ideas was to free them, after all, you had to try to understand them and show them that they could get their souls back, right? And live happily in the human world, with a second chance. You just had to get them to want it themselves and believe they could do it.
"From the beginning, guys," Abby announced, bringing your thoughts back to reality, "One, two, three… leg, shoulder, shoulder, leg, and turn… No! Byeol, not like that! It's shoulder, leg, and turn, not shoulder, turn, and leg." He put his hands on his head and pulled at his hair in frustration.
"We've been rehearsing for HOURS, it's normal that I get confused when I can't even FEEL MY LEGS," Byeol shouted back.
But then… you noticed that right in front of you was a scene straight out of a fantasy drama, seeing them exhausted from rehearsing. Why did they have to be so alluring?
You couldn't help but run your tongue over your lips as you watched Sang's T-shirt cling to his torso, clearly revealing his defined muscles, and as a drop of sweat trickled down Dasom's neck to a place that was dangerous to imagine. Byeol panted and brushed his mint-coloured hair away from his beautiful face in a way that was too exquisite for your mental health, and Mystery was crouching down, pulling on the neck of his tank top and revealing his sharp collarbones. Jinu… you quickly looked away. That was dangerous. His face was tilted upwards, his neck tense and sweat dripping down it, panting. Your heart skipped a beat.
Oh holy molly.
They were going to be the best boy band in the entire human world.
As a former music producer in the genre, you had no doubt: the fans were going to be absolutely crazy about them. You knew by herat. You watched the movie.
When you let out an evil laugh while staring at the floor (looking at them in that state was dangerous for your plan and your heart), the boys decided that the best thing to do was… to leave you alone. Who knows what crazy or stupid idea had crossed your mind. They didn't want to be part of it.
And at the same time, how cute you were when you laughed like a villain.
¸.*☆*.¸.*☆*.¸.*☆*.¸.*☆*.¸
Finally, after a lot of hard work, they were ready. The song, the choreography, the concept, the costumes…
It had been quite a journey.
From Sang and Byeol fighting over the choreography, to Minjun being unable to make the finger heart that is so typical of idols, Dasom planning scandals with the hunters to ruin their career (clever but cruel, you wouldn't let him do it), to Jinu refusing to wear anything pink. The fact is, you had to yell at each and every one of them at least three times during the process. You were exhausted, but it was finally time for them to negotiate with Gwi-ma, and since you intended to hide while they did, you took the opportunity to relax… and, since you already knew he would accept the deal, you also took some time for yourself.
It was time to abandon your demonic form (borrowed through possession, so to speak) and get to know your human form.
Goodbye horns and see you never outstanding frog eyes.
You missed being able to scratch your face without risking poking your eye out.
But you didn't expect Sang to come back so soon to find you and share the good news.
You had your back to him, putting a pastel pink bow in your hair and helping yourself with an old, broken, chipped mirror. You had put on a little make-up and dressed like a normal human (which is what you were, after all), so you could travel to the human world as soon as possible with the boys without attracting too much attention. A light breeze smelling of sulphur (the most characteristic smell of hell, actually) ruffled your hair. You were surprised by your human appearance, which you assumed would be that of the demon whose body you had taken over. You liked what you saw.
And so did Abby.
He swallowed hard, afraid to make a sound and disturb you. You looked so… different. So… human. You seemed smaller, more fragile… although it was clear that your bad temper was still there, beneath that good-girl image. You had caught his attention from the start, though. He thought you were an interesting and fun demon, and you never minded when he asked you to stroke his head because he was feeling particularly down about Gwi-ma's mental torture.
The first time you met, you seemed weak to him. Jinu had explained the plan to him and insisted that even though you looked like an average demon, you would be useful to them. Abby knew that the boy band idea, ridiculous as it was, could work and benefit him, so he decided to join (besides, Jinu was his friend and he knew that his memories were torturing him), but he didn't understand how a low-ranking demon with so little presence could be useful… until he tried to mess with you, saying sweet nothings to get you to benefit him in particular, delicately grabbing your chin to bring his face closer to yours… and you bit his hand. Hard. From then on, he learned that those tricks didn't work on you, and that you had sharp fangs.
Little by little, he opened up to you and became more himself. He liked your company, he liked how you pinched his elbow when he did something that annoyed you, and he loved how you smiled, showing your fangs and squinting your eyes.
But now, seeing you like this… something warm spread through his chest.
It was just you and him. Alone. For the first time ever.
He swallowed again.
His hands were itching; he needed to touch you. He wanted to rest his arm on your shoulder, caress your waist, touch your hair, try to take your chin in his hand again, this time without the biting. He wanted to know if your skin was as soft as it seemed, and if you would mind him hugging you from behind.
What were those stings he felt in his chest? It wasn't tickling.
Then you turned around and saw him. And you screamed. Really loud. And you threw the nearest thing you found at his head: the broken mirror.
How dare he show up like that, in complete silence? Was he trying to scare you? Did he want to pinch your hips to make you jump, like he had done so many times before?
Luckily, you had bad aim and he had good reflexes, because if you had hit the target (his handsome face), it would have been a problem for his debut.
"Abby!" you shouted, blushing from the outburst you'd just had. "You almost gave me a heart attack! Make some noise if you're going to appear like that, say something, I don't know. My heart is beating like a Chihuahua's." You put your hand on your chest to corroborate your comment.
Abby, who was still processing what he was feeling and thinking and to whom you had just thrown a mirror, decided that giving it too much thought would only give him a headache, and that surely everything that had just happened (especially the fact that you ALMOST destroyed his face) was due to nerves about whether Gwi-ma would approve of the plan or not.
‘I'm sorry,’ he said, flashing a half-smile that made your heart skip a beat. It bothered you so much that he was so good-looking and sweet at the same time, when he often pretended to be tough. Alert: attractive boy. Block K-drama music and sparkles behind his figure. Mayday, mayday.
You turned your back on him again and swallowed hard.
Did you just try to attack him…? Well, it was clearly self-defence.
Abby decided that thinking was indeed a waste of time, so he simply approached you (this time making it clear that he was moving so you wouldn't get alarmed and try to knock his teeth out with your fists), rested his chin on the top of your head, and wrapped his arms around your shoulders.
"Don't be mad at me," she said with a pout. "I just wanted to tell you the good news. Gwi-ma thinks it's a great idea."
"And why are you standing there in silence? Are you a ghost now?" you asked, frowning.
Abby found that expression adorable when you made it in your human form. You were much less intimidating that way. You squirmed a little until you turned around in his arms, and he moved back a little to give you space. He lowered his arms to your hips and his chin so he could look you in the eyes.
You had beautiful eyes.
Both as a human and as a demon.
"It's just that…" he tried to explain. For some reason, he felt embarrassed. His ears and the back of his neck grew hot, and he didn't know what to say to justify his actions.
Why hadn't he said something, or jumped on you to shake you off your shoulders or pinch your hips? Why had he preferred to watch you from afar, imagining what it would be like to hold you tight against his chest?
"HEY! THE FIRST RULE, ABBY! NO FLIRTING!" someone shouted.
Abby and you, startled, turned to find yourselves face to face with the other four members of the group. Romance was in front, pointing accusingly at Abby.
"Manager! Bite his head off like you did to me last time! Yank his hair and pull his ears hard!"
At that precise moment, you became fully aware of how close you were to Abby, your hands resting on his chest while he absentmindedly caressed your hip with his thumb.
You had been living with them for some time, and you had never allowed them to get so close to you without resorting to violence (always in self-defence) or without initiating it yourself (after all, Abby liked physical contact too much, and denying him that would make you a bad person). They really enjoyed teasing you to make you blush, which is why you had imposed the no-flirting rule. But since you had thrown the mirror at him, you had let your guard down… hadn't you?
You pushed away the thought of how good Abby's chest felt in your palms and decided to forget the look he had given you as he apologised. There was no need to read between the lines. He was just trying to annoy you. You took a step back and he didn't resist, letting his arms fall to his sides.
"For the last time, Romance. I'm not your manager. I'm your music producer. I just help you guys out a little bit with your stuff beyond writing your songs because you're a little inexperienced."
"Then why aren't you beating Abby up for…?"
"We were just talking, Romance."
With your hands? That close to each other?
Romance wasn't entirely comfortable with this. He understood that Abby liked physical contact, but when he had tried to caress your cheek affectionately, you had reacted by trying to bite his nose.
"(Y/N), you look very pretty," said Baby, who was looking at you with a gentle smile.
Wow. That had caught you off guard.
Mystery nodded slowly, agreeing with him.
"Pink suits you."
You tried to think of horrible things to keep the colour from rising to your cheeks. You weren't going to let them win.
Silly you, you couldn't understand that they meant it.
"Gwi-ma has given us the green light. It's time to settle into the human world and finish the last details before launching Soda Pop," said Jinu, who had been completely silent until then, staring at some point on the floor.
… Why were there bits of glass everywhere?
"Perfect," you said, clapping your hands. "It's time to conquer the human world and steal those fans from the hunters."
Everyone nodded.
Then Jinu looked up and saw you. He really saw you, for the first time since you appeared there. Human, you were… different. He noticed how small your hands looked without claws, and how soft your hair seemed.
………. not cute at all.
Abby had decided he wanted to touch you just because he simply wanted to touch you, period.
He liked how you hugged him and stroked his hair when he asked you to or when you realised without him saying anything that it was what he needed. It was because you were nice to him, and that was it, nothing else.
Besides, you had thrown a mirror at him.
Why had he apologised…?
Why did he think your smile without fangs was as beautiful as with them?
Why hadn't he realised before that he had always thought you were pretty, ever since the first time he saw you?
Surely it wasn't anything important.
And he was sure you would get angry with him if he told you.
Would you bite his hand if he took your chin again?
Would you push him away like you just did?
Why had his heart been in his throat when he hugged you just before the others arrived, if it wasn't the first time he'd done it?
And why couldn't he see that little by little he was feeling more and more like a planet orbiting around you, rather than a mere partner in a plan to destroy humanity?
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A/N: SO! Finally it's here! The next chapter! Woohoo! Sorry if it's bad, I'm not completely happy with the result. But well, some Abby time! And... Abby shimping... ish... hahah... My plan is to give them all the oportunity to steal yout heart... but onlye one of them is going to keep it. When the time comes, I'll let you chosse the endgame! But for now, let them just be confused hehe.
ALSO I probbaly won't be able to post as soon as I did with these last chapters, but I'll try to do it as soon as posible!
Please let me know if you like it! Commenting and rebloguing helps me write faster (at least it gives me the motivation to) (・ω<)
See you soon!
Nun🐇
Taglist: @just-set-things-on-fire @nightmarewasteland @ph1lo-s0ph1a @gremlinartstudio @strayharmony943 @smoophie @valeriele3 @confusedparticle @queenskippy @enerofairy
(this is my first taglist ever, I hope it works!!)
#saja boys x reader#saja boys#baby saja x reader#romance x reader#romance saja x reader#jinu x reader#abby saja x reader#abby x reader#mystery saja x reader#mystery x reader#kpop demon hunters x reader#x reader#kpop x reader#male x female#female reader#kpop demon hunters#kpdh x reader#jinu kpdh#baby saja#mystery saja#romance saja#abby saja#abs saja
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𝕐𝕠𝕦'𝕣𝕖 𝕆𝕦𝕣𝕤 // Saja Boys & Huntr/x
// DATE // 30th of June 2025 → 1st of July 2025 // PAIRING // Huntr/x x Fem!Reader x Saja Boys // WARNING // !!!Mention of a su*c*de attempt through song lyrics!!!, Morally gray actions, involuntary chocking, harassment, more award show shit that I struggle to write xD // WORDS // 3.3k+ // SUMMARY // At a music awards show, Y/n unexpectedly wins a coveted prize, thrusting her into the spotlight with a powerful, raw performance that captivates everyone — but behind the scenes, tensions simmer as old wounds and unseen dangers threaten to unravel her hard-won success.
// Part One // Part Two // Part Three //
“There are only a few awards left to be given to some truly incredible artists!” Minjun says almost like he’s sad it’s nearly over.
“Oh absolutely,” Seyeon nods enthusiastically. “You know what I look most forward to?”
“What’s that, Seyeon?”
“The performance the next winner will be giving us!”
“Oh my, you’re right!” Minjun gasps in playful realization. “And it’s for none other than the ‘Heartfelt Voice Award’! I hope you guys are ready to cry. Because I sure am!”
“Wait…” panic settles into my chest. “Can- can you guys-“ I can't finish as breathing becomes to difficult. Even if it wasn’t certain yet, I couldn’t stop the panic at having to perform so unexpectedly.
“What’s wrong?” Romance asks, noticing the fast rising and falling of my chest.
“-Undo it.”
“Undo what?” Miras voice is laced with worry.
“I- I,” I stammer, my eyes not leaving the hosts as an envelope is brought to them. Watching the envelope like I can see through it and read the name on it.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Rumi pulls me into her chest, grounding me. “Take a deep breath,” she takes one waiting for me to take one with her. Then gently lets it out, I do the same but mine is shaky. “Try again.”
“I can’t perform,” I whisper, voice trembling, shaking my head finally turning to look at her. “I can’t do this.”
“Sure you can!” Jinu says with a confident grin on his face. I just shake my head.
“Y/N!!” The shout of my name startles me. I freeze, eyes returning to the stage. My picture presented on the big screen. The hosts look somewhat puzzled. As do I.
There is polite clapping as Rumi gently nudges me to get up. I leave my small clutch with them, looking back at them as I hesitantly start walking. “You’ve got this!” Zoey says giving me two thumbs up, beaming.
“She wasn’t supposed to win,” it’s a grumble that she doesn’t hear while she slowly makes her way to the stage. But the others do. Eight pairs of eyes turn toward the voice. Jaewon. Staring daggers at the back of his head. None of them say anything… but the message is clear. Standing up, clapping louder than anyone else in the room. A push. A warning. And she needs it. Every last bit of it.
My legs feel like they might give out with every step I take, my heart still bounding in my chest. Once I reach the stage and am given the award I awkwardly stand in front of the mic. “Thank you, I-“ my words falter, my eyes meeting a glaring Jaewon. But then excited movement from above him brings a smile to my face. A wave, encouraging smiles and a nod that says ‘you can do this’ from Jinu. “I didn’t expect to win tonight,” I say honestly. “But it is truly an honor, thank you so much to those who listen to my songs, support me and especially voted tonight,” looking at the award as the words settle within me. “Really… thank you,” Stepping back from the mic I’m met with more applause a bit more sincere this time.
“Let me take that real quick,” Seyeon says gently, taking the award from my hands. “Good luck!” With that she and Minjun disappear at the side of the stage. The lights dim just enough to shift the mood, and then my song starts playing. Closing my eyes, I take one last breath and sing.
Finally hit the ground I'm at the bottom now Never thought I could be this low Felt like falling down an endless hole No, I don't see the light And I don't hear God Crawling in the dark Now my limbs are cold Screaming out "Help" but it just echoes
A silence falls over the room. Everyone listening with bated breath. All consumed by the unexpected depth of my voice. By the ache woven into every note, the weight of words no one dares to speak out loud.
Only one way out of here I don't think I can reach it Everything I hold dear Erased by all of my demons My sorry is sincere I've just lost all of my reasons Reasons left to stay
When I open my eyes, I’m stunned to find I’ve become the center of attention. No one is talking, everyone is quite literally staring. Wide eyed, stunned faces, confused but pleasantly surprised. As if they expected a whisper but got a storm.
