#peace... i just want peace... something so deep and to my very core

[quietbluetune]

The Unexpected Bend — B.R.

bob reynolds x fem val’s assistant!reader

synopsis: pretending you weren’t falling for your boss’s newly recruited superhero is harder than you expected it to be— especially when you can’t seem to set aside your guilt surrounding him and he can’t help but want you anyway.

or, two times you lied to bob reynolds, and the one time you didn’t.

warnings: 18+, suggestive content but not full smut, heavy making out, grinding, very sensual, slow burn-ish, angst, mutual pining, reader is insecure, valentina is way more evil, the team doesn’t really know how to handle bob’s mental health yet, slight mentions of alcohol (i don’t actually think bob would drink tbh but)

word count: 28.9k (sorry, i got carried away) ao3

author’s note: i wrote this two months ago, but this is my first finished and published work— so i think i’ve been scared to actually share it. i’ve been procrastinating and over-editing to avoid it, but it’s something i had fun doing— so if even one person reads it and enjoys, that’s a success in my book! i’d also like to point out that i know there’s discourse on how some tend to infantilize bob and i don’t want that to come across in my writing at all, as i strongly agree that his mental struggles are often misrepresented. a part of this work gently (!!) explores that subject… you’ll see. oh, also yes, i know i use em dashes oddly. idk i’m rambling— please enjoy!

Crestfallen, you walk, a jump at the click of your heels each time they meet the sullen pavement.

It echoes low, muffled sounds trapped between dense, concrete buildings and sticky, summer heat that burns off in the wake of night. This part of the city wasn’t home; it wasn’t much of anything yet— Just another block that looked like all the others, reminding you through the wind that whipped past windows and wove with intention that you still did not yet belong. 

None of it felt right: not the crosswalks you passed through, not the clothes you wore to look the part—tight, restrictive, unforgiving—not even when you finally reached the Watchtower, unrecognizable, a shell of itself and its memories. 

You used to be able to see it from your old job, just a blink away— An unmistakable beacon shining through the city. It was your favorite building to look at from your office late at night, the light dimming from your eyes as you got lost in your work, yet still found in the faint glow of an A that somehow continued to push you along.

Now, you didn’t dwell on what you felt twisting deep in your core when you saw it, absent-mindedly heading up after scanning your security clearance badges and sharing a routine nod with the doorman.

It was best not to think about it.

Soon, you’d be home and could try to forget who you were for a few hours before it pulled you back in again— Same loop, same lethargy.

Soon, you could just pretend to be someone else again.

You never got off easy, though— Still navigating the endless tasks through the city despite the promise of an 8 pm release. At least no one would be around, so you could make quick work of this one last thing.

And you wished that was still the case when the elevator finally opened to the top floor, reaching the end of your night that somehow only turned into the beginning.

The scent of familiarity—of warmth and peace—that allowed you to exhale a strained breath was the same thing that took it away again, making you freeze abruptly. Your heels scraped against the newly renovated marble, your stiff body hovering uncomfortably in the wake of the warm glow of a very occupied kitchen.

Everything about it caught you off guard, considering you not only were expecting the residential floor to be empty, but the kitchen was almost never used— At least when you were around. 

Bucky was used to frozen… maybe that was a bad choice of words, but it was true. Yelena’s grocery list usually consisted of ramen and box mac and cheeses, Alexei made a meal of team-sponsored junk foods, John and Ava relied heavily on DoorDash, and Bob— Well, you never saw Bob with anything in his hand other than a book or his other hand, wringing in nervous, futile energy. 

Until now. 

You didn’t know much about Bob, admittedly avoiding him a bit— Which he made good on, considering he wasn’t exactly a socialite himself. Part of it was because of the guilt that hung heavy in your chest when you’d catch his eye, the other something else entirely you couldn’t quite place. What you did know of Bob was that he never seemed entirely sure of himself. It radiated through his movements, his smile, his pace, and his laugh. It was doubt that covered him completely, coursing through his veins and mingling with an ice of a power too intense for him to even begin to understand. 

And that was evident as you caught him stuck in his own world— A bit removed from the situation you had just walked into, loosely wading through the kitchen, all like he was looking for something that didn’t want to be found.

His steady grip was wound around a wooden spoon— One you didn’t even know the building owned, considering it was never used, bleeding into the background with other untouched reminders of normalcy and an ordinary life. 

Fingers danced over each other around the handle, then found their way to the nape of his neck, rubbing and searching for a thought as he hung his head over a tablet on the counter, eyes looming down through loose, wavy strands. 

His hair was still that unsettling shade of blonde you hated to see— The shade you tried not to think of, yet could never really forget.

You clear your throat, unsure how to handle the silence the two of you occupied— Him unknowingly, and you, not so much. The sound cuts through the low drone of an old stereo haphazardly plugged in at the corner of the open-concept space, playing an even older song. 

His attention shoots up to you, his spine abruptly straightening as his eyes fall on you. The spoon he clung to rattles against the granite as his fingers twitched it free. 

“Oh, h-hi, uh, sorry,” he rambles, pale complexion flushing a soft and supple pink. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I Can’t Begin to Tell You,” you state, inhaling a breath and finding your feet carrying you to the island where he stood.

“What?” His eyebrows meet each other, knit in confusion at your statement. 

“I Can’t Begin to Tell You,” you repeat, setting down your stack of papers and bag on the corner of the expansive surface, gesturing over to the stereo. “Henry James.” 

His eyes follow your finger and relax when he realizes what you meant. “Oh,” he laughs gently, a hesitant yet sweet sound you wished he would share more often. “Right. It’s, uh, not mine.”

Part of you already knew that, noticing the building was still haunted with old stacks of belongings that had lived a million lives before— Stories and memories whispering behind the layer of dust that dulled them until they were forgotten. Forgotten by time, by people, by what—and who—they were once loved by. 

“I think it was Captain Rogers’,” he continues, eyes darting away from the quick glances they stole of yours and back to his work on the stove behind him. “It just gets… quiet.”

“Too quiet,” you add, understanding the loneliness this city could drown you in.

His back stiffens at that before he glances over his shoulder at you. 

“Yeah.” He says it so quietly you almost wondered if he had even said it at all or if you were just subconsciously filling in the blanks of what intent his eyes held.

“I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here.” You change the subject, not wanting his mind to linger on the heaviness you could sense echoing in his voice, on the weight that held in the air, pushing his tone flat. “I’ll get out of your way, I just had to drop some stuff off on my way home.” 

The simmering pan on the stove began to pop, on the edge of a boil. Steam quickly filled the large room, causing Bob to fiddle with the burner until it turned to smoke. 

He mumbled under his breath as he made quick work of pulling it off the burner, fanning his hand in pain after some of the hot liquid splashed on his skin— Yet he still made sure to take notice of your words.

“No, no— It’s no bother, really,” he rushes, wiping the evidence of his bubbling dish off the stove and counter. “Everyone’s out for the night so it’s just me… so I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here either.” 

A crooked smile pulls briefly at the corner of his lips, sincerity flashing in his eyes when he turns to meet you. It melted you a bit, how much he longed for the company, but you didn’t want it to— You didn’t want to stay, not with him. Not when you still felt the way you did around him.

Not like this. 

“What’s in the folder?” He tilts his chin at the stack of documents you brought over, cluttering the otherwise clean counter— That is, aside from the mess of Bob’s cooking: the spices—virtually all of them—the utensils, dishes, and ingredients all sprawled across his work space. It looked like he was deep into crafting something way too complicated for you to understand. 

“Boring stuff.”

That wasn’t entirely true; the folder actually contained some pretty important legal documents sent over by Sam Wilson. A few brand deals that needed some signatures, some mission reports you sorted through and needed to be filed, a cease and desist… You didn’t want to worry him with any of that. 

“What’s in the dish?” you ask back, changing the subject again so he wouldn’t ask any more questions he wouldn’t necessarily want the answers to. “I didn’t know you cooked.” 

He fiddles with the hem of his sweater— Big and baggy and olive green, just like he always wore.  

“Oh, I-I don’t. Need to find ways to be part of the team, right?”

You shift your weight, trying to meet his eyes, but he keeps them busy elsewhere— Tidying the kitchen and finding aimless work. 

There was a tinge in your heart from his words, dripping with a layer of self-deprecation he tried so hard to hide— His tone chipper, all like he wasn’t finding new ways to put himself down at every turn. 

“You are part of the team. You do plenty, Bob.” His head snaps up at that, finding your eyes, a shyness behind them, waiting for you to continue, for you to say it’s a lie, for you to take it back. You didn’t. “You’re the strongest person on this team. Truly.”

He was quiet for a moment, not sure what to say, his mind racing incessantly as he waded in your words, drowning in what to do with everything you’d said. You didn’t mean to overwhelm him, but you hated when he dismissed himself, when he diminished his impact. 

“That’s the other guy,” he offers gently, a sense of melancholy lacing his tone. He says it with a half-smile—reassuring—all like it wasn’t breaking him to say. “That’s the Sentry.”

“Bob…” Your voice trails off unintentionally— A losing battle on what to say back, on how to tell him that it’s not true.

That he’s more than his other facets he despised. 

“Can you, uh, do you— I mean, do you want to, uh, to try?” He gestures to the meal, fidgeting with his hands, nervously tumbling over his words. “Since everyone’s still not back, you know? I could use the feedback.” 

In another world, you’d want to, your heart skipping a beat at his timid offering, so sweet and gentle, so honest. But you couldn’t shake your hesitation that still pulled you back, reminding you against your will of what you’ve done to him. 

You couldn’t open that door.

“I wouldn’t want to impose…” 

“No, really, you’re not.” He hurries back to his dish, assembling everything on a clean plate before you could say another word— A pair of them, one for each of you. 

“Ava, Yelena, and Alexei are training.”

They were on recon… for something Bob didn’t know about.

“Bucky’s doing congress stuff.”

Bucky was with Sam.

“And Walker… I’m not sure where he is, actually.”  

Similarly, neither did you.

“So no one will be back for a bit.” 

It would be longer than a bit, you already knew that. But he didn’t. 

“I thought you weren’t supposed to be left alone,” you point out, tone balancing on the edge of teasing and seriousness. You hated how it made you sound like a lecturing-parent—wandering mind trying to pinpoint how it made him feel too—but you know how the team was with him since everything happened so recently. You know they worried about him, even if they wore it close to the vest— Know they avoided all being gone at the same time because they don’t like for him to dwell in silence for too long alone.

You didn’t like it either, which is why it was even harder for you to fight yourself into leaving. 

Then he says, 

“Just another reason you should stay.” 

Well, you walked right into that one. 

He was quick with his answer, completing the plates and setting them down, looking at you delicately, like he said too much. “Uh, u-unless you don’t want to. Sorry, I don’t wanna be annoying, I, uh—”

“No, it’s okay.” You give in, your heart breaking at his sudden embarrassment— Like he pushed you too far when in reality, all he was doing was being kind, just like always. “I’d love to. I haven’t eaten yet, anyways… so, thank you.” 

You allow yourself to relax a bit, still nervous at being in his presence with all you held onto, letting yourself find one of the barstools and wait patiently for his masterpiece that he placed in front of you, accompanied by a glass of red wine, which you would never turn down. 

“So, what’s for dinner, Chef?”

It warmed you to watch him smile for a split second, that same pink flush you recognized from earlier creep across his cheeks, scratching the back of his head as he sheepishly averts his eyes and takes a seat adjacent to you, waiting intently now. 

“Penne,” he says nonchalantly, and you tried to fight the up turn that begged to come through at the corner of your mouth. “With tomato sauce.”

“Did you make the sauce from scratch or something…?” you ask gently, scanning around the room at the kitchen, covered in evidence of what seemed like hours of hard work and love— The same delicious smell that knocked you back when you walked in still wafting through the air, dancing with the faint glow of warm kitchen lights and delicate beginnings. 

“No, it’s just a canned one,” he answers sheepishly, somehow wrapped in even more shy, timid manners, his baggy sleeve coming up to his lips that started to curl, hiding the pink that warmed to a red. “I put other stuff in it, though… to make it better.” 

It was cute, the way he folded in on himself at your gaze, smiling and teasing towards his simple nature. You loved it. You wished you didn’t. 

With a stab or two at the pasta, you hold out your fork to him, a quirked brow and a smile to match. “Cheers.”

He brushed a lock of his hair out of his eyes and awkwardly clinked his fork with yours, the two of you taking your first bites and marinating in the flavors in silence.

Your chewing slowed as you thought, face slowly turning to meet his. You didn’t want to be the one to speak first, wanted anything other than to tell him what you really thought of his hard work.

“Do you think it’s kinda…” your voice trails, hoping that he’d take the bait and finish your sentence. 

“Spicy— But not good spicy, like-”

“Pumpkin… spice-y.” 

“And burned. Exactly,” he agrees before letting a light groan escape with the crane of his neck, throwing his head to the ceiling in defeat that made you giggle against your own will.

You rummage your hand through the spices that still littered the counter, sifting through the mess for the culprit— Some sort of explanation to solve the mystery of the utterly odd taste that graced your taste buds. 

“Maybe next time make sure this one stays in the cabinet,” you tease, flipping the label of a bottle of pumpkin spice mix towards Bob for him to see. 

“I should’ve just stuck to doing dishes and laundry,” he grovels in defeat, swiftly taking the evidence with him to clear, tossing the plates into the sink. 

“Hey, at least you made a good salad,” you point out, examining a small bowl on the counter with some fresh vegetables. “It’s a little small, but, y’know.”

“Oh, that’s for the guinea pig. Yelena’s.”

“Well, you’re good at taking care of small animals, then.” You give him a sincere smile, hoping he could sense it in your voice as he focused on plating something else, setting a new set of dishes down for the two of you.

“Here,” he says, a glimmer of pride in his voice, just for a second. “The official Bob Special.” In front of you now was a fresh plate of plain penne pasta dressed in light butter; Simple, universally-loved, a classic. “Oh, and if you want to get really fancy,” he jokes quietly, showing off a bottle of pre-packaged parmesan cheese. 

You didn’t try to hide the smile you wore this time around, happily inviting him to exchange eye contact with you, a little sweet, a little shy, all something you didn’t want with him. 

Something you know he wouldn’t want with you if he knew.

Silence swept through the room, the only sound a swelling swoon of an old orchestra thanks to what was left behind. A tinge of intimacy dances through the air—peace in common ground—something you tried to think else of for your own good. It was hard, he didn’t make it easy— Sitting slouched over his dinner, eyes drifting over to you when you weren’t looking, looking anywhere else when you returned the favor. You can’t even recall the last time you’ve had the privilege of dining with someone, the luxurious feeling of normalcy echoing in each accidental scrape of your fork against the dishware. 

You’re sure he senses that, too, all things considered. 

“It’s been a while,” he cuts through the silence first, earning your attention, like he was reading your mind. “Since, uh, since you’ve been here.”