So, if this is goodbye Please, don't count my cry as a sin No, I don't wanna die But it keeps getting harder to live And I put up a fight But now I've got nothing to give So, if this is goodbye, goodbye, goodbye I hope someday to see you again
The song is emotional and raw. It captures everyone in the room even the ones who didn’t know her before this very moment. She had already captured their attention when she walked in. Clumsy, quiet, walking with uncertainty. But hearing her sing this song live, it hit different.
It’s like a string got pulled tight between them and her. A need to protect. To have. To understand. And something more dangerous; an obsession.
There's nothing you could've said Nothing you could've done different It was always between me and my head Never meant to hurt you in the process But I just can't keep holding on Wish I could believe that things will get better Wish I could just flip a switch in my mind Then I could fix how I feel altogether Then I could mean it when I say I'm fine It's never that easy and neither is life Don't think I wanted to leave you behind I tried, I tried, I tried
This song, it wasn’t for Jaewon. That much was obvious. But who was it to?
The answer.
Herself.
So, if this is goodbye Please, don't count my cry as a sin No, I don't wanna die But it keeps getting harder to live And I put up a fight But now I've got nothing to give Nothing, nothing So, if this is goodbye, goodbye, goodbye I hope someday to see you again If this is goodbye I'll see you If this is goodbye Open up my eyes I don't know where I am And everything is blurry My mom's holding my hand Turns out I was in a hurry But God had other plans He said my goodbye was early Now I've got a second chance
I stood in pure silence for a moment. Everyone shocked at the emotional impact this song had on them. In the end a couple of tears were shed.
“That… was…” Seyeon enters the stage once more. Tissue in hand. Letting out a sigh as she shakes her head struggling to find the right word. “… beautiful,” is what she settles for. That seems to put the room back in motion as applause suddenly, loudly rings around the room.
Startled, tears gather in my eyes. “Thank you,” I smile through tears.
“This award,” Minjun starts as he too returns. Holding up my award. “Is extremely well deserved,” I thank them once more before exiting the stage. Climbing my way back up the stairs. I’m stared at, even get a bow here and there as I pass them. I bow back like I don’t deserve their respect.
When I get back to my seat Zoey and Rumi are crying while Mira is obviously holding back her tears.
“That was so… ethereal,” Zoey sniffles. Standing up to pull me in a hug. “You deserved this award! Even if you didn’t think so.”
Taking her phone from her clutch while she talked to the girls was almost too easy. Even when she sat back down she hadn’t noticed how Baby easily manipulated the device to unlock with his demon powers. First he found her phone number, saving it in his own phone.
The causality of how he handled it and the guys keeping her distracted made it go unnoticed for much longer. The guys had quickly noticed what their maknae was up to. Making sure he would get it done. Easily installing spying software, hiding it from her, but making sure it worked from his own device. It wasn’t about invading her privacy. It was about keeping her safe.
By the time she reached for her clutch again, it was back in it place, exactly where she thought she’d left it. Missing the pointed look Mira gave the maknae as if to tell him he better share what he finds.
“Wow,” I sigh, grabbing my clutch, using it as a fan. “Thank you,” glancing both ways trying to meet their eyes. As I thank them for their - undeserved - support. “I would not have been able to do that if it wasn’t for you,” a blush tinting my cheeks but I blame it on the heat in here. In reality there is air conditioning in the room making sure everyone was comfortable.
“Of course,” Abby smirks, but I know he’s genuine.
“It’s nothing, you needed a push,” Mira shrugs casually. “You deserved it.”
“Thank you, anyway,” I make sure they know I’m being sincere. “But I really need the bathroom now,” I chuckle awkwardly receiving understanding chuckles back. Getting up I follow the signs to the bathroom.
Inside the bathroom, I take a moment to freshen up a bit, I look at myself in the mirror. A genuine smile still playing on my lips. “I did it,” I mutter, barely believing my own words. “I actually won.”
Taking my phone from my clutch, my notification wall is full. There are new followers on every social media platform I have. Mentions of my performance. Clips, screenshots, reactions. And of course all the posts the Saja Boys and Huntr/x created to support me and my song.
Mentions of my other songs too. People finding them, loving them. It makes me feel warm. Loved. Seen.
I exit the bathroom relax, distracted even. A bit too distracted apparently when I get the air literally knocked out of me. Pushed into the wall right at the archway to the venue hall.
“Wha-”
“Shut up!” I recognize the voice immediately. Anxiety lighting a fire in my being. Eyes wide, they find his. His face is contorted in anger. “You weren’t supposed to win,” his hand balls into a fist, rising, but he knows he’s still in public. Lowering the fist he grips my upper arm instead. Tight enough to create bruising, making me squirm and whine.
“Let go of me,” my voice is small. The fear in my eyes only making him chuckle.
“No, this is how you should have looked,” he continues, voices nearly growling the words at me. “I orchestrated this. Made sure you were nominated for a song no one even knew. Made it so you had to sit with those you looked up to,” tears form in my eyes. I knew it... I knew I shouldn’t have been here. His other hand lands on my shoulder, thumb laying at the base of my neck. Pressing hard, making it uncomfortable to talk or swallow.
It seems my arms decide that they now have the strength to try and push him away. But it doesn’t work. He’s stronger than me.
“You should have ran out of here, crying! Like the weakling you are,” his voice stays the same, unfazed by my trembling attempts to push him away from me. “How did you win?” there is real anger laced with genuine curiosity. Thumb pressing harder onto my throat.
“Because she deserves it,” the voice stuns both me and Jaewon. It’s Mystery. Before I can react, Jaewon quickly pulls me to his chest. I cough with the pressure now gone from my throat. He acts like he didn’t just have a bruising grip on me. Like all he wanted to do was hug me as a way to congratulate me on the win. Even if it was all a lie to protect his image.
The way Mystery was positioned had given Jaewon the false idea that no one had caught his cruel actions towards her. But Mystery knew. They all knew, even Huntr/x who were currently performing unable to protect what was theirs. Even if she didn’t know it yet.
“Oh, I wasn’t accusing,” Jaewon continues, feigning sincerity, but the sharp tone in his voice betrays him. “Congratulations on your win, Y/n,” the way he says my name. It's sharp and I know it’s a warning. Mystery takes my hand, pulling me closer to him so I’m not in Jaewon’s reach.
“Thanks,” it’s forced and breathless as it leaves my lips. I let Mystery lead me back to our seats. Trying to fake my confidence like nothing happened.
They all know something happened, but don’t point it out. From the way she walks and sits down stiffly. Trying to portray that genuine happiness she showed earlier. Only it doesn’t reach her eyes. They know now is not the time to talk about what they all witnessed. Instead, they watch quietly, guarding her in their own way.
The rest of the award show luckily goes by swimmingly. I hate to have to say goodbye to the eight who already meant a lot to me. Now more than I ever thought possible.
But I knew this was probably the first and only time I would get to talk to them. At least for a good while. The girls gave me a hug, squeezing me tightly. Letting me know once more that I deserved the win. I’m not sure how to say goodbye to the guys. Jinu just tsk’s, and pulls me in for a hug as well.
Even if he makes it seem nonchalant he can’t stop himself from breathing in her hair as she hugs him back.
Mystery makes sure to squeeze tightly, like a reminder that he’s there for her.
Baby playfully rolls his eyes at her, poking her sides to make her jump before giving his own hug. Gently petting the top of her head.
Abby smirks, teasing her. Saying that she only wants a hug so she can feel his abs. She chuckles genuinely, making all their hearts melt.
Last is Romance who will gladly take a hug, lingering for longer than needed. Placing a peck on her soft cheek, causing a soft flush to her face.
Missing the way the girls glare at the boys with envy.
My manager had been surprisingly quiet the next day. Normally he would start calling me the moment the sun woke.
Now it’s Monday, two days after the K-pop Rising Stars Awards. Still, it’s radio silence from my manager. I had messaged him myself to ask if he saw my win. He hadn’t even read it. Nothing.
With Luminara Entertainment right around the corner from the dorms, I headed there early. I needed answers. Arriving around 8 am, I waved at Juna at the reception desk. She smiled gently but there was something almost rehearsed in it. Shrugging off the feeling I head for the elevator making my way to Kyungsoo’s office.
Outside the office door I heard voices. So I at least knew he was in. Knocking softly on the wooden door, I wait. The conversation grew silent immediately. When Kyungsoo finally cracked the door open, his eyes barely met mine.
“Hey, I messaged, but I didn’t hear from you,” I tell him, confusion clear on my face. Partially because he’s just peeking out of a small slit in the door but mostly because I hadn’t heard from him.
“Y/n, I’m so sorry,” I can tell immediately that it’s not sincere. Voice flat, lacking his usually somewhat warmth. “I’ve just been really busy. Just continue working on your songs in the studio. I’ll check in with you soon,” before I could respond the door closed again.
Busy or not, it was clear I wasn’t a priority. He didn’t even congratulate me. Tension rose in my shoulders like something was up but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
His phone dings with a new familiar chime. Y/n opened her phone. Picking up his own from where it rested on the coffee table.
They had been given an off day after holding a concert on Sunday the day after the Award show. The five of them relaxing a bit. Though that wasn’t the only thing going on.
Mystery had done a full deep dive on Jaewon, turns out the only reason NIOR7 was doing as well as they were. Was because of daddy’s money.
Jinu, who sat next to Baby, recognized the sound too. All of them knew what it meant, having observed her activity since she left the venue. Including making sure she actually got home safe. Not leaving the outside of Luminara dorms until they saw her face in one of the windows.
A new message came in.
Jaewon Enjoying your win
She didn’t start typing, but didn’t move away from it either. Why had she not blocked him yet? As if she heard their thoughts, she excited the chat. Going to her blocked numbers. A list of at least seventeen blocked contacts showed up. All named Jaewon.
It didn’t matter whether she blocked him. He would just get a new number and keep tormenting her.
Jaewon Not for long, I'm sure
What does that even mean? What is he up to?
Abby who stood behind the couch looking at the screen with them. “I’ll call the girls.”
When they had gotten back to Honmoon Tower after making sure Y/n had gotten back safely. The girls insisted on making a pact. Not believing they would actually share everything with them if they didn’t make a pact. They vowed to keep each other updated on everything happening with Y/n. No secrets.
The pact sealed with a tattoo of a tiny flame appearing on their ribs as a reminder, and as punishment. If they were to forget to share something, important or not. The tattoo would slowly start burning, growing stronger the longer it takes. Only stopping when the information is shared.
All they heard was Abby saying ‘It’s about Y/n’ and they appeared in their living room. Worry clear on their faces. Dressed in gym clothes, a sheen of sweat covering their skin. Still a little breathless.
“What is it?” Zoey ask, finding a seat next to Baby as Abby hangs up the phone. Rolling his eyes at their appearance playfully.
“Jaewon, he just wont stop tormenting her,” Jinu explains. “I think it’s a threat but I can’t be sure,” taking Baby’s phone from him to show Jaewon’s last message to her.
“It has to be,” Mira confirms, obvious anger at the man harassing their girl. “What else can you do with this?” she asks, talking about the mirror image of Y/n’s phone.
“A lot,” Baby smirks. “When she’s asleep I can activate her phone and look through it.”
“And if she is using it? Can you listen to what she’s saying?”
“I could yeah,” Baby nods, going to the settings and activating the mic on her phone and the speaker on his own. Her voice immediately filling the space.
“What are you talking about?” I chuckle at the absurdity of my current situation. “You’re dropping me?”
“Yes, I am,” Kyungsoo says. There is uncertainty in his voice, his posture stiff. “Effective immediately.”
“What? But my contract-”
“It’s doesn’t matter,” he cuts me off. “Because of a morality clause. The label believes it’s best to part ways with the recent… controversies surrounding you.”
“Controversies? What controversies?” he avoids my gaze as I dig for more answers.
“That’s not for me to say,” he shrugs awkwardly casual. “You have 24 hours to get out of the dorms.”
“Twenty-fo- What? That’s not enough time! Where am I meant to go!?”
“You’ll figure it out,” with that he walks out, slamming the door to the studio.
“What?” my voice a quiet whisper as I sink back down onto the couch. “What am I gonna do?” I ask myself, my voice shaky.
Bzzz…. Bzzzz
Glancing at my phone which still sat on the coffee table where I left it when Kyungsoo came in.
Unknown Hey, how is your day? It’s Romance by the way.
// Part One // Part Two // Part Three //
Taglist:
@strayharmony943 @ghostlyworld @zariahthewitch @ateezswonderland @bunnytea10 @levifiance @katzline @ch1cky-093 @justanindiangirl12 @mxvoid26 @m-1mi @raineandcl0uds @mel3484 @apelepikozume @kangsae-byeokfan @zero-jpg @planetpearlsworld @sylus-h3ll @sy1ock
I hope everyone got tagged correctly!
#kpop demon hunters#baby saja x reader#reader x baby saja#huntr/x#huntrix#huntrix x saja boys#saja boys x reader#k pop demon hunters#kdh reader#kdh rumi#kdh mira#kdh baby#kdh zoey#jinu kdh#kdh#kdh romance#kdh abby#kdh mystery#Huntrix x reader x Saja Boys#huntrix x reader#Huntr/x x reader#Saja Boys x reader x Huntrix#Jinu x reader#Romance x reader#Abby x reader#Mystery x reader#Rumi x reader#Zoey x Reader#Mira x reader#Spotify
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I know "I'm bad at summaries" and "I'm bad at tags" are not sentiments to voice in the summary/tags of a fic. But, genuinely, I don't consider myself good at either. (This is background.)
The actual question is, how do I learn these? Especially tagging. My fandom background is sparse, at least far as participation in broader fandom culture is concerned, so I wasn't part of fandom when current tagging practices on AO3 evolved. It's difficult for me to grasp, and I suspect I end up treating the tags more like CWs than search terms as a result.
Great for people who want to filter out particular unpleasant elements. Not so great for people who can't find my fic because I didn't think to tag something someone else might see as obvious. I have severe social anxiety so joining e.g. a Discord to ask for help isn't really a viable option. Tagging fic isn't worth panic attacks.
Tagging fic isn't worth panic attacks.
100% agreed!
When it comes to being "good at tagging" that definition is going to vary from person to person. It will also vary depending on what your goal is.
I'm a fairly minimal tagger myself. I'll tag the fandom and the major characters, the general vibe (e.g. humour, smut etc) and then anything else I might think of. I don't personally like to tag smut fics with all of the various sex acts in them, but I've done it before because I thought I was supposed to. Since it doesn't really feel like "me" though I've since stopped doing that. If folks want to avoid my fic as a result, that's totally fair. If folks who would like it can't find it 🤷♀️ maybe it'll be a rec someday.
All that is to say that tagging is not a thing it's possible to be perfect at, so just aim for accomplishing whatever your goal is.
I get what you're saying, though. I wrote a fake dating fic once without tagging it as fake dating because I didn't realize that fake dating was a trope. It was only when a couple of friends started referring to it that I realized and added that tag to my fic.
One way to learn about those kinds of tropes is to pay attention when you see them tagged on other people's fics. You can browse through tags that are similar to ones you already use and see what else people add to their fics and whether those would work for yours or not.
You can also visit Fanlore! It's another project by the OTW (the people who run AO3) and it's a great resource for learning about fandom. You can look up a common tag like Alternate Universe, and it will give you examples of different types of AU and link out to pages that will link out to pages that will... you get the idea. It's wikipedia but for fandom stuff.
As for summaries, there are a lot of ways to go about that too. I'll let folks add ideas in the notes. The way I do it is that I include the name(s) of the major character(s), and outline the inciting incident for the fic. Since I post as I write, I might or might not tease something that happens later on (because I might or might not know yet).