Because of you. How do you sit here and tell him, it’s because of him?

“Yeah… you know how Valentina is.” It’s all you could think of saying, immediately regretting the mention of her as soon as the words ghosted over your lips, hitting him hard, his body twitching slightly at the name. You hated yourself for reminding him.

His face fell a bit sullen, eyes darkening and darting away from yours, sucking in a low breath, internally trying to walk himself through the mention of someone who has had such a heavy hand in his life so far. 

“Yeah,” he whispers, a quick glance at you then immediately back down at his plate, pushing a few leftover noodles aimlessly. 

Think of literally anything else, you scold yourself internally, words tripping over each other as you racked your brain for a way to subtly ease your guilty conscience through him— To let him know what you really thought of your boss, to let him know what side you were really on. 

“She, um… she,” you sputter, his eyes taking you in now, watching you take your turn at rambling through the fragments of a sentence. You lost the words, what little of them you had, trailing off. You had to be careful what you told him— Knowing her, this place was most definitely bugged and listening to your every word. 

“She hates yellow,” you sigh eventually, gingerly holding your hand up for him to see, nails all uniformly refined and polished a pale, muted lemon. Of all the things, you think. Of all the things you could’ve said. “So… I get them done yellow.”

His eyes dart between yours, trying to decipher what you were saying. You wanted to fold in on yourself—disappear—embarrassed at how pitiful and utterly ridiculous you sounded. Tense bottom lip found its way between your teeth, tenderly biting in purgatory while you prepared yourself for his response— To call you out for your indiscretion, all like he should.

Slowly, the corner of his mouth twitches into just barely a smile. 

“We match,” he carefully says, holding a lock of his golden hair, his grin growing a bit. “Two things Valentina hates.” Only you knew he wasn’t talking about his hair. Or about you.

The mention of his new look made your stomach twist, the one very subject you feared. The one thing you were doing everything in your power to avoid.

You took a sip of your wine, now being the one to look away, taking in the twinkling cityscape just past the large windows that adorned every facet of the room. “I’m surprised you still have it— The blonde, I mean.”

Through the reflection you watch him shrug, fingers scrubbing away at something on the counter that didn’t even seem to be there. 

“Everyone says they like it,” he points out, but you weren’t convinced. “Do you… What do, uh, what—what do you think?” He asks so gently, like his word was sacred, something lingering he’s too afraid to act on, your opinion, too weighted.

“It just doesn’t seem like you.” 

Silence. 

You feared his reaction again, but realized if you owed him anything, after all was said and done, the least you could do was give him your honest opinion. 

“I think that’s the whole point,” he says quietly, you still too afraid to look up at him again. “The Sentry needs to look powerful, important.” It broke your heart how he spoke of himself, the slight waver as he said it, like every syllable was a losing battle within himself, waging war with every word.

“I liked it brown,” you mumble, scared of your own honesty. “It was just… you. Just Bob. That’s important, too.” You hoped he could hear how you meant it, how you truly admired him untouched.

He gets up in silence and clears your second round of plates, stirring in thought. Your stomach lurched, fearing you might’ve scared him off, had thrown too much at him, offended him, even. 

Then,

“I did too.” 

He turns around from the sink and gives you a sad smile, a whisper of regret on his lips. You bit at yours again, reeling in his words.

Before you could think of what to say, he kept going. “You’re the only person who’s answered me without worrying I’ll fall apart at the truth or something… so thank you.” It’s shy, it’s raw. He picks at his fingers, lost in the mangle of them now. “Thanks for being honest with me.”

His words hit you like a ton of bricks, the life and wind sucked out of your soul, plummeting to the pit of your stomach, grasping desperately for air. You couldn’t do this, couldn’t let him look at you like you were some sort of savior to his sanity— Like you hadn’t already played your part in maiming the shell of who he used to be. 

So you stood, finding your feet leading you to him at the sink, soaking in the warm glow from the hood of the stove, finding each curve of your face and painting you in it— A new light, in more ways than one.

Without thinking, you grab his hand and look at him. 

“Look at him. He’s painfully pale and has a head like a bag full of cats, but he’ll have to do.”

Valentina exhaled sharply, exiting the room she had just occupied with Bob, acting as if another person’s autonomy was somehow a personal vendetta against her. You watched as she maneuvered past a version of you— One you were trying to forget. 

The old you dodged like your existence was in her way when, really, she was just bulldozing her way through yours. 

“What did he say?” old you asked, watching her slowly, almost afraid to know the answer. You remembered that you were.

“Not important. What is important, however,” she said over a sip of water, “is that we get a team working on him immediately. It’s gonna take a while to fix… that.”

You watched as your old self closed her eyes tightly, remembering how you’d tried to calm yourself at her words before painfully obliging. 

“What do you need?”

“I want him tanner— The pale is sad to look at. He won’t look good overexposed from camera lights. The clothes need to go; he looks like a Boy Scout, not a superhero. Maybe gold for the suit,” she said, thinking out loud and bustling around the room, weaving through workers promptly trying to get the building usable again. “Americans like gold. It’s classic. Looks expensive even if it’s not. Get those old mock-ups for it.”

“They were burned,” you pointed out bluntly.

“Then make them again.”

Your brows knit with worry before you said, carefully, “This seems like a lot, Val. Do you really think a makeover is necessary?”

“I signed up for the hero of superheroes,” she deadpanned, unamused by your interruption. “Not a damn charity case.” 

Once she turns around, you roll your eyes fiercely, fighting the urge to yank that silver strip of hair clean out of her head. 

She keeps going, hitting a million other nonexistent flaws he apparently has—you hurriedly writing them all down as if your life depended on it—until she finally says,

“Enhancements would be nice. They’ll delay the launch, but it’s worth it. I mean— Look at him.”

You stopped her there, your heels skidding against the concrete. “Enhancements?”

“Yes,” she said your name with a condescending bite and groaned like it was the most obvious thing ever. “Enhancements. Trim down his nose, put him on steroids so he isn’t so lanky— Oh, that new, trendy thing that makes your cheekbones look sharp,” she said, sucking her lips in to show off the shadow in her face. “Buccal fat!” She snapped her fingers at the remembrance of it. “Look it up and book a surgeon— Someone who can get this done fast so I have something presentable to show the press.”

You remembered you couldn’t believe what you were hearing— The way she spoke about him like he was nothing, like he wasn’t even a person. 

You looked back at him, sitting in a sheen of sweat, doubled over on himself at the edge of the bed Valentina once waded in with him, clearly unstable and vulnerable.

The sight of him left alone in there made you sick.

Letting her sink unforgiving claws into him and mutilate him, stuff him like he’s the puppet she wants him to be, would destroy him. You couldn’t let her, not in his state, not when he was so clearly aching to have meaning that he would say yes to just about anything she suggested. 

And she knew that.

“Or,” you began, flinching at yourself for attempting to correct her in the first place. “We could start smaller. It’ll move things along faster, y’know, pacify the investigation.”

She looked visibly irritated but stopped her busy work, granting you most of her attention now. 

“They’re really getting restless, Val,” you added, fibbing a tad to help convince her. “They’re pushing back. Hard.”

“And what do you propose then?”

“All I’m saying is you can always… tweak things later,” you offered, breath catching on the word ‘tweak.’ You wanted to sink into yourself and disappear at even acknowledging her sick and twisted ideas to form him into her mold.“You could bleach his hair, maybe. Hair can change the whole appearance, make him look more refined. Maybe a nice blonde, straight and slicked back… Really complete the whole look and compliment the gold.”

You hated your own suggestion, but prayed she took the bait, giving some time to wait on permanently altering him and his body, inflicting irreparable damage he had no control over when he was as fragile as he was. 

She huffed, waving her hand at you— Something you got a lot. “I don’t care, just fix him. I can’t be bothered, okay?” And she walked away, leaving you reeling in worry over how to please your unpleasable boss and keep your hands clean of him, all at the same time. 

You snapped back to reality abruptly, sharing in the panic in his eyes, his hands still woven in between yours. Your breath hitched as you realized what you had just done, almost forgetting just how abrasive that memory was. In your desperate attempt to atone for your sins—show him why you avoid him so incessantly and feel so complacent in a version of himself you know he hates—you hung him out to dry. You let him relive the woman who has already caused him so much harm.

You let her cause more.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, a pathetic presence of self-pity laced through the letters you strung together, tears clinging to the corners of your eyes despite your best attempts to stop them. Skin untangled from his, wiggling your hand free of his grasp, running through your hair, searching for how to explain what just happened to him— Why you did what you did. “I haven’t been honest… not like you think. I needed you to know that.”

He took you in carefully, his eyebrows and forehead wrinkles woven with worry and pain, a similar sheen of sweat dancing across his skin— One you knew all too well. Golden hair came to light again, the messy brown you once loved lost in the darkness left behind once your hand left his, now only an aching memory.

“You were just doing your job,” his voice cracks, raw from the silence it had been swallowed in just moments before, and you wanted to laugh— How could he seriously be standing here right now making excuses for you, comforting you, justifying you?

“You want to know why I avoid you, Bob?” Your voice raises a bit in volume, more courage coursing through your veins as you listen to him excuse your actions. “I avoid you—this place—because every time I look at you, I’m reminded of how I stripped your sense of identity… of how I helped erase you. And it kills me.”

You were so caught up in your own rambling confession, your voice wavering slightly, a sting clawing at the back of your throat, that you didn’t realize he had stepped closer, his large frame towering over you now, casting a shadow over the dips and curves of your skin. 

“You helped save me from much worse,” he whispers, a little unsure of himself— Maybe of the moment, maybe of the breached space… Maybe of you. Was it you? Breath dances with his as you blink up at him now, eyes impatiently searching for the answer like it lay there, honest and open and true when he adds, “Besides, it’s just hair.”

Still unsure, you say back, “I erased a part of you, Bob.”

He shrugs and looks away, taking the smallest step back, a sudden rush of cool flooding you from the loss of body heat he radiated onto you. How could you miss something you barely had? 

“Not much there to erase.”

The way he says it cuts through you like a knife, a feeling of dread worse than you could’ve imagined. How could someone so great, so pure and full of potential, see so little in himself? 

It’s like he was searching for new ways to keep you up at night— The guilt you bear, the senseless burn in the deepest corners of your soul that demanded something more with him, were not yet enough. Your Achilles’ heel. The way he consumed you.

“I’m going to do this thing where I’m only honest with you now,” you start, voice cracking a little over the words, eyes begging to connect with his— To help him see, to understand; you meant it. “That’s not true, Bob. Not at all. Not even a bit.”

A heat burns through the high points of his cheeks, undeniable proof of the way he’s fighting the urge to let himself believe what you so desperately wanted him to see. You knew Bob well enough to know he’d take a lot more convincing than that. His voice crawls with a doubtful chuckle as he says, so quietly you could barely hear, “I don’t know about that.”

His hands find a home at the base of his neck, wobbly fingers pawing at flushed skin, eyes unable to meet yours. It didn’t matter, you still watched him— Eying him intently, learning what he was trying to say through his body instead. Silence was something you were used to when you were around him, the leading party admittedly coming from both ends, but this was a new kind of silence. 

You hated it.

There were a lot of things you wanted to do— Shake him free of the prison in his mind, tell him that he’s something extraordinary, remarkable, tell him you’re scared of what twists inside you for him. You wanted to tell him that your guilt has made it a lot easier to cover up the feeling that scares you most in the likes of him— An unknown ache, yearning to be set free. You wanted to pull his hand out of his hair and to your chest, let him learn by feeling how hard your heart was beating for him, a spark you’d buried, fighting to burn again. You wanted to grab his face in your hands and stop his ragged breathing, suffocate his fears and worries with the certainty of your lips, skin on skin, hearts on sleeves, trust in devotion. 

But you couldn’t do any of that, so you did something you’ve wanted to do for a long time.

“Come on.” He twitches as you latch your hand onto his forearm and pull him toward the door, scared the contact might not take you where you intended, yet you stay grounded in this universe—this moment—his mind racing at your forwardness as he stumbles along behind you. 

“Where are we— W-what are we—”

You stopped abruptly at the side door near a little shoe rack, turning to look at him now— Stability found in the pools of his eyes that made their way to yours again, eyes you’d somehow missed already, shy and tentative. 

“Do you trust me enough to follow me?”

He swallowed hard, wringing his fidgeting hands together, eyes darting around the secluded area of the residential floor you’d taken him to— Like he was surprised you knew it existed, this quiet part of his home. His hesitation made your burst of courage start to fizzle, choked away in the silence, until—

“I… I think I’d follow you anywhere.” 

Your heart leapt like your soul had been ripped through your chest and crashed back into your body when those words left his lips. 

“Good,” you manage to get out, gently instructing him to put on his shoes— Which he obliged, tripping and falling over himself to slip his sneakers on as fast as he could, you watching endearingly, unable to look anywhere else. 

You grab his arm when he recoils from the floor, standing tall over you again, familiar frame and body heat filling the air, and headed for the door. 

“We’re getting your hair back.”

For the first time in your life when you walk toward the building, you feel renewed hope. It was giddy— The energy and lightness that hung in the air around the two of you, walking lazily back to the Watchtower, no longer a fear or worry in the world. Who would’ve ever thought the reason you dreaded that building would be the same one that saved you? 

Everything was starting to feel right— The crosswalks you scurried through, grabbing ahold of his arm like he were a lifeline, no longer uneasy now that he was next to you. You could relax against him, the shield of his body a buffer between you and the busy streets, giggling your way through the flashing traffic lights and honking horns of impatient drivers. 

You used to envy them, their pointed purpose around you, but now you only pitied the restless nature of their souls— The way none of them had a reason to enjoy the moment they were in. 

Unlike you.

It was funny how quickly you realized what you’d so deeply repressed in regards to him. He brought peace to your world, relishing in the time you got to spend with him now— Unburdened, hopeful, reborn. 

It was like your soul had known his forever— A familiar flame, kindling, against all odds, with his.

It was like he was learning to breathe again when he wandered through the hazy city streets with you, his eyes sparkling with wistful wonder as he absorbed the movement around him. He waded in the flickering life of the city all like he wasn’t living in it, day in and day out, like he'd never seen anything like it before. 

You knew that wasn’t true— He made himself busy outside the Watchtower, growing bolder in exploring every day, discovering what the world had to offer just like everyone else. Looking—a whisper of loss behind his eyes—for the thing in this city that could make him tick. Searching for a home in a city of nomads, in a city that was lost like him. Like you.

He hasn’t found it yet. 

A smile pulled at your lips bitten by the cool evening air, absentmindedly, as you watched him take it all in, his hesitancy washing away with every step now. 

Your cheeks warmed again at it— Just like they did when you left, the memory of him stumbling over himself in every sense of the word flooding back like it’s lived in your mind forever now. 