The way to get good at doing it is just to keep practicing. When I was in university, I took a Russian Lit course where we had to write a summary of each novel in 200 words or less, 10 sentences or less - and semicolons were cheating. I did that 13 times in 8 months, and by the end of that I was really good at writing summaries. Add in the fact that I started posting fic back on FF.net where there was a character limit on summaries and you can see why I keep them pretty short.
That's another thing that you can analyze in others' fics, though. Find a summary that you think is well-written for whatever type of summary you like and then look at that author's other fics to see if you can spot a pattern to how they do it. Once you find the pattern, it's a lot easier to replicate it and then it's just a matter of repeating it until it feels natural.
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Sunset Boulevard 🩷🧡🏵
Astrology Observations

🏵 Leo Risings/Leo Venus/Leo in the 5th or 7th house like to show their partners off in big ways. Their partners can be their whole pride/world/attention
🩷 Lilith in the air signs has such a good vibe. You feel so close attached to them because their whole personality
🧡 Scorpio Venus/Rising/Scorpio in the 5th or 7th house has very intense eyes, their looks are full of passion/lust/magnetism
🏵 Capricorns Venus/Risings/Capricorn in the 5th or 7th house, something very attractive of them is that...they dont like to date immature ppl. They always know what they want. Idk i love them for that
🩷 Kristen Stewart has a PISCES VENUS?? OMG. Those who know me, know that I am obsessed with Pisces Venus. SHES MESMERIZING...And she also has a Libra Moon??? SHE ENDED EVERYONE. It makes so much sense I'm in shock.
🧡 Usually natives with air signs in the 3rd/11th house tend to have really big dreams and a very open mindset. They can be known to be the creative mind of a group

🏵 Virgo and in general earth placements tend to have issues with their body in terms of eating. I know a Virgo Chiron who has a big appetite but is afraid to gain weight :/. They can go through body changes
🩷 This thing is practiced more by witches but womens menstrual cycle often tends to be linked with the lunar cycle and you can do different rituals or purifying baths to help with it. The body is really amazing
🧡 Neptune and Uranus in the 1st house tend to be sensitive to others energy. But also drained by it. Make sure to potect your energy so you dont feel like fainting at the end of the day
🏵 By the time i write this post is 11:11. I don't really know if is a sign or not. But i find it cute. We shall all be blessed
🩷 People with Venus in Fire signs know how to make a good first impression. You either get charmed or a blessing in disguise when youre with them
🧡 People with Jupiter in the 11th or 10th house can become lawyers or study law/having relatives in this profession
🏵 Saturn or Pluto in the 4th house natives might not wanna have kids. Sensitive topic but for sure family trauma too. Better to be safe than sorry (and i know it doesn't apply to everyone)

🩷 Mars in the 3rd house can be the type of person to scream in the traffic/traffic lights/others cars. Just having a roast time
🧡 Neptune in the 4th house and sometimes south node in tbe 4th house can indicate secrets in the family
🏵 If you have Saturn in the 2nd house and it happens to be a cardinal sign like aries/cancer/capricorn/libra, please make sure youre not in debt or you dont depend on anyone.
🩷 Natives with Pluto in the 6th house may live in a very chaotic world. Like the 6th house being the house of order and organizing but Pluto makes it so messy and it can happen if you have Pluto at 6° or 18° degrees too
🧡 Lilith in the 10th or 11th house can lie for attention or to gain attention. This placement plays a big role in someones reputation
🏵 Gemini Mercuries/Gemini Risings have it probably the easiest when it comes to expressing themselves and thats actually so important for their development
🩷 People with Mercury - Venus aspects...People love their voice. Their voice may sound pleasant or abundantly beautiful
🧡 Jupiter - Ascendant aspects are a blessing to your body/appearance even if you may doubt yourself. You're touched by Jupiter's abundance
🏵 People with Stellium in Scorpio (Stellium = 3 planets or more than 3 in one sign) these people study other people too well. They may know everything and all about someone
🩷 Love asteroids or planets in the 6th, 10th, or 11th house can lowkey indicate falling in love with co-workers or ppl at your work

🏵 Hope you have a good day! And stay safe please summer can be so dangerous with those heats 😭...I personally hate the heat waves....
#astrology#astro observations#birth chart#astro notes#astrology observations#placements#astro community#horoscope#astro seek#astrologer#astro#astro tumblr#astrology Observations yee#ascendant#venus#astro com#astro fyp#tumblr fyp#avatar#avatar 1#avatar 2#avatar 3#avatar the way of water#love you#stay safe
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caleb body worshipping you—a short drabble.
━ .ᐟ✧ PAIRING: caleb x female reader (afab)
━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, body-worshipping, some female descriptors but tried to keep it as gender neutral as possible, stretch marks/thigh/tummy/etc worshipping, unprotected sex, petnames, no use of y/n, NOT proofread
━ ✧.˖ A/N: different from my usual plot-fic style. just a little smutty blurb. not proofread, i churned this out in like an hour. had a sudden hit of wanting to write :) enjoy! let's all have fun with the 4.0 update soon or tmw depending on what server you are!
good luck with your pulls guys. love you.
caleb body worships like no other.
caleb will use the rough pad of his thumb to trace the delicate lines of your stretch marks and scars. he commits each one to memory, mapping them like different flight paths—each one he was determined to explore and revere. why? for no other reason than that they mesmerize him and he finds them beautiful against your skin—especially when he’s buried balls deep inside of you.
“never seen anyone or anything so damn beautiful. i’ll never get used to it. never want to. never will.”
caleb sucks at your nipples quite literally like he’s hoping he might find some of your unbearably sweet essence. his tongue strokes at every pebbled groove of your hardened skin, reveling in how something could taste so perfectly sweet, salty, and perfectly you.
“addicted to you baby, fuck. can’t live without you anymore, without tasting these perfect tits, every morning, every night. every goddamn day. you’ll let me, right?”
caleb has your ass and hips in the air, your feet dangling over his shoulders, and kisses your ankles so tenderly, even as he quite literally jackhammers into you so desperately it’s almost pathetic. his breath is hot and heated against them as he groans, his fingers firm as they massage into your calves
“god, you’re perfect. every fucking inch of you. fucking made for me.”
caleb uses his own hands to clench your thighs tighter around his head when he’s in between them. thick, slim, soft, rough, it doesn’t matter. they’re fucking perfect and he needs to suffocate in them. that’s how he wants to go. smothered by your heavenly, arousal-slicked, trembling thighs.
“tighter princess. juuust like that. good girl. don’t be ridiculous, they’re perfect. give them to me.”
caleb grabs the plush loose skin around your abdomen when he’s close, and it only turns him on more. sometimes, he squeezes a little too hard and leaves behind pretty little bruises in the shape of his fingers, the color of his eyes. and when he does, his lips will always find them pressing gentle reverent kisses into the achy skin, apologizing sincerely.
“fuck, sorry princess. you’re just so soft—feel so good—got carried away. let me make it up to you, let me make you feel good.”
caleb cums explosively inside of you. not because he wants to, which he absolutely did, but because you begged for it. because he knew you needed to feel him inside of you—hot, thick, and deep—in order to really feel how desperately he needs you. feel how precious your body was to him.
“fuuuck—feel that, sweets? feel how dry you milk me? going to live inside of this perfect fucking body. taking me so damn well, princess.”
caleb has dedicated his entire life to you. everything he’s ever done, every decision he’s ever made, has been with you in the forefront of his mind. he’d worship you, mind, body, and soul, for as long as you’d let him. as long as the heavens would allow him. and even then.
your body truly is a temple. his temple.
© aeyumicore 2025.
.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND AO3. i am not @/aeyumicores or @/aeyumiicore or any variations of my blog name.
✧.˖ i do not permit translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or others. please do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own.
#love and deepspace smut#love and deepspace#caleb#caleb smut#love and deepspace caleb#lads caleb#lnds caleb#caleb x reader#lads#lads smut#calebmc#xia yizhou smut#xia yizhou#caleb love and deepspace#caleb love and deepspace smut#love and deepspace caleb smut#lnds smut#caleb drabble#love and deepspace x reader
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Imagine if Bobby was the person manager!reader was going out with! How do you think the Saja boys + the girls would react?
You and @twennari asked similar things so I thought I’d bring both together.
The boys had -somehow- managed to locate where exactly your date was taking place, nothing too fancy, just a well beloved restaurant with a warmth that could be felt even when the door was closed.
They were all adorned in ridiculous outfits that no one with any ounce of self respect would ever be caught in for even a second, once glance within the mirror would’ve have them rethinking every decision they’ve made in their life, but not Saja boys as they were hell bent on seeing who this person that was trying to take you from them.
Yet when they saw who it was, he was the last person any of them would’ve suspected. Your date was Bobby, the manager of Huntrix, and the boys all collectively groaned at the implications of this going forward.
Baby and romance were disheartened by this revelation, yet knew there wasn’t much they could do in this situation without making things worse for themselves in the long run, they also can’t deny that you were having a good time. And if you were having a good time without them was a bit of a blow at first but they know that being overbearing or threatening Bobby will do nothing but push you away and into his arms further.
Baby would huff about how unfair it is but would not let it show on his face, not wanting to let his innermost emotions show unless it was for his own benefit. He didn’t like the idea of you on a date and you on a date with Bobby only made him dislike him just that little bit more, yet he knew that he’ll have to act civil with him for your sake and he’ll do it for you and you alone, though that doesn’t mean he won’t give Bobby the cold shoulder now and then.
He still expects his quality time with you, but he might start writing dis tracks about Bobby in a secret notebook, and keeping it hidden from you. Baby is more than willing to keep you happy, even if it goes against his own happiness.
Romance would be sad that Bobby was being an utter gentleman with you, but it’s how he would’ve treated you if he was the one on a date with you, so he had to give Bobby his flowers when he could. He wanted to see you happy and being spoiled, so seeing you and Bobby having a genuine time together, trading stories and having a good connection in due to your line of work being the same as it brought you both together.
He’s protective over you for a multitude of reasons, he doesn’t like having to share your attention with anyone else, but he’ll have to learn soon enough as to not make things awkward for you and ruin whatever relationship you have with him in the process. There was a time and the place to be selfish and he’ll feel that always whenever he will see you and Bobby in close proximity, but he knows that if he wanted to stay in your good graces then he needed to play nice, even if those niceties with be like that of a double edged sword.
Abby and mystery were sad that they couldn’t do anything about your date with Bobby, knowing that Zoey, Mira and Rumi would be on their asses faster then they could blink.
They were forced to accept that you were on a date with the manager of their rival group, laughing and chatting it up like you were lifelong friends, even if they didn’t like how Bobby would look at you with fond eyes and touch your hand or how you’d laugh and intertwine your fingers with his, showing them without the usage of words of how good Bobby was treating you and it was only the first date of many yet to come.
Jinu is the one with his head clear and able to see that Bobby was not to be harmed in any way. He understood the upset within his group but knew that if any of them acted out, putting their mission at risk in due to their jealously of not having you, then he would have to reprimand them quickly and quietly as possible before it caught wind elsewhere.
He’s got his own thoughts and feelings about the situation. He’s jealous and he’s envious, he’s upset, he’s mad, but he knows that he can’t act upon them without putting himself and the others at risk, he’s meant to lead by example and he needs to do that more then ever. He cares for you just as deeply as the others but can’t dictate your heart if Bobby is the one you happily see a future with, it’s something he’ll have to come to accept sooner or later as there’s no point holding a grudge against Bobby, not when he’s been nothing but respectful of you.
Yet he will keep an eye on him, the protectiveness he felt over you doesn’t fade, it grows stronger and he’ll be keeping a close eye on Bobby and will act accordingly if he found anything he didn’t like. You were priority to him and the group and he won’t allow you to be treated as anything less.
Now as for Zoey, Mira and Rumi, they were absolutely ecstatic that Bobby was going on a date, a gorgeous date as he liked to claim; but they were protective of Bobby and were suspicious on whether or not this date was actually a demon in disguise.
So they too dress in ridiculous disguises and began to follow Bobby on his date and surprise, surprise, the person he’s went on about going on a date with was you! The manager of demonic boy band: Saja Boys.
Now the girls have a level of respect for you because how you tolerated those five men they was behind them, you keep them in line and didn’t allow them to make a fool out of themselves and importantly you, making sure they didn’t get up to anything that would have you on clean up duty and lack of sleep.
Zoey loves you and the fact that you were the one Bobby was on a date with almost made her squeal in happiness because you both look adorable together.
Both overworked managers of two of the most successful groups within the industry, it was a match made in heaven, and yet seeing you both get along like you have for a while was more then enough proof for Zoey to trust you with Bobby. You both understood each other’s workloads and would look out for each other, it was wonderful watching you both laugh and smile at each other as you enjoyed your date.
She hoped that you go on plenty more dates after this, develop your relationship further and deepen it and just in general be happy together. She just knows you’d both make the perfect fit for one another and will gladly make it known whenever possible, maybe even teasing you both if you were to cross paths backstage perhaps? Bobby works himself to the bone and he needs a break even when he insists he didn’t, and if being with you was the way to get him to relax and take the time for himself to breath and enjoy life? Then so be it and she’ll be your biggest cheerleader through and through.
Mira is protective of those closest to her, and Bobby is one of them.
She loves you, don’t get her wrong, but it’s only natural of her to feel on edge or some sort of skepticism towards the demonic group you manage. She was happy that Bobby was on a date, but had her suspicions on who the mystery person could be, if they were only going out with him to get to them and other thoughts like this were within her mind.Mira didn’t want to see Bobby be hurt in any capacity and while she trusts you to not do so, she couldn’t say the same for the five men that seemed to act as though they were your lovers more often then not.
She didn’t like how they’d become borderline obsessed with you and thus would keep a close eye on them in case any of them acted out, it was almost as if she was wanting them to but would reframe from such as you and Bobby didn’t need any more stress that was built upon your shoulders because of them. She smiled softly at how you both seemed to be eager to be closer to one another, shoulder to shoulder as you traded smiles and share a desert between the two of you, looking nothing like the overworked and determined managers in that moment but two people who enjoyed their date together. You both deserve that much after dealing with them and it shouldn’t be ruined, especially not by the Saja Boys who only viewed you as a possession and not human.
Rumi distrusted the group you managed more than she distrusts you.
She doesn’t want them anywhere near Bobby, yet couldn’t help but smile as she saw how happy and relaxed you made Bobby feel, the dark bags under his eyes from excursion almost became none existent whenever he practically beamed at you. That’s all she wants for Bobby, to find someone of a like mindedness as him and someone who could easily make him ease up and relax, and she’s glad he had found that in you as she watched you both genuinely enjoy each others presence.
She also knows that from this point onwards your two groups would be seeing each other more often, and this could be used to her advantage to gauge each Saja boy’s reaction and determine who she should keep the closest eye on, knowing that they’ve become borderline possessive towards you over a short amount of time and so knowing that someone was encroaching on their territory, they were bound to lash out and she would be there to keep you and Bobby out of the line of fire. You were most likely unaware of the true natures of your boys, and thus Rumi saw your date with Bobby just as much of a threat towards you as she saw it a threat to Bobby.
Rumi would make sure that yours and Bobby’s peace was left undisturbed, you both deserve that much after all you’ve done for them, you both deserve to enjoy your date without worry and focus on each other, it’s a look she hoped to see more of in the future as it would reassure her that Bobby was in safe hands; your hands.