“Are you sure we should be doing this so late?” He had mumbled to you, tone unsure yet hopeful— Hopeful you’d ease his doubt and insist he’s exactly where he needs to be. 

You did.

“Yes, Bob, it’s fine,” you’d said back. “You’re with me.”

“A-and the store— They’ll be open still?”

“It’s only 9 pm, Bob. We’re in New York City.”

“Oh, right.”

You knew it wasn’t about being out late or about a store’s hours— Of course not. He’s lived a life far more complicated than a 7-11 run in the middle of the night, to say the least. 

It was that he was still finding his footing, trying desperately to ground himself in something that would do it back. That would assure he was allowed ownership over himself again. No abuse, no drugs, no demons. 

Just something real. 

He was overly cautious of himself, like he was hyper-aware of the fact that his brain convinced him he was out of place somehow. You knew the feeling.

The rest of the trip went that way— Him clinging to you and your every word, watching with calculated thought churning in his brain while you did your thing: picking out the best shade of brown to match his roots that poked through just enough, weaving through the store with ease— Just two lost souls finding themselves together in the artificial glow of a late-night corner pharmacy.

You refrained from touching him again, fighting off the intimacy you felt creeping up on you. If your fingers wrapped around him you’d only be reminded of the swoop in your stomach when things crossed into a realm you teased— Cautiously, carefully. 

When you grabbed his arm to drag him out the door or keep him with you as you ran through the streets, it felt familiar—felt okay—allowable, even. But there were other ways of touching him that you knew would stop your breathing, swirl your head, shred your better judgment— Hungry claw at your heart. A heart that screamed for him, for more.

You couldn’t touch his hand again. You couldn’t snake your hand across his lower back as you shuffled in front of him in the aisle. You couldn’t thread your fingers through his hair to find the perfect shade—You just couldn’t.  

So you gingerly held the box up and took your best guess, his questions still coming all the same. 

“Is it going to sting?”

“No, Bob. It’s a demi-permanent dye, not bleach. Your hair’s already bleached.”

“This is a bad idea, what if everyone hates it? Valentina is gonna get so pissed—”

“So let her,” you dismissed softly. “She’ll have to go through me first.”

A pink settled on his skin— That same pink from when you startled him in the tower, the color from when he served you dinner, shy and hopeful. The one that blistered his skin when you teased him— One that festered from the way you talked him down, not letting him consume himself in doubt, all like it was already a natural place for you to be. It appeared again when you worked your way around the night shift cashier who didn’t want to honor a coupon Bob mentioned in passing he tried to use last week on snack foods for Yelena. It was still crinkled in his pocket, a reminder of his failure on his grocery run, in his small but monumental tasks— You simply couldn’t have that. 

And now, you walk back, a plastic bag of his newfound authority swaying alongside you as he held the jelly-red candies he munched on up to the streetlights, watching them glow from within— His prize in more ways than one. 

“Do you ever think about why they’re called Swedish Fish?” he muses, voice cutting through the sugar on his teeth. “Like, what makes the fish… Swedish?”

You couldn’t do anything but smile— A smile that stretched so far it pulled his attention with it, rambling questions coming to a pause and looking at you. Cool, flickering lights under the Watchtower’s entrance cradle your skin, making you shine— A physical embodiment of the way he made you glow inside, just like his candies in the streetlights.

“What?” he asks tentatively, thin lips pursed together, stopping mid-chew with wide eyes darting gently back and forth, like he’d done something wrong. 

Eyes connected like constellations decorating the clear, crisp air above you, the soft lull of city life blurring into the background— Somehow completely insignificant in this moment.

You wanted to say, 

It’s just that I like spending time with you. You look so perfect right now I can barely breathe.

Or,

I missed having you in my life. Even if it was small, I still missed you. It meant something to me.

You fought the urge to confess,

I feel something I shouldn’t— Something hungry and restless from the way I let it starve.

I feel something for you. 

You dared to whisper,

I think I’m falling in love with you.

But instead— 

“Nothing,” you breathe back softly, a cautious reluctance haunting your phrase despite your desperate attempt to hide it. The words taste wrong as soon as they leave your lips, a new sin brought to fruition, betraying what you promised him before— Doing the one thing you vowed never to do to him again.

You lied.

You don’t say any of what you want to, just reiterate with a breathless smile, “It’s nothing.”

He pushed further, gently— An offering so delicate, a chance for you to take it all back and give him what burned inside your throat to say. He asks it carefully, like he was dancing on a line he was afraid to cross. 

“Are you sure?”

The key card buzzes you back in, breaking the moment that threatened to swallow you whole. 

“I’m just glad you got your candy, is all.”

When you step inside, you move through the tower silently, a state of mourning, like you both knew what was about to come— A next step, only yours to take. 

You didn’t want to go. You wanted to live in this night forever. It was a night you could only dream of having— So raw, so utterly real that it threatened to shatter what you thought you knew of reality. It felt like if you let it end now, you might never get this feeling back again. 

You wondered if he felt the same.

When you reach the residential floor, you enter, this time, as someone completely new— Or yet, maybe someone you’ve always been, a person who just got lost. You were getting to be the different, better you. The one you fantasized about being when you were alone at your apartment, only now with the only person in the world you’d want it to ever be with. 

Everything was just how you left it: messy kitchen, littered with evidence of a lived-in night, half-had glasses of wine, deep red liquid staining the bottom of the vessel like a scar. Warm light, a pulse radiating throughout the dark floor all from that one space— The space where everything changed for both of you. 

The only thing new was the silence from a finished record, drawing the night to a close. Your cue to go.

Bob was the first to speak, confirming current residents with the comm system, only to reaffirm your impatient suspicion.

You were still alone.

“Wow, everyone’s still gone,” he reiterates after the mechanical voice goes mute, a nervous and low, breathy laugh engulfing the sincerity seeping through his tone— One that threatened to betray his facade and bare the truth of what lies behind intent. 

“Guess so,” is all you say back. 

Beat. 

Say something else, you scold internally. It’s getting too quiet. 

Eventually, you cave and bite first—begrudgingly—but not wanting to crowd him any longer. “Thanks for tonight. It was nice.”

You give him a half smile and move past him, his lanky frame awkwardly shuffling aside with a mumbled ‘sorry’ so you could grab for your bag— But you don’t take it yet. You just encroach on his space, hovering gently, waiting for his next words, fingers practicing wrapping and releasing around the handle haphazardly in wait. 

Holding out the plastic bag from your impromptu errand, you look at him— His timid eyes already watching you, absorbing your every move, thinking intently. You hold out the offer of it—a weighted symbol—waiting in the silence, a moment too delicate to speak. He takes it gently, but neither of you move— Both your hands still clutched onto the bag, not wanting to let go. In more ways than one. 

“I, uh, I don’t really, um,” he stutters. “I mean, what I mean is, I— uh, sorry— It’s just that…” He pauses, taking you in, mind reeling behind his eyes on what to say to you next, suspended in the time you let pass.

Wrap, release.

“Maybe you can come back, y’know,” he says—so shy, so quiet—gesturing down to the bag, your fingers finally slipping free of it once the position is acknowledged, relinquishing sole custody to him. “I don’t really know what I’m doing with all this… so if you don’t mind, or uh, have the time in your schedule…” He laughs timidly, restless fingers around the plastic gripping on for dear life— And oh, there’s that flush again. “Sorry— I know you’re busy, this is stupid,” he rambles but you stop him, touching your free hand to his around the bag. His mind and mouth and meddling fingers come to a screaming stop at the contact, eyes flickering down like you might have unleashed the unwanted.

It didn’t come.

“Of course I’ll help, Bob.” His features immediately relax, a bit of reassurance washing over him as you smile softly, your fingers still stuck to his. 

“Okay,” he croaks. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Your heart thudded hard— So hard you wondered if he could hear it ringing in his ears like it was in yours. 

Wrap, release.

He runs his tongue over his teeth, mulling in thought, weighing the voices, then says,

“Do you think it’ll take long?” he whispers, almost scared. “The dye?”

“No.” Your tone slips lower, matching his, trembling almost. “It’s pretty easy…”

Eventually, he says, “I won’t keep you.” He looks down hesitantly at your hand— One on your handbag, tethering you to an exit you didn’t want to take, the other still meeting his— His eyes not wanting to remind you they were still overlapping, the contact becoming more charged as each second passed. “You’re probably busy, y’know… with work ‘n stuff.”

Did you dare? 

“It’s quarter to 10 on a Friday, Bob.”

You did. 

So you continued. “I have nowhere to be. It’s the weekend, so…”

Wrap, release.

“Do superheroes even get days off?” he asks, but not seriously. He says it like it’s a strained joke, a short laugh covering up the root of something much more complex— Something much more timid and intimate that he wanted to know. 

Your hand twitched free from his, cold rushing to the pads of your fingers from the loss of heat. 

“Lucky for you,” you tease, “I’m not a superhero. That’s your job.” 

When he looks down at his hands, likely mulling over the loss of contact just like you, he follows your lead. “Care to work some overtime, then?” He looks back up, eyes dancing along yours, searching to connect like a puzzle begging to be finished. They echo with hope, glistening from the reflection of the light captured in the dim and dark center of his doubts— The part of him that said, she wants nothing to do with you. Stop bothering her, you’re wasting her time.

But you’d like nothing more. “I think I can swing that.”

Release.

The releasing won— You retreating your grip from your handbag, stranding it on the counter along with your other things, leaving behind the people you were before tonight, leaving behind an old fate, stepping into something new and unfamiliar. A new beginning, together. No longer alone. 

So you let him lead you upstairs into the uncertain.

His hands were buried deep in his pockets, hair shifting against the cool blue hue of the roaring city in restless waves as he walked. Each step echoed into the empty, taking you somewhere you never thought you’d have the privilege of going.

The corridor stretches on— Long, dim, empty of the usual chaos. A steady haze clung to the walls, the flickering heartbeat of twinkling city lights bleeding through tall windows, washing the world in a soft, electric kind of quiet. He stops once he reaches the end.

The hallway wound further, but he didn’t.

He opens the door, dipping his head and shuffling aside, the smallest, sweetest smile breaking across his lips for a split second. It was the kind of smile that made your chest ache and your heart soar. 

He lets you enter first, a wave of goosebumps pecking your skin as his forearm brushes the air behind you, reaching out for the touchpad. The lights come on, his private world unfolding before you, one shadow shattered at a time— Like a secret you weren’t sure you deserved to be told yet. 

His room was more well-kept than you were expecting, considering his battle with inner demons and his tendency to be a bit scattered. Part of you wondered if it was just because he didn’t have many belongings anymore.

Some similarly muted and oversized garments tenaciously cluttered a lounge chair, a few scattered across the floor, the rest held in a closet bigger than your apartment— Though it was mostly empty, lining lights illuminating barren drawers and shelves. 

The outer wall across from his bed was covered in large windows overlooking the city, beneath it a slightly raised landing that stretched along the back edge of the room. Atop it sat a sofa that looked completely untouched and a dark wooden desk, adorned with small remnants of him— A notepad with some scribbles and doodles too faint for you to make out, a pile of crumpled, discarded fragments of papers cluttered around it. A computer and phone, plugged in and seemingly forgotten about, a small succulent on top of some better-known self-help books alongside an empty cup with a thick straw— Seemingly for a milkshake or smoothie. 

His soul touched every corner, a faint whisper of himself embedded in the fabric of his own reality.

Lining one wall adjacent to the windows were several bookshelves, mostly empty yet, but still more crowded and lived-in than the other things in his room. Some shelves held picture frames still encasing the stock photos inside— Naturescapes and famous landmarks, things of that sort. You had to fight the smile that crept to your lips at the invasive thought that maybe, one day, you could be the one to change that. 

And there he stood, raking his hands through his hair and wringing them together as he watched you silently take in the space. 

You take the first steps, freeing yourself from the tight suit jacket you’d been bound to all day, the fabric whispering against your skin— A physical and emotional release. He watched your frame closely—carefully—like he was witnessing something he wasn’t supposed to.

Why did it feel dramatic? Why did it feel weighted? 

Maybe because it was.

Because around him, everything felt heavier— Closer, like stepping too near the edge of something you couldn’t quite name.

You drape it gently on the curve of his bed, leaving with it the urge to hold back, trying your best to stay grounded when stepping into something new. 

Something with him.

“Those look uncomfortable,” he murmurs softly, like he was tapping the ice instead of breaking it. Like he was talking more to the room than to you. 

You study him, trying to connect what he was saying with his eyes to what he was saying with his words. 

“The shoes,” he adds shyly, an almost boyish innocence in his glance at your sharp heels— His form of an invitation for you to settle in, reminding you it’s okay to relax in his space. 

“Oh,” you laugh gently, taking his delicate offer to slip them off, warm pads of your feet finally unwinding against the cool of his floor— An exhale. “They are.” 

He repays you with a mannerism close to a smile, the outer edge of his mouth flashing into a curve for a second, making your stomach swoop with a flutter you can’t contain.

“You might want to, uh,” you continue, gesturing to the sweater hanging loosely over his lean frame, soft and worn. It was the kind of thing you knew he probably slept in. Something that probably still smelled like old memories and half-healed wounds.

“You don’t want to get dye on that,” you add. “It probably won’t come out…” 

Beat.

He glances down, all like he just remembered it’s still on his body.

The favor was returned. Saying it without saying it.

For a moment, he hesitates, then you feel it— That shift, that ache when it happens. It’s not out of debate of your offer, but because his stare is lingering longer than he’s ever let it before, watching you closely—intimately—reveling in the delicacy of your words. 

His eyes trace the curves of your skin, arms now exposed, standing in your blouse. It’s a business-casual tank top. Appropriate for work, but still fun enough to leave a button or two undone.

He quickly tears his gaze away, soft blue irises gently washed in awkward panic— The silent kind that only shows as they dart around the room, his limbs gesturing in small movements toward his expansive closet.

“I—I have things,” he rushes, hand tearing into the nape of his neck, rummaging through his restless hair. “Like, uh, like a t-shirt or something, I mean… if you don’t want to ruin your clothes too.” 

You smile and accept the offer, following him into his closet. 

The enchanting scent of cedarwood drawers mingled with the warm, earthy smell he always wore— So subtle, so effective, just enough to make you forget anything else mattered in the moments when it hung in the air around you, dizzying and distracting.

He rummages through a drawer—half-open, garments half-folded—and pulls out a slightly wrinkled steel-blue t-shirt and a pair of lounge shorts, fabric clutched in his fists, fidgeting nervously. 

“They’re clean, I promise. I just… I hate folding.”

Slipping into the bathroom, connected to both his room and the closet, he hovers, his hand ghosting over the handle. “I’ll, uh, I’ll give you—” he stumbles. “I’ll let you… yeah…” he trails off, a nervous laugh swallowing the rest of the words he failed to find. A blush crept to your cheeks at his timid nature— It was sweet, sincere. It ruins you. 