#kpop demon hunters imagines#kpop demon hunters imagine#kpop demon hunters x you#kpop demon hunters x reader#kpop demon hunters#kpdh imagines#kpdh imagine#kpdh x you#kpdh x reader#kpdh#Saja boys#saja boys x you#saja boys x reader#kpdh bobby#huntr/x#huntrix#kpdh mira#kpdh rumi#kpdh zoey#mystery x reader#romance x reader#jinu x you#jinu x reader#baby x reader#abby x reader
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Hi there! I loveee your fics :3 I never read Y/N fics (they’re my guilty pleasure…) is it possible that you could write a Remus! X fem!reader (or even James, I don’t mind) and the reader has had a really bad day, then James or Remus comforts her?
I love your work!!xx
Thanks for requesting!
James Potter x fem!reader ♡ 889 words
James stops speaking mid-sentence when he hears your key enter the door. He forgets what he was talking about entirely.
“Oh, that’s pathetic.” Sirius smirks at him from Remus’ lap. “You’ve just perked up like a puppy. Try to retain a bit of self-respect, mate.”
James is too chuffed to quip in reply. He only raises his eyebrows at Remus, who kisses Sirius’ shoulder and warns his boyfriend in a murmur to be good. Sirius is noticeably quiet when you come in.
“Hey, angel!” James booms, spreading his arms for you. You drop your bag and walk straight for them.
“Hi,” you say back, and it’s softer than James’, which isn’t unusual, but it feels even softer than normal. You lie down on the couch to hug him like you’re sick of carrying your own weight.
“Hi.” James matches your tone, rubbing hesitantly up and down your back. “Alright?”
“Yeah,” you say, with a breath out that clearly says the opposite. Sirius makes a face, and Remus taps his thigh, signaling for him to get up. They both retreat quietly from the room. You don’t seem to notice.
“Funny seeing you here,” James hums, running his hand from the hem of your shirt all the way up to where baby hairs tickle the base of your skull.
It’s a lame joke. You called to ask if you could come over. James said yes, obviously—what else does one say when their beautiful girlfriend wants to come spend the night—but he might have prepared a bit better if he’d caught onto your mood over text. Might have given you a better reception instead of goofing off in the sitting room with his friends.
You make a low sound, a hum or a shapeless murmur, adjusting your arms around his shoulders to get closer. James takes this cue to maneuver you and pulls your bent knee across his lap so you’re straddling him. He mushes a kiss to your cheek.
“What’s the matter, sweetheart?”
You sigh, heavy and tired. Again, there’s that weight you seem to be trying to leave behind. “Sorry. Nothing’s the matter.” You nose the collar of James’ shirt aside, touching your lips to his skin. “I just needed this.”
“Nothing’s the matter?” he asks. James would never go so far as to call you a liar, but he doesn’t believe you even a little.
“Just a bad day,” you amend. “I wanted to see you.”
James’ heart heavies and swells at once. He’s upset that you’ve had a bad day, of course, but there’s also…you wanted to see him. At the end of a bad day, you came to him to make it better. That’s enough to set James aglow for weeks. He feels a renewed determination to do right by you.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says, heart pouring from his voice. “Do you want to talk about it? What made it bad?”
“Just…I don’t know. Lots of stuff.” You sit up in his lap to look at him. There’s a weariness to your expression, and James brushes a thumb over your cheek with intent of smoothing some of it away. It works, a little. You soften. “Can we just relax for a while? Sorry to steal you.”
“I love to be stolen by you,” James replies earnestly. “Honestly, Sirius and Rem are probably glad to be rid of me. I think they were working up to some, erm, stealing away of their own, you know.”
Your eyes warm with humor. “Do you feel like a cuddle?”
He scoffs, standing and lifting you with him. You squeeze your legs tighter around his waist instinctively. “Now I know you must’ve had a rough go, asking silly questions like that.” James kisses your nose, delighted at the little scrunch it does when your lips lift slightly. “Of course I want to. I haven’t turned to stone since you last saw me. Shall we stop by the kitchen first, though? Can’t promise I’ll let you go once we start, and we may get hungry eventually.”
“Oh, are you a taxi service now?” you ask amusedly.
“Taxi, weighted blanket, snack courier—whatever you need, angel. I do it all.”
That little smile remains, but your eyes cloud with something James doesn’t like. “I don’t mean to come here and dump everything on you,” you say, your voice quieting. “My day really hasn’t been so awful. I’ll be alright.”
“I know you will.” James nudges the tip of your nose with his affectionately. He makes the executive decision that snacks will be necessary, taking you into the kitchen. “It doesn’t have to be awful for you to come to me, lovely. I mean, I want you here all the time, no matter how you’re feeling, but I’m happy to drop my crucial plans of fucking around in the sitting room to have a cuddle with you instead. If you’ll still have me.”
You watch him hesitatingly. James lets you see what you like—he knows there’s nothing but sincerity to be found, really all he wants is to spend his evening making you feel better. You can hang out with his friends another time.
“Okay,” you say after a few moments. “Can you get me closer to the pantry? I’d have some digestives.”
“Course. If Remus asks after them, we’ll pin it on Sirius.”
#james potter#james potter x reader#james potter x fem!reader#james potter x y/n#james potter x you#james potter fanfiction#james potter fanfic#james potter fic#james potter hurt/comfort#james potter fluff#james potter imagine#james potter scenario#james potter drabble#james potter blurb#james potter oneshot#james potter one shot#marauders#marauders fanfiction#marauders fandom#the marauders#hp marauders#marauders era#marauders x reader#marauders fanfic#marauders fic#the marauders era
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⟡Baby, I'm Yours⟡




(Bob Reynolds x f!Reader)
Summary: You have sex with Bob for the first time. (sequel to Risk but can be read standalone)
Word Count: 4K
Notes: Set after the events of Thunderbolts*, established relationship, SMUT, "what are we gonna do ride Bob" 😏, oral sex (f recieving), fingering, p in v, missionary, cowgirl, multiple rounds (super stamina woohoo!) unproteted sex (wrap it up kids), Bob Reynolds has a big dick fight me on this, references to masturbation and wet dreams, aftercare, Bob's eyes glow when he cums (I warned you all)
a/n: So I finished writing this and then made this silly little textpost and uh. people liked it a lot so i'm proud to present you the basis for it. Just wanna say from the bottom of my heart Bob Reynolds is a little shit from Florida and yes he IS mostly submissive and he DOES whimper during sex but he is NOT an innocent baby boy and he CAN and DOES fuck. Okay rant done enjoy the sex.

You spend the next few minutes wrapped up in each other’s arms in the dim lamplight, kissing and giggling and just being together. It’s intimate, a kind of safety Bob hasn’t felt maybe ever. It's exhilarating, like something out of a dream. You’re really here, kissing him, touching him, wanting him. The thought just plays over and over in his mind. He’s so preoccupied by you, he’s barely aware of the growing hardness in his pants. Which you quickly become aware of.
You pull away mid-kiss, and Bob furrows his brow, worried he did something wrong. Even in the darkness, he can see the confusion on your face. “Um, Bob…” you trail off, not sure how to point it out. Then it hits him.
“Oh!” he scrambles back, grabbing a pillow to cover his lap. “I am so sorry, that, I did not mean to do that, I-”
“Bob.” you chuckle, a reassuring smile on your face. “It’s okay. I was just…surprised.” Bob laughs nervously in response, still clutching the pillow.
“Do you want to?” Bob tilts his head at your question.
“Want, want to what?”
“Have sex, Bob.” you say, flat out. You’re never one to beat around the bush, you get straight to the point. It’s one of the things he likes about you.
Still, his brain needs a moment to catch up to what’s happening around him. “Oh, um, do you? Want to?”
You nod. “We don’t have to, I mean, I don’t want to pressure you into-”
“I do!” he exclaims. “Want to. Have sex with you. Now. If you want to.”
You just smile, crawling over to his side of the bed. You unclasp his fingers from the pillow, taking its place in his lap. On instinct he wraps his arms around your waist, resting them just barely on the small of your back. He’s still not sure if he’s allowed to touch you, or should be. You kiss his jaw, gentle and soft, testing the waters. Bob’s breath catches as you do so, and you continue, trailing down his jawline to his neck, pausing at the conjunction of his neck and shoulder, where you begin sucking a bruise into the skin.
Bob releases a broken moan, his hands gripping onto your hips. You can feel how hard he is beneath you, and get a sense of just how big he is. The Sentry Project changed a lot about him, you know that. It’d crossed your mind that it might have affected him down there, but it still surprises you just a bit. Or maybe he’d always been like this. He’s just as incredible to you, powers or not.
Satisfied with yourself, you pull away from Bob’s neck, grinning at the darkening bruise forming there. He moves a hand from you to touch it, as if he’s making sure it’s real. You take his hand in yours, placing it on your face.
He looks up at you with a hungry gaze, before moving in to devour you once again. Robert Reynolds kisses like a man starved, gorging himself on your affection for fear it’ll vanish once more. You hold him tight, kiss him back as hard as you can. A reassurance, a promise that you’re not going anywhere, not now, not ever if you had it your way.
“Take your clothes off,” you pant out between kisses. It’s not meant to be an order, but Bob certainly takes it as one, immediately rushing to pull off his baggy sweatshirt, followed quickly by his t-shirt underneath. Bob is the last guy anyone would expect to be jacked, but here he is.
You run a hand along the line of his abs, Bob shivering under your touch. “You’re beautiful, y’know?” you whisper, kissing his cheek as you squeeze his shoulder. He chuckles, nervously muttering something under his breath. “You are.” you insist, pulling back to face him. “Not because of your body, but because you’re you, okay?”
He nods, gazing up at you like you’ve hung the moon and stars for him. You’re not sure how to respond to his look of absolute adoration except to once again kiss him senseless.
He starts tugging on the hem of your shirt, a request. You’re still in your tactical gear, crumpled and dirty from your mission. You pull back, getting to work on removing your various holsters and hidden knives, Bob assisting you to the best of his ability.
“You have so many knives.” he points out, adding number five to the pile that’s begun forming next to where the two of you sit.
“You never know.” you quip as you find your last one, moving the pile over to Bob’s nightstand as he starts yanking your shirt up.
“Only fair.” he points out with a smirk. You raise your arms over your head, allowing him to tug off your suit, leaving just your bra covering your top. You reach behind yourself to unclip it, only for Bob to swat your hand away. “I got it.” he insists, taking only a moment as he unfastens it, tossing it somewhere in the room.
He takes a second to take in the view, his mouth hangs open in the shape of a smile, not sure whether to gape or cheer. He quickly puts his mouth to better use, kissing a trail down your collarbone to your breasts, one hand on each pressing them together as he lavishes them.
“Can I eat you out?” Bob’s voice interrupts the silence, peering up at you from between your breasts. “I-I’m not that great, but I want to try. Please.”
You nod, rolling off of him and laying on your back while Bob settles himself between your legs, busying himself with tugging your pants off. “Have you done this before?”
“Hm?” he snaps out of his focus at the sound of your voice. “Oh, yeah, I just, never really got to do it properly, y’know? Take my time.” He tosses your pants away, fingers hooking under your underwear before pausing. “Do you still want to?”
“Bob, I want you between my legs five minutes ago.” he grins and yanks off your underwear, not even tearing his eyes away from your pussy. Even hidden beneath his shaggy brown hair you can see his dark blue eyes are blown out with lust, lingering carnal desire evident on his face.
Bob doesn’t bother with words. He just goes to work, gripping your thighs in his large hands and licking a stripe up your cunt as you moan, your hands tangling in his hair as he begins to lap at you. It’s messy, imprecise, but god it feels so good. He’s learning, noticing what gets the most reaction and keeping it up. He sees how your breath catches when he just barely flicks his tongue against your clit, filing it away for later.
“Fuck, Bob, baby…” you pant, gripping his hair like a lifeline. “Not great my ass, you liar…”
Bob interrupts your jokes by sucking on your clit, earning another sudden moan from you before he stops suddenly, perking his head up. “Can I use my fingers?”
“Hell yeah.” you manage to breathe out. He nods and lowers his head back down, this time moving his hand from where it digs into your thigh to swipe through the wetness of your folds. He coats his index finger in your arousal, looking straight in your eyes as he licks it off.
“You taste so good.” you mumbles as he slowly inserts his finger into you, a choked out moan escaping your throat. Bob’s a big guy, and more than once you’ve imagined those massive hands of his fingering you. Reality is ten times better than any fantasy.
He starts slowly, putting what he's learned into practice and continuing to alternate licking and sucking at your clit while he presses his finger in and out of you. You jerk against his grip, back arching as he hits that perfect spot within you. His grip on your thigh just tightens, and he presses a kiss to your inner thigh. “I got you.” he mutters, adding another finger and speeding up his pace, making sure to hit the spot that seems to make you go wild. It works, judging from the strings of expletives and moans that continue to escape you.
You can feel the knot in your stomach tightening as you writhe under Bob’s touch, every move sending licks of fire through your body. “Bob, Bob, ‘m so close, baby, please…”
Bob cuts you off with a moan between your legs, the vibrations reverberating through you, pushing you closer to your high. His eyes shut in pleasure as he devours you, the sound of you moaning out his name better than any high he’s ever felt.
“‘So close, Bob, please…”
He takes it as a sign, sucks on your clit even harder, opening his eyes so he can watch you fall apart under him. And you do, crying out his name, one hand with a death grip on his hair and the other gripping the pillows so hard he’s surprised it hasn’t exploded into feathers.
He keeps it up through your orgasm, slowing down the pace of his fingers and switching from sucking to gentle licks on your clit as you come down. “Jesus fucking Christ, Bob,” you pant, gazing down at the man between your legs.
“Did I do good?” he asks, his voice earnest and hopeful. It’s quite the contrast, the feeling of ecstasy still buzzing in the bones, the sight of your slick all over his chin, compared to the genuine worried look in his eyes as he asks the question.
“Yes, Bob, that was good.” you half-laugh. “I don’t think I’ve cum that hard in a long time.”
He grins, satisfied with his work. “Nice.” he crawls up your body, gingerly pressing a kiss to your lips. You taste yourself on him, the flavor driving you even crazier, making you more desperate for him. You lightly tug on his lower lip, earning a deep groan from Bob.
“Fuck, you’re so pretty.” he mumbles, the kiss becoming a collision of lips and teeth, the two of you stick with saliva and arousal. “You’re so perfect, and you want me.”
“Want you so bad, Bob.” you mutter into his mouth between kisses. “Want your cock, please.”
He moans, pulling away to look at your face, eyes dark with lust, lips kiss-swollen and wet, your chest rising and falling rapidly. “Say it again.”
“God, need your pretty cock inside of me, Bob, baby, please-” he’s smashing his lips against yours again, one hand working on tugging his sweatpants off. He sits up, you joining in assisting him. He pulls his boxers down with them as he finally rids himself of the wretched garments, his cock laying hard and leaking against his perfect abs. It’s better than you could’ve imagined, long and girthy, veins running along it. A small part of you worries about walking tomorrow, but the part of your brain that is so goddamn horny overrules it.
“I got a condom somewhere, I think.” he’s saying, although you barely register it as you stare at his length.
“You’re good!” you snap out of it, Bob turning back to you. “I’m all clean, IUD, you’re good.” you clear your throat, a bit awkwardly, “I’m not planning on being with anyone else, so…”
“Oh my god,” Bob grins, settling himself back on the bed before pulling you into his lap, “I’m clean too, and I don’t want anyone but you. You’re perfect.” he presses a kiss to your temple.
You chuckle as you recall something. “Remember how John was saying we should ride you into the sky?”
Bob looks confused, but nods. You lean in, whispering in his ear. “This is what I was imagining.”
His hands grip your hips, a stuttered breath escaping against your shoulder. He can barely get the words, “oh yeah?” out.
“Yeah.” you whisper, nipping at his neck, before pressing a kiss to it.
He’s hot against your aching cunt as you raise your hips, aligning yourself with his hardened cock. The pre-cum leaking from his tip mixing with the abundance of arousal dripping between your thighs. “Y-you ready? I know it’s kinda a lot, I mean, it always was, and then Sentry, well-”
“Bob, you’re perfect.” you look him right in the eyes, giving him a kind smile, as if he’s not about to fuck you raw. “I want you. All of you.”
He nods, clearly psyching himself up. He’s had flings before, and he knows he’s a lot to take. The Sentry Project enhanced all of him, and he’s doing his best not to hurt you. “Just tell me if you need to stop, okay?” You nod, and with a sharp inhale you begin to lower yourself, the head of his cock breaching your entrance. You gasp, and he pauses, making sure you’re okay. You just nod fervently, unable to form sentences at the feel of him stretching you out. It’s a little painful, which you expected, but the pleasure far outweighs the fact that you won’t be able to walk tomorrow. You continue, brow furrowed in concentration, whimpers escaping Bob beneath you at the feel of your hot cunt squeezing around him.
“Fuck, your pussy feels so good, hooooly shit,” he groans as he shuts his eyes in pleasure, doing his best not to cum when he’s only halfway in you, “you’re so fucking tight, oooh my god, are you okay?”
You nod, nails digging into his shoulders as you pause, trying to adjust to the feel of him in you. Even only halfway, the stretch is more than you’ve ever had before, and it feels fucking incredible. You start to understand the meaning of being cockdrunk for the first time.
With a final groan, you settle on Bob’s lap, his cock sheathed in you completely, panting at the feel of you around him. “Holy fuck,” he mutters, head hanging in the crook of your neck. For a few moments, the only sound is your intertwined breaths, your bodies hot and slick with sweat against one another as you sit there.
You roll your hips experimentally, a small moan escaping at the sensation. Bob’s head rolls back against the headboard, his grip on you even tighter than before. You’re gonna have bruises of his handprint for days.
You start slowly, rising and lowering onto his thick length. “Fuck, Bob…” you moan, eyes rolling back as you lose any sense of time and place, the only thing left the feeling of Bob’s body pressed against yours, Bob’s cock splitting you open as you bounce in his lap.
“You’re gonna kill me, fuck…” he groans into your neck as you quicken your pace, the need for him growing. He bites on your collarbone as another moan escapes his chest, thrusts quickening. He kisses the spot he’s marked, sucking a bruise into it. “You’re so good, so perfect…”
“All yours, Bob.” you pant, one hand turning his face to look at you. “I’m all yours, baby.”
The sound Bob makes borders on animalistic, a whine escaping his lips as he kisses you, sloppy and desperate. “I’m yours,” he murmurs against your lips, “I’m yours forever.”
The lewd sound of wet skin slapping echoes throughout his room interspersed with Bob’s whines and your cries. You look like an angel above him, the golden light illuminating your glassy eyes as you moan with pleasure, your tits bouncing with each movement. You can already feel your second orgasm coming, and from the expletives escaping Bob, he’s fast approaching his as well. And then you notice.
“I-is something wrong? You okay?” Bob murmurs, noticing your confused expression.
“Y-your eyes, Bob, fuck…”
He doesn’t even realize till now that his eyes are glowing. It’s another thing the Sentry Project changed about him. It happens when he gets too caught up in something, uses his powers, gets frustrated or angry. He’d never realized it happened in situations like this.
“Fuck, I’m close,” he tells you, clenching his jaw as he tries to hold it together, his eyes buzzing with light, the lamps in the room’s brightness going in and out. “Should I-where should I-”
“In me.” you moan you rapidly bounce yourself up and down, “fuck, Bob, fill me up, please!”
“So good to me, so pretty,” he murmurs as he desperately tries to hold out from his high, his grip on you bruising, quickly losing control of himself as he unwinds. “I’m gonna give you everything. It’s all yours, baby, all for you.”
“Fuck, yes, Bob! Please, please please please-” your babbling moans end with a last scream of his name as you cum, cunt clenching around him as you take him as deep as possible, pelvises flush against each other. Something about the golden glow of his irises, the low rasp in his voice, the words themselves, it all sends you crashing over the edge, an incoherent, animalistic noise escaping you as you cling to Bob, pressing your forehead up against his.
Bob whimpers, the glow from his eyes illuminating your face as you cum, the way your eyes roll back, the debauched expression you wear. It’s enough to send him over the edge, his eyes buzzing with light as he cums. With a cry of your name, Bob tumbles over the edge, arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest. You feel the warm spurts of his cum within you, painting your insides, claiming you for himself. The two of you sit there, panting and sweating as you come down.
“Oh my, fucking god, that was amazing.” he looks up at you, a tired, fucked out expression on his face. “You’re amazing.”
“So are you.” you smile, removing your nails from where they’ve left red crescents on Bob’s shoulder blades, moving to cup his cheek. “So good to me, baby.”
“I-I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asks, one hand running down to your waist.
You shake your head. “Well, I can’t really feel my legs, but I did expect that, so…”
“Sorry.” he says, though that smile on his face says otherwise. He’s proud of himself.
“‘S alright.” you sigh, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips. He whines, shifting his head to kiss you properly. He’s still inside of you, and you can feel his cock, still semi-hard within you. Even after two orgasms, you look up at him and want more, wanting to feel him, for the feeling of his skin on yours to never leave. “I could go again, honestly.”
“Really?” he laughs, a little surprised at both your stamina and the fact that you still want him. He sighs, one hand running along your jaw as he feels himself already growing hard once again. “I can’t say no to you.”
“So, yes to round two?”
“If I ever say no to that question, shoot me.” he grins, wrapping his arms around your hips as he rolls you both over, his cock staying in you the whole time. “How’s this?”
You yelp a little from the change in position, landing on your back and wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders once again.
You’re still sensitive from your first two orgasms, and Bob is aware of that.“I got you.” he whispers into your shoulders, rolling his hips gently. “I’ll take care of you. Promise.” He goes slowly, his eyes locked on yours as you pant under him, head falling back against the pillows.He kisses you again, hungry and desperate, as he sets his pace, dragging his cock out before pushing back in once again. Bob is gentle with you, considerate, a man with the power of a thousand suns turned docile above you.
“So many dirty dreams about you, baby, you’re so much better than any of ‘em.” Bob mutters into your shoulder. He looks up at you, a little unsure, although his pace doesn't change. “Is this a dream? Are you here?”
“I’m here, Bob.” you moan, giving him a small smile as you run a hand through his hair. “I-fuck! I’m here.”
You look like heaven, messy hair framing your face, mouth gaping, eyes shut as you throw your head back. You’re all he wants, everything he needs. He could stay here forever, taking care of you, fucking you, whatever you want. Just as long as you neer stop giving him those sweet smiles, screaming out his name just like that as he fucks you.
“Bob,” you call his name in a breathy whisper, “more, please, baby.”
He nods, speeding up his thrusts, pushing into you with more force. Your legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his ass as you pull him deeper into you. He breaks eye contact to look down at where your bodies connect, gazing at the sheen of your arousal around his cock, the white ring forming at the base of it. A mixture of both of your cum spurts out around where he’s entering you, and the sight somehow manages to make him even harder.
He’s moaning again, and before you know it his hands are on your face, pulling you up to kiss him as his thrusts grow harder and shallower, barely pulling out before slamming his full length back into you. “Fuck, Bob, yes, just like that, yes!” You scream at the sensation. You couldn’t give a fuck if the others hear when Bob Reynolds is on top of you, pounding his pretty cock into you, whispering dirty nothings in your ear.
One hand leaves your face and returns to the spot between you, rubbing gentle circles on your clit. “Come on, baby, give it to me, please.” he practically begs, dark blue eyes once again shining above you. “Need you to cum for me, come on my cock, please.” You do as he says, the coil in your stomach snapping once more, ecstasy washing over you, your cunt clenching around Bob’s length. Bob curses, pressing his lips against yours as he thrusts as deep as possible, filling you up with his cum once again.
“Fuck.” you groan, barely able to lift your head. “That was cool. The eye thing.”
“I didn’t know I did that.” he admits, rolling off of you. A small gasp escapes him as he watches his cum spill out of you, sticky and wet between your thighs. “You just look so perfect full of me.”
You smile, taking a deep breath as Bob quickly runs to the bathroom, returning with a warm towel that he uses to wipe you down. “Y’know, I never took you for a talker.”
“What, during sex?” he asks, as if he’s not literally wiping his cum off of you.
“Sex takes some of your brain cells out of you, huh?” you joke, sitting up on your elbows.
Bob chuckles, giving a small shrug. “I think that’s just what you do to me.”
After he’s carried you to the bathroom to pee, gotten you a glass of water, you settle yourself on his bare chest, running your finger along his collarbone as he shuts out the lights.
“You’re amazing.” you tell him between yawns, your eyes closing, exhausted by your activities. “Even if I can’t sit for a week.” you mutter, and then you’re out, breathing slowing as you drift off.
Bob ust smiles at the sight of you, resting against his chest, comfortable and content. Never in a million years did he think he’d have something like this. A home in the tower, a family in the team, and a love in you. “You’re perfect” he says to no one, pressing one last kiss to your hair as he wraps an arm around you, shutting his eyes for the night. “And all mine.”

#thunderbolts*#fanfic#marvel#thunderbolts#bob reynolds#bob reynolds x reader#robert reynolds#robert reynolds x you#robert reynolds x reader#bob reynolds x you#bob reynolds smut#smut#lewis pullman#bob x reader#bob thunderbolts#x reader#sentry#sentry x reader#the void#the void x reader
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back for you ★ hwang jun-ho


・❥・ summary: now that junho is free from the memories that had plagued him for so long, he's ready to start his life over with you. unfortunately, his brother inho has a habit of trying to ruining that for him. ・❥・word count: 2.1k ・❥・warnings: 18+, mdni. fingering in an elevator, swearing. established relationship. SQUID GAME S3 SPOILERS, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. ・❥・authors note: i swear to you this wasn't meant to be smut but i have a lot of junho feelings. im also bad at writing kids so... i'm so sorry in advance for how bad this might be.
Those first few weeks after Junho had finally found the island only to not get the closure from his brother that he had been craving had been eye opening for him. For so long, he had been focused on finding his brother, getting the answers to the questions that had plagued him for years. It had consumed his life, took over every single thing he did but now? Now, he knew he was never going to know and maybe that was okay. He had done his part, he had tried his best. There was nothing more he could do but move on with his life. So, that’s what he did.
It hadn’t been easy at first, it had taken a lot of time for him to find his new purpose but he had you to help him along the way. Being in a relationship with Junho over the last few years hadn’t been easy but through every single thing, you had stuck by him. That had meant more to him than he could even put into words. A future with you – that was his purpose now. You had been together for about five years. Junho had never wanted to commit fully knowing that he couldn’t give himself to you one hundred percent but now he could. That was why two months after everything had happened with the island, he got down on one knee and proposed to you.
Being your fiance was the greatest honour of his life. It was so freeing knowing that he could finally give himself to you so completely, finally.
“I really liked the red velvet one but the strawberry one was so nice, too,” you said excitedly. The two of you walked hand in hand down the street back to your apartment. Wedding planning was in full swing and today you’d been out cake tasting. It had been yours and Junho’s favourite part of the whole planning process so far. Who wouldn’t love sitting down and trying different cakes for an hour?
“I liked the strawberry one, too. Maybe we should book another tasting just to be sure,” he grinned, wrapping his arm around your shoulder instead to pull you into his side. You immediately wrapped your arm around his waist, looking up at him with a smile.
“I like the way you think, Hwang.”
“I’m not just a pretty face.”
You laughed which only made the smile on Junho’s face brighter. There was nothing more precious to you than seeing that smile on his face. For so long, all you had seen was him struggling, a smile a rare oddity as he searched for his brother. Life had taken so much from him but now he seemed so carefree. He seemed like the Junho you had met all those years ago back in high school. The one who laughed at everything, who enjoyed the small things in life. You knew deep down that he still thought about Inho and what could have been. You couldn’t blame him. Inho had been such an important part of his life – he had basically raised Junho but he wasn’t the man that Junho had once known. He was a completely different person now. That was why he had finally decided to move on. The brother he once had was long gone, replaced by a stranger he didn’t know. There would always be a part of Junho that was missing but as long as he had you, he knew he’d be okay.
“Is the elevator actually working today? I don’t want to walk up all the stairs again,” you scanned the lobby of your apartment building, eyes lighting up when you saw that the elevator was actually working.
“Guess they fixed it while we were out,” Junho pressed the button, the elevator doors opening. He guided you inside, pressing the button to the sixth floor where your shared apartment was. As you rested your back against the cool metal wall of the elevator, Junho grabbed you by the waist, his hot breath fanning over your face as he gazed down at you with adoring eyes. “Have I mentioned how beautiful you look today?”
“Maybe once or twice but it wouldn’t hurt to hear it again,” you rested your hands on the plane of his chest, feeling his muscles tense through his shirt. Junho leaned down, capturing your lips in a soft, gentle kiss.
It didn’t take long for things to heat up. Junho’s tongue traced along the seam of your lips, asking for entrance. The second you parted your lips, his tongue met yours in a heated dance. Each time you kissed, it felt like the first time. The sparks ever present like you couldn’t get enough of each other. Your hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt, tugging him as close to you as humanly possible.
Junho’s hand danced along the waistband of your jeans, popping the button open and dipping inside. His fingers slowly, teasingly ran along your panties, already feeling the damp spot forming there. It made him groan into the kiss. It never ceased to amaze him how your body reacted to him, just one simple touch made you a complete mess. Intimacy had been far and few over the years but now he was making up for lost time. Any opportunity he could take to show you how much he loved you, he was going to grasp. His fingers rubbed slow circles against your core, a breathy whine falling from your lips. A smirk adorned his face; he had you right where he wanted you.
“Junho, please,” you said breathlessly. You bucked your hips into his hand trying to seek more friction. There were only a few more floors before you’d reach yours and you so badly needed him to finish what he was starting.
As if sensing your desperation, he slipped his fingers inside your panties, his long digits sliding through your folds with ease. Your slick coated his fingers, making him groan, aching for more. He circled your entrance with one of his fingers, easing a finger inside you which caused you to gasp, throwing your head back in ecstasy. He began moving it slowly, his thumb finding your clit. His eyes glanced over seeing you were at the third floor. He had to speed this up so he moved faster, pumping his finger into you with increasing speed. The hand that was on your hip, held you in place, stilling your movements. When he slipped another finger inside you, the moan you let out was louder than you expected. You had never been more thankful that nobody else was in the elevator with you. Junho added more pressure with his thumb, circling your clit as his fingers drove into you. He knew your body better than anyone, he could tell that you were getting close. You just needed that push. So, he curled his fingers inside you, stroking that spot that made you see stars.
“Oh my god, right there, baby, I’m so close,” you panted. The moans falling from your lips paired with how wet you were against his fingers was making his cock throb in his jeans. He couldn’t wait to get you back to your apartment so he could really show you just how much he loved you.
“Come on, baby. Come for me,” he leaned forward to whisper in your ear, the deep rumble of his voice sending shivers down your spine. “We’re almost at our floor. We don’t want anyone catching us, do we?”
It took one more hard thrust of his fingers before your orgasm came crashing over you. A moan of his name echoed through the elevator. He kept his fingers moving, working you through your orgasm. He could feel your release on his fingers, the sensation making him harder than before. When he was sure you were completely spent, he pulled his fingers from you. Just in time because the elevator dinged letting you know you were at your destination.