The door creaks as he pulls it shut for you to change, unknowingly leaving you alone with a heart that pounded for him, a heart that could no longer lie dormant in his empty space. The undeniably intimate feeling of wrapping yourself in his clothes—an extension of him—creates a flustered pull at your lips. A burning. The silent buzz of his closet carrying it all.

When you slip the soft, threadbare fabric over your head, you linger for a second, a persistent thought of proximity curling around you like smoke. The thought clings to you like the fabric, just like how it’s clung to him before. For a fleeting second, you almost drown in the thought that maybe this will be the closest you’ll ever get to be to him— Only some fabric shared.

Once.

It’s large, draped over your body like a blanket, and even then, it still hangs just right— Enveloping you in comfort, all like it was made to be worn by you too. Like it’s been waiting all this time.

The shorts, on the other hand, make a habit of slipping past your waist, hanging there for no longer than a second before falling, the garment gathering down at your feet. You try rolling the waistband a few times, but it’s a useless feat, leaving you to hope your company was okay with a makeshift dress instead. You, in his shirt, bare legs disappearing into the too-long hem. 

Its length stretches just past your fingertips. Sure, you’ve worn shorter dresses to work, around the team, around him… but this felt like something you had to rationalize a lot more.

Just as you swallow your pride and replace it with something more earnest and raw for him—your heart on your sleeve, vulnerable in more ways than one—you freeze. 

In the reflection of the mirror, looming large at the opposite end of the closet, you catch a glimpse of him through the sliver of the bathroom door that’s slipped ajar. 

He pulls the olive sweater up over his head, back facing you, ruffling the locks of golden, wavy hair he tries to pat down to no avail— Something you could still love in the scattered fragments of him, because it was, after all, still him. The movement tugs the white t-shirt he wears underneath up, a patch of smooth, sculpted skin resting at the waistband sneaking through, your breath catching at the mere sight of it— Of him, like this. 

From the freedom of his baggy sweater you could see him better— A fresh glimpse at the way his chest rises and falls with deep and heavy breaths, struggling to tether himself to something that was never really there. His muscle was indescribable, molded into the stretched cotton, something unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. The closest you’d come was seeing it on TV. One of the Avengers— One who didn’t come from this world. 

Yet, there he is. Innately human. 

Those were the most captivating parts of him. Through taught muscle lay a subtle softness at the curves and dips of his skin, his hands like they were large enough to hold the whole world yet were still found fiddling with the simple box dye, restless energy shuffling around the expansive tile until he slipped out of view, taking your pitiful daydream along with him. 

You wish he knew just how alluring he really was. 

Unsure fingers gather the fallen shorts and clothes still warm from your body off the floor, folding them loosely over your arm, draped in front of your body as if that somehow makes the moment any less vulnerable, less revealing. 

When you step into the bathroom, he’s sat on the edge of his tub, cool porcelain cradling his long and lanky frame, fingers still buried in the box— Toying with the cap, absentmindedly picking at the corner of the paper, brows furrowed as he raked through the expansive instructions on the back, all too caught up in anchoring himself to something—anything—to notice you were there standing in front of him. 

A hush and milky white bathes the tile, a low lunar light lingering over every surface like silk. An echo of penance trapped between four walls and two bodies.

The sweater’s gone; he’s in that cotton white t-shirt you already caught a glimpse of— Simple, classic, saying so much without saying anything at all, much like everything about him. It’s somehow the same size as the one you wore, just fitting much more right— Tightly stretched over his broad chest and shoulders like a second skin, fabric smoothing perfectly over the rest of him. His hair is still messy, riddled with movement and life. His feet bare, legs long and in light grey sweatpants, arms exposed and glowing in the dim pooling light of his bathroom.

Was it too much to ask to live in this moment forever?

“The shorts were too big,” you confess, reluctant to disturb him— To steal back the time where observing him feels like the most important thing you’ll ever do, like a gift too good to keep. You look down at what you were left in, the sensual nature of just his t-shirt somehow showing off every curve of your body despite its size like it’s taunting you. “I hope you don’t mind…”

When he looks up at you, the world narrows to a pinhole. Just for a second. It’s like you were in a vacuum, the rest of the world slipping away until it’s just you. Just him.

The box falls free from his hands and clatters to the floor, fingers freezing and pressing against his legs now, a gentle back and forth like he was trying to soothe himself. Thin lips part slightly, so subtle you wouldn’t even notice if you weren’t so drawn into his every move like it was a lifeline— Your resuscitation, suspended in aching time. 

He sucks in a slow and steady breath, the only thing present. Just you. Just him.

You lived a lifetime in the flicker of an unspoken spark, a jolt you weren’t supposed to feel, but did. In truth, it was only mere seconds you stood there—a silent offering—before he spoke.

“You, uh…” he starts, a breath catching in his throat, words clinging there, stickier and sweeter than his candy. He gestures vaguely at the shirt. “Looks better on you.”

It’s shy, reserved, like he just said the most obscene thing his mind could conjure— Like it was unholy to say anything at all in this state, in this moment. His voice is low, heavy as gravel, the undeniable weight of his words landing like a stone on your chest.

Nervous eyes glance around the new space, taking in your surroundings to distract from the aching pull on your heartstrings, wound tightly like coiled wire, tension thrumming beneath your skin with no release from his earnest compliment. 

You hated how he did this to you— How he was so unaware and devastatingly oblivious to the way the small things he did made you fight off something ravenous within your soul. 

Every time he looked at you like you mattered, you had to fight the urge to grab his restless hand in yours to calm it. Every time he blushed, you had to remind yourself you couldn’t just walk over and kiss it off his face. Every single damn time he said a sheepish compliment like it was sacred, you had to wrestle your mind into remembering he isn’t yours. He’s not yours.

Every. Single. Time. 

This time wasn’t any different, somehow willing yourself into swallowing the lump in your throat, pushing down the words that were threatening to boil over in a confession and instead do something stupid— Change the subject rather than telling him something absurd, like how you want to wear his clothes forever. You wanted to live within a piece of him, always.

“Do you have a hairbrush?” 

He blinks a few times— Blank, rapid, staccato movements trying to process what you said, like he was surprised by your response. 

“Oh, uh, yeah— Yeah, I have one.” 

His fingers drum against his thigh, then stop. His jaw tightens, like he’s trying to catch a thought before it slips away, and crosses over to open a drawer in the vanity like he wasn’t buried deep in his mind. A small plastic comb turns aimlessly in his fingers before he hands it to you and immediately looks down, avoiding your eyes, murmuring, “I-I think your hair already looks nice, though.”

God, he was killing you. Did he know he was killing you?

“It’s for you,” you breathe, quiet and sure. “If you don’t brush your hair before coloring, it’ll get spots, is all.”

“Oh,” he whispers, a gentle smile in relief breaking across his lips for a fleeting second, like he was happy you weren’t displeased with his appearance. “That—that makes sense.”

“May I?”

You hold the comb up and ask— In a way asking yourself if you were really ready to touch him in that way. Asking the room like the echoes would answer back and reveal what you weren’t quite ready to face.

It was nothing—sure, maybe on the surface—but you’d been avoiding touching him for so long, the restraint was suddenly the thing making it harder for you to hold back. Your heart, light-years ahead of your mind, knew if you touched him in a way that mattered again, you’d only be reminded of how much you didn’t want to let go. Of him. Of yourself.

But he nods, a shy and timid pink flushing his features ever so slightly— All like it wasn’t as weighted as your dragging thoughts were making it feel. You reach up for him on your tiptoes, stepping a little closer, trying your hardest to reach his head that towered above yours until he took the lead and sat on the edge of the tub again. His fingers hovered loosely over the curve of your waist to guide you, accompanied by a soft, “There.”