You took a moment to take a steady breath in. You needed a moment to collect yourself before you could even think about walking. Junho brought his hand up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing delicately against your skin. “You okay?”
“I’m great,” you said with a dazed smile. “Can’t wait to return the favour.”
Junho just laughed, guiding you out of the elevator and down the hall to your apartment. Before he unlocked the door, you leaned up on your tiptoes, kissing him. He tangled his fingers in your hair, savouring the feeling of your lips against his. It was a miracle that he managed to somehow open the door from behind while you were entangled with each other. He stepped back into the apartment, tearing his lips from yours momentarily. Just as he was about to speak, something caught his eye.
“What…?” He made his way over to the small bundle of blankets. His face paled as he laid eyes upon the last thing he thought he’d ever see in his apartment.
A baby.
“Junho, what’s wr-”
You were stopped in your tracks when you heard the cry of the baby. In his hands, Junho held a small card, the words ‘Player 222, winner’ written on it. Then, he pulled out a debit card, his eyes widening. “....Inho…”
It was almost on instinct that you picked the baby up, holding it against you to soothe it’s crying. You were no expert with kids but you couldn’t leave the poor thing laying there crying. It had been left here for a reason. The sound of his brother's name caught your attention, your confused eyes looking at your fiance with question. “...Inho did this?”
“I… yeah, I think so.” He paused. Never had he felt his heart hammering against his chest so hard before. A sense of panic washing over him. He may not be a detective anymore but it didn’t take one to figure out what this meant. “I need to… uh, I need to go to an ATM.”
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
“You’re kidding me?!” You exclaimed loudly, the baby safely in your arms as you looked over Junho’s shoulder to see the balance on the ATM.
45.6 billion won.
Junho looked like he’d seen a ghost, all the memories of everything he’d witnessed on the island rushing back to him. He knew what this money was, what it meant. It was dirty money but… it was money that could help. Somehow, some way, he knew that Inho knew he needed this. He had a wedding to pay for and now… a baby to care and look after. Children had been a topic of discussion between the both of you but you had decided that you didn’t want to start trying for a few years yet, opting to enjoy just being together first before you brought a child into the world. Now, thanks to Inho, you had no choice.
Junho leaned against the wall beside the ATM. You placed a gentle hand on his cheek, letting him know you were there. He wasn’t alone – he never would be again. You spoke softly, trying to reassure him. “Hey, it’ll be okay. I… we can do this. I know we’re not ready but you and me, we can do anything, yeah? We’ve been through worse.”
Junho nodded. “Y-yeah.”
“This baby has nobody, Junho. We have to give it the life it deserves. We don’t want everything that happened to be in vain.”
“I just wish he’d have.. come to me in person. Why won’t he just talk to me?” He sounded so defeated. Of course Inho had a way of ruining everything, setting Junho back just as life had gotten good for him.
“Fuck him,” you said. “What matters now is you, me and this baby. Nothing else. We’re in this together, okay? Inho is a thing of a past. It’s his loss that he’s cut you out, not yours. That is not your burden to bear. You tried, baby. You tried so hard and don’t ever forget that.”
“Okay,” Junho nodded. His eyes landed on the baby. “I saw her. All those months ago on the island. She won the games. I don’t know how, I don’t want to know how or why she was even involved in them but… we can’t ever tell her, okay? I don’t want her to ever know where she came from. Not from that place. She doesn’t deserve to live with that.”
“She won’t. She’ll have a good life with us. Now, come on. We have 45.6 billion and a baby to cater for now. We better go shopping.”
Junho had never been more thankful to have you. The way you could lighten a situation and make him feel like he was going to be okay. It was more than he could ever ask for. Raising this baby wasn’t going to be easy but together, you could do it. You could do anything.
taglist (ask to be added!): @ldydeath @infinetlyforgotten @berfgrimm @loveesiren @justsisse @sherrayyyyy @aizshallnotbefound @fleabagspurplewife @gemzyy @bettelaboure @gdinthehouseee @breakmeoff @babyrvis @flymetothexmoon @forevervibezzzz1 @ttturnitup @szonyix6277 @riddlerloveb0t @youlikeex @str8t2video @septywitch @melanatedhorrorqueen @l5byrinth @tabibabib
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Kpop Demon Hunters
Humanized!Saja Boys x Reader Headcannons

Summery: Fluff and Smut headcannons about the Saja Boys as boyfriends (separate)
Authors note: I FINISHED WRITING THIS AND THEN IT DELETED AND I HAD TO REWRITE THE WHOLE THING anyway requests open
This includes Jinu, Baby, and Abby pt2 will have Mystery and Romance
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Jinu Fluff
Hes the most used to being a human but that doesnt mean hes any good at the whole dating thing.
When you first start dating any of his "smoothness" goes straight of the window and he becomes very nervous around you
Eventually though he becomes more relaxed and really shows his true self.
I think his love langue is a mix of gift giving and physical touch
Hes the type of guy to see something that reminds him of you and he gets it
Doesn't let you pay for anything cuz hes there for you
And being an idol is a stressing thing so especially after a big preformance all he needs is to cuddle
His favorite thing is cuddled up under a huge blanket after practice and just getting to have a break with you
Jinu smut
Definitely a switch in my mind he has that dominant vibe but there are times he wants to be taken care of
After really good performances hes dominant, hes on an adrenaline rush and feels on top of the world
I see him as a soft dom because hes worried hes going to hurt you in some way
But if he gets really mad or upset he just needs a good fuck and he just lets himself go
His aftercare is immaculate tho dont get me wrong he cleans you, gets your anything you want/need, a hot bath, etc
The opposite though is when hes upset and wants to get taken care of.
Other times is when hes tired from a preformance or practice.
Kinks he has:
Over stimulation: This shows up in when hes taking care of you and tries to get as many orgasms out of you as he can
Dirty talk: When hes worked up he cant stop talking, he'll whisper in your ear when hes pounding into you
Praise: whether hes top or bottom he'll praise you but also likes getting praised when hes a bottom it makes him come so fast.
Baby Fluff
Very straight forward with how hes feeling I dont see him as the innocent "baby" figure he shows
Despite the fact we know "all demons do is feel" his feelings for you are...different. Demons arent really used to romantic attraction.
So even though hes confident doesn't mean he knows what hes doing. After the first few dates he starts to figure things out.
Its a lot of trial and error but one you get into the groove of things its great.
His love langue is quality time, since he is busy a lot whenever he gets to actually hang out with you its his favorite thing
Definitely a pda enjoyer, hes likes showing you off hes a prideful man and hes proud of his partner
One thing he really enjoys being in a relationship is the comfort that comes from it.
At the beginning he wasnt sure what he was feeling but he now enjoys the warm fuzzy feeling he gets when he sees you
Baby smut
A dom. Thats the truth of it.
Like i said hes not innocent and to be honest I can see him as the freakiest of the group.
At the very least hes a power bottom, there are times he is too tired to do all the work and controls from the bottom.
But whenever you want to take charge he lets you just so he can tease and give condescending praise/degradation
"Aw my poor baby, are you all tired? Already we just started. Do i have to do everything around he? Just be the good slut I know you are and let me fuck you yeah?"
His aftercare is amazing he'll code switch entierly and become his most affectionate after sex
Kinks of his:
Bdsm, hes the freakiest and is into a lot of stuff that falls under this category, hes up for almost anything and gets off to you letting him do all that stuff he wants
Dirty talk, hes a rapper very good with his words and it comes out here, like i said before he is into degradation and a mix of praise but hes very talkative
Public sex, not directly in the public eye but he gets off to being risky and doing it in places theres at least a small chance someone finds you
Abby Fluff
Hes like a really big himbo teddy bear. Unde the beefy abs hes just a baby.
Like Baby and the other guys (except Jinu) hes not used to romantic attraction at all so hes very attentive in learning how to be a good boyfriend
Very protective as well hes the type of guy to always have a hand on your waist or holding yours when walking or in a crowded space
Likes to show off his strength and just kinda in general so sometimes he'll just pick you up or will do something for you randomly to show off
Love langue is physical touchs in words of affirmation. Hes a big dude so a lot more to cuddle and he just likes the closeness of it.
He always has a hand on your in some way whether that be your thigh, waist, back, hand, anything he just likes being close and that touch is nice.
Words of affirmation is more receiving then giving he really likes hearing that hes doing something right as a boyfriend and you love him
Abby Smut
A service top. He lives to serve and in bed he'll do anything you ask anything you want he'll do.
One of the easiest to get to bottom, hes there to please and rarely indulges in himself so bottoming doesnt change much for him.
I feel hed be a bit worried to hurt you because hes beefy and he was a demon so that keeps him from being rough as well.
When he gets overwhelmed by emotion (anger or sadness or happiness or whatever) he will get a bit more rough but its followed by the best praise
One of the best at aftercare, he'll do everything you ask whether its rubbing your sore legs or getting you snacks
Kinks he has:
Mirror sex, not a kink persay but he really likes doing it where he can see everything thats happening not just his pov
Different places, likes having sex in different places either around his room or "house" (its more of a penthouse i perfume but whateves) not in public like Baby but he likes knowing your his everywhere
Mutual masturbation, he likes seeing you masturbate. Not only does it turn him on but he also gets to see what you like and talk you through it
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Pt2 with Romance and Mystery is coming comment if you want to be tagged in it!
#reader insert#x reader#kpop#kpop demon hunters#kpop demon hunters x reader#kpop demon hunters fluff#kpop demon hunters smut#kpop demon hunters x reader fluff#kpop demon hunters x reader smut#kpop demon hunters fanfiction#fanfiction#abby x reader#abby saja x reader#abby saja#jinu x reader#jinu saja x reader#saja bkys x reader#baby saja x reader#baby x reader#baby saja
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Maybe riding sub sunghoon who doesn't know where to put his hands because it's too much for him??? I love your works and the way you write sm it's like my brain melts everytime I read your works bc they are literally so yummy 🤤🫶
ahh tyty sm anon !! help i rarely get any reqs for sub!hoon BUT I AM SAT.
✧ tw. smut (18+ mdni!), sub!hoon, riding, light begging, unprotected sex, praise, use of "mommy"
sunghoon’s hands twitch on your thighs, unsure if he should grip them tighter or let go as you straddle him, riding his cock. "p-please.. it’s s’good—i can’t," he whines beneath you, forehead damp with sweat as his body trembles from the overwhelming pleasure of your pussy sucking him in.
"you can," you whisper, caressing his cheek while your hips keep slamming down on him. "you’re doing so good for me, baby."
he stares up at you, eyes low and glassy. "c-can i touch.. anywhere, please?"
"right here," you guide both of his hands to your waist, giving him something to hold onto. "just hold on and let me fuck you, hm?"
his breath catches in his throat, a soft moan escaping his pretty lips as his eyes flutter shut. "feels s’good inside, can’t think.."
"you don’t have to think," you murmur, voice gentle as you reassure him. "just be my good boy."
your hips switch to grinding, the rhythm steady as you roll them back and forth against his pelvis, cock staying buried so deep as his tip pulses inside your tight walls. "n-need to cum, mmmph—fuck," he groans, head thrown back against the pillows, adam’s apple bobbing, hands gripping your waist tighter.
"you can cum, baby. you’ve been so good for me, yeah?" you tut, bouncing again and clenching around him on purpose, pushing him closer to his release.
his fingernails dig into your waist, clinging like it’s the only thing grounding him. "f-fuck.. m’cumming mommy," he whines, before spilling his warm spurts inside you.
his hands stay glued to your waist even after. poor thing doesn’t even know where to touch you.. he just wants to be a good boy for you :c

© emisluvr 2025. all rights reserved.
#enhypen smut#enhypen hard hours#park sunghoon smut#enhypen scenarios#sunghoon smut#sunghoon x reader#enhypen x reader#enhypen imagines#enhypen hard thoughts#enhypen reactions
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bent and bruised (3) 𐙚 b.b
pairing: new avengers!bucky barnes x fem!ex-hydra!reader
warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, dub-con/non-con sex under HYDRA's captivity (flashback), unprotected sex, non-consensual experimentation (flashback), physical violence, sex in captivity, forced scientific experimentation, very heavy angst, longing, unresolved tension (tw: ptsd, some scenes of sexual violence)
summary: you were built by HYDRA to please the soldier—then left for dead. years later, bucky sees your face again. but no amount of time can erase the way you once whispered his name through tears. inspired by this request
word count: 5.5k
author's note: hi loves! i finally am done with chapter 3 and gosh, am i excited for you guys to read it 🥰! i am falling ill and i injured myself rock climbing today, i'll still do my best to write as much as i can! 💓 i hope you enjoy this chapter! love ya guys and please stay safe out there! 💌
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The darkness felt alive, thick, almost viscous, like it was clinging to your skin, crawling into your lungs with every breath you took.
It didn’t feel like fantasy, not even a nightmare. It felt like something stolen—something real.
A memory sealed deep beneath your skull, pried open when your defences were at their weakest.
You were cold. Naked, spine pressed to metal, breath rising in fast, fogged bursts.
And he was there, his weight above you, surrounding you, moving inside you with a slow, trembling urgency that made your eyes sting. You couldn’t see his face, not fully. It was shadowed, blurred around the edges like someone had smudged your memory, but your body knew him.
Every inch of him.
The stretch of him inside you wasn’t rushed or cruel. It was slow, deliberate, almost like he was afraid to let go. Like he was carving your shape into himself one thrust at a time, just in case this was the last.
His mouth hovered over your shoulder, breathing hard, jaw tense. You could hear it—the effort, the control. The need shaking just beneath his skin.
His hand chilled and sure, cupped the side of your jaw with gentle care, thumb brushing the edge of your lip. The other hand, trembling, held you steady at the hip.
He moved deep. Deep and slow and careful, like he was trying to stretch time thin around you. Each grind of his hips into yours was a silent plea: remember this, remember me.
Your hands clawed at him, not out of fear. But out of desperation. Your fingernails sank into the muscle of his back, dragging down warm, sweat-slick skin. And he welcomed it. Welcomed the pain, welcomed the proof that you were still here. That you wanted him.
“I can’t…” His voice was a rasp in the dark. “I can’t let them take you.”
“You won’t.” Your words were a whisper, wet with tears, barely audible over the wet slick of bodies moving. “Don’t think about them. Not now, just stay with me.”
He kissed you, messy, shaking, like it hurt him to let go even for breath. And you swore you tasted salt.
“You have to leave,” he said against your mouth, each word catching on a thrust. “If I don’t come back, you get out. I told you the route.”
You shook your head. “I’m not leaving you here.”
His breath hitched. You felt it, his entire body tightening, hips pressing harder, deeper, slower.
“Please,” he begged. “Don’t give them a reason to take you too.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” you whispered, lifting a shaking hand to his cheek. You could feel the heat of his breath there, the slight scratch of stubble, the single tear that slipped free and landed on your wrist.
He stilled, just for a second, his forehead came to rest against yours as he rocked into you again, slower this time, deeper, as if he wanted to live inside your body.
As if this was the only place he’d ever been safe.
“Don’t forget me,” you whispered, barely holding back your sob.
He kissed you again. A sound tore from his chest.
“I won’t,” he said. “I don’t care what they do. I won’t forget you.”
You came first, it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t explosive. It was quiet and shattering, a raw, full-body tremble as he moved inside you, as his name fell from your lips in a cracked whisper. He followed with a low, pained moan, spilling into you with a final, stuttering thrust that felt like goodbye.
His arms wrapped around you like he could keep you there. Like if he held tight enough, the world wouldn’t come crashing down.
But it always did.
Before he could breathe your name again, before you could kiss him one more time, the dream split open.
A hand. Rough. Grabbing your wrist.
The warmth of his body vanished in an instant. The metal table beneath you went cold.
You didn’t struggle. Not yet. You were too stunned, too afraid that fighting would mean punishment for him.
For both of you. You were yanked backward, your hands clawing toward him in instinct, but never reaching.
He reached for you. But you never quite touched.
You turned your head, mouth parted in a soundless cry, but even then—even in that final, searing moment—you couldn’t see his face. Something was blocking it, blurring it.
Like it had been taken from you on purpose.
Like they’d forced you to forget the man you once would’ve burned the world for.
The light above you was too harsh. Cold and artificial, buzzing faintly with that fluorescent whine that made your molars ache.
For a long moment, you didn’t move. The air felt thick in your lungs, heavy and clinical, laced with antiseptic and faint copper.
Your vision swam, your skull throbbed in pulses. A bandage tugged at your temples when you shifted, the gauze rough against your skin. And you were drenched in sweat.
The fabric of your medical gown stuck to your body in damp patches, clinging like a second skin. The sheets beneath you were twisted, tangled around your legs like you’d been fighting ghosts in your sleep.
And maybe you had. Because even as the dream, no, the memory started to fade at the edges, the ache didn’t. The echo of him, his weight, his breath, his hands, lingered like bruises beneath your skin.
Your breathing stuttered.
Your thighs trembled slightly, just like they had in the dream. You blinked again, harder this time, trying to separate reality from the remnants of sleep.
But then you felt it. The pressure.
A weight.
Your right hand. It wasn’t free.
You turned your head, slowly, cautiously, as pain bloomed sharp and hot at the base of your skull and saw him.
Bucky was slouched in the chair beside you, body folded forward like gravity had been pulling him toward you the whole time. His vest was still streaked with ash and dried blood, flecks of dirt clinging to the grooves.
His shoulders were tense even in sleep, the faint tremor of exhaustion still clinging to his limbs. And his hair—dark and damp—hung forward over his face in a tangled curtain.
But his hand…
His hand was wrapped tightly around yours.
Like it was the only thing keeping him in this reality, like letting go would send him spiraling back into whatever hell he’d barely crawled out of.
You shifted beneath the sheets. The sound of the fabric must’ve been enough.
He jolted awake.
His head snapped up, eyes wild at first—blinking rapidly, trying to shake off whatever nightmare he’d fallen into—and then his gaze locked on you. Just you. Like the rest of the world didn’t matter.
“(Y/n)…?”
Your name sounded like a prayer in his mouth. Half-broken. Disbelieving. His voice cracked, catching on the syllables like they hurt coming out. He leaned forward, gripping your hand tighter without realizing it.
“You’re okay,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “god, you’re okay.”
You tried to sit up, instinct more than anything, but the world tilted sharply. Your head spun. Pain flared in your ribs.
“Hey—slow,” he murmured, his hand sliding behind your back without hesitation. Gentle, careful. He helped you up just enough to get your bearings. His touch was steady, familiar.
Too familiar.
You blinked up at him, and for one, heart-stopping moment, something stirred in your chest.
Recognition.
It wasn’t clear, it wasn’t clean, but it was there, a flicker of knowing, almost like your soul remembered something your mind couldn’t quite reach.
You stared at him—at the shadows beneath his eyes, the worry carved into the corners of his mouth. At the quiet desperation in the way he watched you, like he was afraid you’d vanish again.
“Where am I?” you asked, voice dry, barely more than a rasp.
He cleared his throat, gaze flickering down to your wrapped head, then back to your eyes. “The compound medbay. You were airlifted in after the explosion, you hit your head pretty hard, you, uh, you’ve been out for hours.”
You swallowed thickly. The memories were fractured at best—gunfire, smoke, heat. The sound of your own pulse thundering in your ears as something collapsed behind you.
Then nothing. Until the dream.
You nodded slowly. The silence stretched between you, heavy and uncertain.
So you did what you always did when things got too quiet.
You cracked a joke.
“Guess I’m not getting a bonus, huh?”
It came out weaker than you’d meant it to, but his lips twitched. Just slightly. A half-smile. It didn’t reach his eyes, but it was there.
“I could talk to HR,” he said softly, smile still on his face.
You let the silence return after that. Just long enough to find your breath again. To sit with the way your hand still rested in his, and how neither of you seemed in a hurry to let go.
You looked at him, really looked at him. And once again that strange flicker stirred in your gut.
Like déjà vu with teeth, your chest ached, but not from the fall. not from the wound.
From absence. From the quiet kind of longing that made your skin itch with need.
You exhaled slowly. “Thanks,” you murmured.
His eyes dropped to your intertwined hands, then back to your face.
“I’m just glad you’re alright,” he said.
But he didn’t let go.
You let him hold you. Because deep down, something in you whispered,
You’ve always let him.
The hours passed strangely.
The kind of sluggish, liminal time that only existed in sterile places like hospitals, where the world outside kept spinning and you stayed still.
A nurse had come and gone, checking your vitals, scribbling notes on a clipboard, murmuring something about mild concussion symptoms and rest.
None of it stuck, your head was too full. Not of pain, not of fear, but of sensation.
Like the memory hadn’t faded. Like it was sitting just beneath your skin, simmering.
Bucky had barely moved. He sat again at your side, no longer gripping your hand like a lifeline, but still near. Watchful. His gaze flicked to you every few minutes like he didn’t trust the machines to tell him whether you were breathing.
He’d changed out of his vest at some point. Worn joggers now, a black t-shirt that clung to him like a second skin, sleeves tight around his biceps. His hair was pushed back from his face now, slightly damp, as if he’d splashed cold water over himself just to stay conscious.
You didn’t say much. Neither did he.
Eventually, he stood. Moved to the far counter where a plastic jug and a few styrofoam cups were lined up. You watched the flex of his shoulder, the quiet way he moved—efficient, unthinking, like he was forcing his hands to be useful. Like if he stopped, even for a second, it would all catch up to him.
He came back and held the cup out toward you, waiting until you were steady enough to reach.
Your fingers brushed.
It was so small, a blink of contact, the backs of his knuckles against yours.
The barest slide of skin.
And it hit you.
Like a crack of lightning across your spine.
Your breath caught—sharp and involuntary—as heat flooded your system. It wasn’t just a reaction. It wasn’t random, it was familiar.
You saw it—felt it—all at once.
The weight of his body between your thighs. His mouth hot and wet and relentless, tongue curling just right, the muscles in your abdomen tightening as your hips bucked into him.
His hands gripping your thighs, spreading you wider. His hair gripped in your fist, the way he growled low in his throat when you tugged just a little too hard.
That voice—familiar and foreign all at once—rasped your name like a secret drawn between your thighs, aching with recognition you couldn’t explain.
You gasped aloud.
The cup slipped.
Water splashed across the sheets, cool against your thigh.
Bucky froze mid-step, half-turned to sit again, his eyes snapping to yours instantly. His brow furrowed, voice low and careful.
“You okay?”
Too fast—too sharp—you nodded.
“Yeah. Just dizzy.”
Your hand twitched.
He saw it, your fingers, still trembling.
You reached down to adjust the cup with a shaky grip, turning it upright, avoiding his gaze even as the weight of it pressed into your chest like a stone.
But he didn’t move, didn’t sit.
You weren’t sure what he saw in your face. But you felt what was in yours—confusion, panic, a quiet desperation to understand why your body remembered the shape of his tongue and the sound of his groan like it was etched into your DNA.
He stepped forward finally, slow and careful, retrieving the cup from your hand.
You didn’t stop him.
Didn’t speak.
The pulse between your legs hadn’t faded. Neither had the echo of that voice in your mind.
“Don’t forget me.”
He turned back to the counter, as if giving you space.
But he’d seen it.
The flicker in your eyes and the truth in your trembling hands.
The next day passed in pieces.
You weren’t cleared to leave the medbay yet, not with the swelling still lingering behind your eyes, not with your vitals climbing and dipping like a body trying to remember how to live. Time moved slow, blurred at the edges, but it didn’t stop the visits.
The first to arrive was Yelena.
You heard her before you saw her—the distinct thump of combat boots against linoleum, the door creaked open on a soft hinge, and there she was, dressed in her vest and scuffed jeans, holding a plastic cup of electric-green jello like it was some prize.
“Bob swears this shit will fix everything,” she said, plopping it down on the table beside your cot. “I don’t believe him, but you know, points for optimism.”
You managed a tired smile. “If I eat that, I’m pretty sure I’ll die for real.”
Yelena grinned. “Yeah, but then you’ll stop scaring the shit out of everyone.”
You were about to respond when she looked past you, brows lifting slightly, head tilting just enough to catch the shape of him where he stood near the window.
Bucky.
Leaning against the far wall, arms folded over his chest. Silent, watchful. The kind of still that looked practiced, but wasn’t neutral.
Not around you.
Yelena’s gaze bounced between the two of you, her mouth twitching at the corners.
“You know he hasn’t left, right?” she said casually, tearing the plastic lid off the jello and handing you the spoon. “Not even for a piss break. Bob started taking bets about whether he’s just pissing in the corner when no one’s looking.”
You snorted weakly. “You’re disgusting.”
“And you’re blind,” she retorts playfully “Seriously, it’s like you’re his long-lost soulmate or something.”
You looked over at Bucky.
He was pretending not to listen, but the way his jaw twitched told you otherwise.
You sighed, shaking your head slightly. “I don’t think he even knows me.”
Yelena didn’t argue. She just shrugged, popping a piece of your jello into her mouth with a grimace.
“Doesn’t look that way to me.”
There was something unsettling about her tone. Not teasing anymore. Not really. Just, observant, sharp.
And she wasn’t the only one.
You noticed it later, when you were being wheeled through the corridor for a scan.
John stood near the breakroom, munching on chips like he didn’t have a care in the world, but his eyes tracked Bucky as he hovered at your side, never more than a step behind.
Ava was more subtle. She paused mid-sentence when she saw the way Bucky steadied your elbow as you slid back into bed.
Her mouth pressed into a thin line. No comment.
No one said it out loud.
But they all knew.
And Val noticed too.
She found Bucky in the supply wing an hour later, sorting through gear he didn’t need. He was coiled tight, shoulders hunched, like he’d been bracing for the inevitable.
“You’ve been distracted,” Val said sharply, her heels clicking to a stop behind him. “You sat in that room like the world fucking ended.”
Bucky didn’t turn around, his knuckles were still bruised. A cut on his cheek hadn’t fully closed.
“She almost died,” he said, voice low. “I’m just watching out for her.”
Val crossed her arms. “Bullshit. That wasn’t concern, that was clearly something else.”
He was silent.
“I pulled her file.”
That made him pause. Not move. But pause.
Val’s eyes narrowed. “You knew her back when you were still with HYDRA, didn’t you?”
Still, he didn’t answer.
The silence was an answer in itself.
Val’s voice softened slightly. Not with sympathy, she didn’t traffic in that, but with a clinical sort of caution. Like she’d stumbled too close to something that still had fangs.
“She doesn’t remember you, James.”
He tensed.
“Don’t make it worse,” she said, voice low now.
You hadn’t meant to hear it.
You weren’t eavesdropping, not exactly.
But the door had been left partially ajar. You had wandered out of the medbay for a walk, trying to shake the strange hum beneath your skin.
And now you stood there—just outside their view, barely breathing—as the words echoed like a gunshot in your skull.
“She doesn’t remember you, James.”
Something inside you cracked.
You stepped away before they could see you, the hallway narrowing around you, colder somehow than it had been before.
And still, despite the ache in your skull, the tremble in your fingers—you couldn’t help but remember the way his hand had stayed wrapped around yours.
All night. All morning.
Like letting go might undo something neither of you knew how to name.
It always started the same.
Darkness and god, the cold, that silence between screams, the kind you could only hear inside a HYDRA cell.
He didn’t dream of it often, not fully. But sometimes, when he blinked too long, or sat too still, the memory crept back in, a loop stitched beneath his skin.
This time, it hit harder.
Because he’d seen you again. And this time, you didn’t remember him.
Bucky was outside the medbay, back against the corridor wall, jaw clenched, trying to get a handle on his breath. But inside, his mind was somewhere else. Somewhere deeper, somewhere they’d taken from him piece by piece.
It came back in fragments.
You were beneath him.
Not now.
Then.
Laid out across the metal table they left in his cell because it was easier to clean. Your wrists bore the faint marks of the cuffs they usually kept you in.
But they were gone now. Gone because he was inside you, moving slowly, carefully, desperately, like every second mattered.
“James…” you whispered. Not a question, a plea.
His name in your mouth broke him open.
He bent lower, breath trembling against your cheek, the rhythm of his hips slow and uneven, like it hurt to let himself feel this much.
And it did. It fucking did. But it was the only thing left that made him feel human.
“I’ve got you,” he rasped, metal hand sliding up your jaw. He cupped your face like you were something sacred, thumb brushing your temple. His flesh hand gripped your hip, anchoring himself to the warmth of you. “I’ve got you.”
You touched his face—shaking fingers against stubble and sweat.
Your voice was thick, near breaking. “They know.”
He nodded. A single, broken motion.
HYDRA hadn’t said it aloud. But they didn’t need to, but the punishments had changed.
The monitoring increased. The “exercises” became more frequent, more violent, the moment emotion slipped through the cracks of control, they pounced.
“We can still lie,” you whispered, arms wrapping tight around his shoulders, like if you could just hold him close enough, none of it would matter. “We can act like we don’t—”
“I can’t lie about this anymore,” he choked. “I can’t watch them hurt you and pretend I feel nothing.”
“Then don’t,” you said, fingers slipping into his hair. “Then don’t, James. Just—stay. Just be here. With me.”
He kissed you—long, shaking, open-mouthed. Not possessive, not frenzied. Just full. Full of everything he never got to say. Of all the ways he’d memorised the slope of your throat and the shape of your breath.
When he came, it wasn’t with a groan, it was with a whimper. His entire body shuddered, forehead pressed to yours as he spilled inside you, whispering your name like a confession.
But the second he collapsed against your chest, it changed.
The door slammed open.
Bright lights. Boots. Orders barked in Russian.
“No—no, wait—” you started to sit up, but rough hands grabbed you.
Bucky’s arms were yanked from around you before he could blink. “Leave her alone!” he shouted, struggling against two guards who held him by the arms.
You were still bare, skin sticky with sweat and cum, legs trembling from aftershocks when they dragged you upright by the shoulders.
He fought harder.
One of the guards pulled a gun, pressed it to your temple and he stilled instantly.
The other looked at you, then laughed. “Told you they’d get fucking compromised.”
“Guess it’s chair time for the whore,” the first one muttered. “The freak’s next.”
“No—” Bucky’s voice cracked, panic splitting wide in his chest. “No, don’t—”
He lunged. Got one arm free. Reached for you.
You reached back.
Your fingertips brushed.
And then you were gone.
Bucky flinched so hard he nearly dropped the gear in his hands.
Back in the present, he braced his palms on the table, eyes squeezed shut, breath tearing in and out of his lungs.
They’d dragged you from him, taken you straight to the chair. Just like they always threatened, just like he always feared.
And the worst part?
HYDRA thought it worked.
They thought they’d erased you from him, wiped the memory clean, rinsed out every whisper of your softness with static and steel and blood.
But they missed something.
Because the first time he saw you again, the real you, alive and free and standing in that hallway with your eyes full of fire, something inside him lit up.
He didn’t just remember you. He felt you.
And every time you spoke to him now, every time you looked at him with that faint glimmer of recognition you couldn’t place, he felt it again.
The very thing HYDRA tried to kill.
The thing they called weakness.
The thing they were sure could never bloom in men like him.
Love.
The dreams didn’t stop.
If anything, they got worse.
Every night you fell asleep, your body betrayed you. Pulled you under like it wanted to remember. Like it had been waiting.
And every time, the darkness greeted you the same way—with the chill of metal under your spine and the scent of damp concrete. Skin against skin, heat blooming in places that made you wake up shaking.
You still couldn’t see his face. But your body knew him.
The dreams weren’t violent. Not in the traditional sense.
But they were unbearable all the same—soaked in desperation, soft moans that made your throat ache when you woke up with them on your lips.
You’d feel him above you, inside you, every roll of his hips slow and aching, like he was trying to memorise the shape of you before someone took it away.
His voice, “I’ve got you.”
And then it would shift. The air would change. Cold fingers gripping your arms, dragging you backwards.
Always the fucking chair.
You’d wake drenched in sweat, chest heaving, thighs trembling, your own voice caught somewhere between a scream and a sob.
Some nights, you could feel the phantom press of his body against yours for hours after. You’d flinch at your own reflection. You couldn’t explain it to anyone.
Especially not him. Because Bucky had started looking at you like he knew.
Like he remembered something you didn’t. And you couldn’t take it anymore.
So one night—when the compound had gone quiet, long past midnight—you slipped out of your bunk, barefoot and sweating through your tank top, and padded your way down the empty corridors.
Every flicker of light made your skin crawl, every camera made your stomach churn.
But you kept walking until you reached it:
The archive room.
It was locked, of course, but you’d seen Ava punch in the code before and your fingers moved on instinct.
The light buzzed overhead as you stepped inside.
The room was colder than you expected, humming with the low static of electronics. Rows of drawers. Digital logs and hard backups. Most were encrypted.
But the old paper files? They hadn’t been touched in years.
You found yours quickly.
The folder was thin. Too thin.
You pulled it out, sat at the dusty metal table, and opened it with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.
It read like a blueprint.
The first few pages were the usual medical entries, redacted fields, scans of your brain with parts blacked out entirely, notes in tight handwriting you didn’t recognise.
“obedience pattern successful.”
“tactile tolerance linked to subject B.”
“adjustment complete. subject remains compliant during post-coital monitoring.”
Your blood ran cold.
You flipped faster now, pages blurring—until you stopped on one that made your stomach drop:
SUBJECT: (REDACTED) STATUS: modified PURPOSE: designed for compatibility with subject B. Both neurological and physical responses show optimal pairing rates under induced stress. "Recommend continued dual-conditioning."
You weren’t just a prisoner. You were a match.
Not by accident but by design.
You were altered to match someone else’s frequency. Someone whose name had been blacked out.
You pushed back from the table hard enough to make the chair screech.
Your hands were cold and your legs moved before your thoughts could catch up.
You found him alone in the gear bay.
It was 1:42 a.m and Bucky didn’t see you come in.
He was sitting on one of the crates, hunched forward, a disassembled rifle across his lap that didn’t need cleaning.
His hands moved out of habit, not necessity, almost like he needed something to do or he’d lose his mind entirely.
You didn’t clear your throat. Didn’t announce yourself.
“James,” you said softly.
He went still.
Not startled. Just… quiet.
He didn’t turn. “Yeah?”
You stepped forward. Just a little.
“Did you know me?”
A pause, then a breath that didn’t sound right.
“Why do you ask?” he said without looking up.
“Because I’ve been dreaming of a man I can’t see.” You swallowed hard.
His jaw twitched, you could see the tension in his spine, the way his fingers stilled against the rifle’s frame.
He didn’t speak right away.
“Please,” you breathe, the word trembling. “I just… I need to know.”
When he finally did, his voice was lower. Rough.
“I did know you,” he said. “Back then.”
You blinked.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
He exhaled through his nose, slow and quiet.
“Because I didn’t know if you remembered. And I didn’t want to trigger something. Or… hurt you. Again.”
He set the rifle aside.
Your throat tightened. “What exactly did HYDRA do to me?”
He looked at you then.
Eyes shadowed, haunted.
But more than that—ashamed.
“You mean what they did to both of us.”
You didn’t speak. Just let the silence thrum between you. Let him fill it on his own.
Bucky’s hand curled into a fist on his thigh, his thoughts moving behind his eyes like storms.
“They took us,” he said slowly, voice thick. “People they thought would survive the process. Then they rewired us bit by bit. Broke us open and built us into something they could use.”
You didn’t move.
“They paired us.” His voice cracked slightly. “They said we were compatible. That we wouldn’t fight back, that if we were conditioned together, we would obey them together.”
“Did we… did we know each other?” you whispered.
“Not exactly,” he said.
Your chest twisted, a cruel kind of ache, not quite grief and yet not quite rage.
You nodded once. Just to show you heard him.
But the silence that followed said everything else.
Because there were things he wasn’t saying. You could see it—flickering just behind his eyes.
He was holding something back. And still, even with all of it swirling inside you, all you wanted to do was reach out and touch him, just to feel if your body still remembered what your mind had forgotten.
But you didn’t.
The hallway was dark when you stepped out.
Not silent, nothing in the compound ever really was, but hushed, like even the walls had quieted to let the night breathe.
A low mechanical hum pulsed through the air from somewhere deep in the infrastructure, the soft whirl of vents sighing overhead.
The lights had dimmed to their after-hours glow, casting the corridor in washed-out blue and gentle shadows. It was the kind of quiet that made you feel like the only person left in the world.
Most of the others had long since gone to bed. Earlier, you’d heard Ava’s laughter drifting up the stairwell, John’s heavy boots crossing the upper floor. But now, the compound had settled.
The soft click of your door shutting behind you echoed. Bare feet touched cold tile, and your body gave a small involuntary shiver.
The cotton hem of your shirt brushed your thighs, the oversized sleeves half-swallowing your hands. You hadn’t bothered to grab socks, you hadn’t planned on going far.
You didn’t know why you’d gotten up, only that the stillness in your room had started to feel suffocating. The bed too empty and the quiet too damn loud. Something had been pressing against your chest all evening, some aching weight that wouldn’t name itself, but throbbed just beneath your ribs.
And that’s when you saw him.
He was sitting on the floor just outside your door.
His back was against the wall, legs folded in front of him—one drawn up, the other stretched out. His jaw shadowed with stubble, damp strands of hair curled behind his ear, like he’d showered but hadn’t cared to dry all the way.
He looked tired. Not in the way people did after long days—but the kind of tired that burrowed in.
He didn’t move when you opened the door, didn’t shift or scramble or explain.
He just looked up at you slowly.
No surprise, no embarrassment, just quiet recognition, like this was exactly where he was supposed to be.
You didn’t ask him why.
You simply stepped forward—and sat.
The floor was colder than you expected. Your knees drew up close to your chest, hands resting loosely over your shins. You sat beside him, not touching, not speaking, but close enough to feel the shape of him in the silence.
You both stared ahead for a while.
Not at anything. Just… forward. Breathing.
The silence between you wasn’t empty. It wasn’t awkward anymore, not sharp with hesitation the way it had been in the beginning.
It felt full now. Comfortable. Heavy with everything that didn’t need to be said, and everything you were still afraid to ask.
After a long stretch of stillness, you heard him exhale softly beside you. A sigh, but not a frustrated one. A releasing one, almost like he’d been waiting for you to speak first.
And eventually, you did.
“It’s funny,” you whispered. “You make me feel safe, and I don’t know why.”
Your voice barely carried, but he heard it.
He didn’t answer. Not with words.
But his head turned slightly, just enough to shift the air between you. Just enough to let you feel the full weight of his attention settle gently on your profile.
You stared straight ahead.
“It’s like I remember you,” you said, your throat tightening around the words.
He still didn’t speak.
But he shifted. Just barely.
You felt the subtle movement first—then saw it. His right hand, which had been resting palm-down on the floor, curled slowly into his lap. His fingers flexed once, then stilled.
Your own hand was resting beside you, limp and open, your knuckles brushing against the edge of your sweatshirt.
Then, slowly, so slowly it made your breath catch, he reached.
His hand drifted toward yours.
Not fast, not accidental, but deliberate.
You watched, frozen, as his fingers hovered for a breath—just a breath—before his calloused ones slid beneath your palm.
And then he threaded them between yours.
A single, quiet interlocking.
No squeeze. No pressure.
Just presence.
It was the gentlest kind of intimacy, just his fingers laced with yours, as though your hands had always been meant to fit like that.
And maybe they had.
You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to.
Because the moment he touched you like that—quietly, openly, with no expectation and no fear—something deep in your chest stopped shaking.
And for the first time in days, your breath came easier.
You didn’t look at him.
But you let your thumb press the faintest pressure against his. And still, he didn’t speak.
But his hand stayed in yours. Warm and steady.
As though letting go was not an option.
a/n: i hope you enjoyed this chapter, if you did, please leave a comment or reblog! i appreciate your support <3333 💌
taglist: @poisntree @moth-maam56 @ravenswritingroom @heymydearheart @secretdiaryofzai @whitelaxe @ficmeiguess @its-in-the-woods @chronicallybubbly @stell404 @overwintering-soldier @emilyswortwellen @vampirehimejoshi @chimmysoftpaws @herejustforbuckybarnes @s0urw00lf @cheeseman @onlyforyuto @hibiscy
#bucky barnes#bucky x reader#bucky x y/n#bucky smut#bucky angst#bucky x you#bucky barnes x y/n#bucky barnes smut#bucky fanfic#bucky barnes one shot#bucky barnes au#bucky barnes angst#bucky fluff#james bucky barnes#james buchanan barnes#sebastian stan#sebastian stan smut#sebastian stan angst#sebastian stan x reader#sebastian stan x you#sebastian stan fanfiction#marvel#marvel au#thunderbolts!bucky#thunderbolts*#mcu
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Hi! Lately, I've been trying real hard to start writing again after a break of a couple of years, and it's simply not happening. I took the break to begin with because I figured that I could pick up writing fic again easily when I felt less burned out. But each time I've tried since 2025 started I can barely get the words out. I keep telling myself I need to go slow and build up to it, but my brain blanks after a sentence or two, with or without an outline. I can force myself into a drabble or two, or even a flashfic, but it feels like pulling teeth the entire time. I even tried going back to old drafts and adding to them (unsuccessfully). Nothing works! I'm getting more and more frustrated and angry with myself for taking this long of a break from being creative. Do you have any concrete recommendations for what to do when the ideas/words/characters/whatever just aren't coming? My brain is mush.
(I love this blog. So excited to see you back.)
I'll tell you what I do, but I also want to encourage folks to add their thoughts on the notes. This is very much a situation that can be worked on in a million different ways, so any one particular take might or might not work. Often, frankensteining a bunch together is the better route.
I've currently got two creative hobbies: writing fic and making site skins for AO3. When a site skin isn't working, I just have to drop it. I've been attempting to redo my glowy blue Tron skin from like 4 years ago and every time I go back to it, I just get frustrated and need to stop. I don't have a clear idea of where I want to take it, and so nothing looks "right" because everything feels wrong. For site skins, I need to have a solid idea to latch onto in order to get anywhere with them.
For writing, it's kind of similar. It's a LOT easier to write when I have an idea that really lights a fire under me. However, I've found that I can write even if I just know what the end goal of the story is. Even if my ending is just "and then they bone" at least I know where I need to get my characters in the end, and that guiding principle is really helpful because most of what my characters do in the fic is going to be aimed at that end point.
I don't know if it's just the way that you've phrased it in this ask, but it seems like you can't see the story for the words. If you're focused too much on the act of writing then you might need to back away from that for now and work on just imagining the story first. Spend more time daydreaming or lying in bed staring up at the ceiling and picturing your blorbo in situations. Get into the habit of thinking about the story before you start writing the story. Then the writing part is just transcribing the picture that's already clear in your head.
I well understand the frustration that comes when you've got something in you and no way to get it out. Whatever else is happening, the way you used to go about writing fic doesn't work for you anymore and now you need to discover a new method. Maybe it's handwriting in a notebook instead of typing on a screen. Maybe it's dictating into your notes app. Maybe it's chatting it out with a bestie over coffee or in a DM. Maybe it's something else.
Let's see what other people suggest for you, and then you can cobble together a method of your very own. Good luck, anon! I'm rooting for you ❤️
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Hello, I hope you are having a good day! :) Could you write about a touch starved reader who’s Sevika’s roommate who Sev comforts and holds to make them feel better? <3 I love your fics
a/n: okay… so i suppose this is fluff right? i live for it 😙
You don’t mean to wake her.
The couch creaks as you shift, blinking through the sting behind your eyes. You’d been trying to sleep. God, really trying, but sometimes the silence feels so loud it drowns you. You miss the weight of someone beside you. A hug. A hand on your back. Someone who notices when you go too quiet and too still and don’t eat anything all day.
So you’d wandered out to the living room, hoping maybe sitting near her door might be enough.
Apparently not.
A soft grunt comes from the hallway. Then her voice, gravelly, low, half-asleep,
“…You good?”
You suck in a breath, panic bristling under your skin. You hadn’t wanted to bother her. Not her. Not Sevika, who works twelve-hour shifts, who keeps her hair tied back with a twist of elastic and lets her coffee go cold while fixing other people’s messes. She’s all solid muscle and tired eyes and you’ve never, ever seen her cry.
“I’m fine,” you say too fast. “Sorry. I was just, couldn’t sleep. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
There’s a beat of silence. You hear her door open. Then soft, padded footsteps across the wooden floor.
She stops a few feet away. You look up at her, blinking under the dim light of the kitchen.
She’s in a black tank top and gray boxers, her scarred arm bare in the warm low light. Her hair’s down, messy waves brushing her shoulders. She looks tired. But not annoyed.
“…You been crying?” she asks, voice quieter now.
Your throat clenches.
“No.”
Sevika looks at you. The way she always does, like she sees more than you want her to. Then she sighs and comes over, sitting heavily beside you on the couch. Her broad thigh presses into yours, warm and solid.
You freeze up.
Then, gently, slowly, she lifts her arm and sets it behind you on the couch cushion, not touching you yet.
“I won’t do anything if you don’t want me to,” she murmurs, not looking at you. “But if you… need something. You can ask.”
Your hands ball into fists in your lap. Shame crawls up your neck, hot and itchy.
“I don’t wanna be weird,” you whisper.
She huffs softly through her nose. A quiet sound, not mocking.
“It’s not weird.”
“…You want a hug?”
Your heart lurches. No one has asked you that in months. maybe a year, yeah a year. You nod before your voice can catch up.
Sevika shifts, arm wrapping slowly around your back, her hand resting on your waist. She pulls you in, tugging gently until you’re folded into her side, head on her shoulder.
Your breath shudders.
She holds you like it’s easy. Like she doesn’t mind. Like she’s done this before, even if she hasn’t.
You close your eyes. It takes every bit of control you have not to cry into her shirt. She’s warm, and smells like clean laundry and faint smoke, and her hand strokes slowly up and down your side like she knows what you need without needing to ask.
“Shit,” you mumble. “Sorry.”
“Stop apologising,” she murmurs. “You’re okay.”
You nod, swallowing hard. It’s quiet again. But this time, not loud. Not empty. Her voice breaks it just once,
“You could’ve asked sooner.”
Your lips twitch against her shoulder. “Didn’t know if I could.”
She snorts. “I’m not good at this shit. But… you live with me. You can always ask.”
You finally let your body relax into hers.
And for the first time in too long, you feel safe enough to fall asleep like that, pressed to her side, wrapped in her arm, held like maybe you’re not too much after all.
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