Sitting down, his head rests just in front of your chest, hanging slightly in silence— A semblance of reckoning as he gives himself to you. 

Shallow and steady breath was hot against your sternum, sending shivers down your spine. He exhaled all like it was something he was trying to control—to contain—a pledge to bury how he was feeling inside. The truth remained exiled in the flutter of his breath like a secret— Or maybe, really, it’s just the vivid inner workings of your imagination meshed with hopeless desire.

When you’re done brushing, he hands you the tube of color with a soft smile, cap already loose from his mindless twisting, the rest of the box still abandoned on the floor. It was like it was the most insignificant thing in the world since you stepped through his door, all despite it being the reason you were still with him in the first place.

Or at least, that’s what you both kept telling yourselves.

You both duck down to pick it up at the same time, his wild waves tangling with yours like a whisper on new skin, the air around him seeping into yours, molding into one the way you so desperately wanted to believe it belonged.

Wobbling lips wear a tentative laugh and exchange breathless ‘sorrys’ when you both retract. You keep your glance down and buried into the box so maybe—just maybe—he couldn’t catch a glimpse of how fearlessly you were blushing— A shamefully senseless smile sneaking across your lips like an utter fool.

You place the mixing bowl—now full of the color—on his lap, whispering a steady, “Hold this,” and work on getting the gloves on, the black plastic melting into your skin, tight and precise. Then he reaches for the developer.

“No, wait,” you instruct lightly, and he freezes like he’s created a catastrophic problem. 

You go to the vanity and grab a different bottle of developer left behind in the plastic bag. When you pour it into the bowl, he clings to it with extra care, all like it was going to shatter under the weight of his grasp. 

“Never use the developer they give in the box, especially if you’re only depositing color like we are,” you explain, eyes flickering from the bowl to his gaze, trying to ease his mind through the aching adoration you couldn’t help but wear for him. “It’s usually a 20 volume,” you continue, “which we definitely don’t want.”

He looked at you like you were speaking a different language, tongue graced by a wisdom and knowledge too foreign for him to know. Eyes darted back and forth between yours cautiously, like you’d given him the answer to quantum entanglement instead of basic hair care, lost in the wavelength of your words. 

“That… that sounds complicated,” he stumbles, a little at a loss for words, trying to find where to even start. Did he know how adorable he was? Stupidly precious confusion weaving through his features, eyes fluttering as he faltered, a twitch in his lip quirking just so, nervous bubbles of laughter dancing intimately over every syllable said. Did he know all that made your knees want to give out?

Did he know at all?

“It’s simple, really,” you soothe, a sickeningly sweet tone flooding your mouth— Something you couldn’t stop even if you tried. You mix the contents in the bowl with the back of the comb and explain, distracting from the way your chest swoops like a threatening storm. “Developer is something that can lift your hair. So the higher the volume, the more lift you’ll get.”

Before you could continue, Bob snatches the bowl away mid-mix and holds it over his head, a teasing grin coming to life.

He maneuvers the bowl further out of your grasp as you reach for it, grinning at how much fun he was having teasing you— Like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Lift? You mean like this?”

His eyes didn’t leave yours once— Pure wonder glistening from getting you flustered and watching you fight it. “No and you know it,” you playfully scold, eventually grabbing it back and continuing your work all like you weren’t smiling fervently. 

“I don’t know, that seems like lift to me,” he levels with a joking tone, hanging on your reaction like it was holy.

When he stared at you with that undeniable grin you wanted to say something disgustingly stupid— Something forward and blunt and rash like how he should lift you instead; Carry you anywhere he wanted to go as long as it was within his arms. God. It made you sick just how badly you wanted him, the ache you tried to suffocate not going down easy, not staying silent, begging to be set free.

You have to choke all that down to say, 

“Lift as in opening the hair follicle so it can lighten and absorb the color.”

He bites the edge of his lip, watching you like it was the only thing that mattered, jaw twitching once as he tried to suppress his smile from growing into something bigger.

“That’s basically the same thing.”

“Mmm,” you hum, wiping the edge of the comb into the bowl and setting it down. “Basically.”

After a moment you hold it up—hesitant for some reason—before you eventually ask, “Ready?”

He nods, quiet and firm, like it was the easiest decision he’s ever made. “Yeah. Yeah,” he says, the repeated agreement said more to himself than to you. “My blonde days are over.” 

“What?” you tease, feeling a little bold now too. “You don’t wanna be a blonde bombshell forever?”

Fiery red scorches his cheeks at that, a blush that reaches the tips of his ears against the pale of his hair. His eyes flash wide before he ducks his head nervously and chuckles under his breath, like he couldn’t bear to hear a compliment, even if you were joking. Even if it were half true.

“Nope,” he mumbles sheepishly before looking up at you again, a gaze suddenly raw and honest— Something stoic humming beneath it all. “I’m good with just Bob now.”

You smile, mind bringing you back to earlier, how you reassured him he was worthy but he couldn’t fathom believing it himself. It was driving you crazy—that subtle confidence he was wearing now—self-assured in what you told him, holding your gaze like he was trying to spell it out for you; Make you realize he wanted to be himself for you.

Was it all in your head? 

“Good,” you whisper back, your intention settling more in your movements than your words. You stepped towards him now, handing back the bowl for him to hang onto, dye covering your gloves. 

His legs shift open—the slightest movement, timid reassurance—welcoming you in like you’ve always belonged somewhere slotted in between him. Arm in arm, fingers in fingers, legs between legs…

Knees brushed together as you hover over him, a breath catching at the back of your throat from the feeling. 

It was new, how close you were— The way his inner thigh tickles your smooth skin even through the plush of his sweatpants and makes you burn like you were scorched by a searing sun. 

You unnecessarily mix the dye around more, numb movements distracting from charged thoughts, averting his eyes like if he saw you for even a second he’d be able to hear the senseless desires bouncing around in your head— The ones saying all you wanted was to touch more of what you haven’t before. The ones saying hands weren’t enough, standing over him wasn’t enough, none of it was enough. You needed more, a carnal instinct you didn’t dare deny. 

How much did you have to drink?

No, it wasn’t that, it couldn’t be that— Not when you’ve only had half a glass. Not when you were already drunk over the illicit game you played, quietly pushing the boundaries of what was, what remained. What could be, maybe one day, maybe never.

You wanted him. He wanted you— Did he want you? How could he after everything… Could you get fired for this?

No, you haven’t done anything. Not like you want to…

Did he know? How long have you been quiet for? What was he thinking about—

“This might be a little cold,” you murmur, your quiet warning heavy with fog like you’d completely forgotten how to speak in the seconds you stirred around in thought— The time that felt like an eternity. 

You seriously needed to turn your thoughts off.

So you did, focusing on the way your hands laced around his golden hair, light from your previous misfortunes dulling upon contact. Dark seeps through every strand like desperate poison, like the life he missed having was being restored one tender touch at a time.

His chest rose and fell—soft and steady—deep pull of air every time you made contact. His eyes flutter shut a tad as you pull the dye through each strand, root to tip, covering him completely, your touch taking over in more ways than one. 

“That feels good,” he mumbles through an exhale, like he’s been holding in praise for devout touch his whole life. Like it was finally meaningful now, the feeling of being cared for.

For caring back. 

Your attention snaps back to reality when he says it, mind forced to finally be grounded again, reminding you where you really were, not just trapped inside the screaming fantasy in your head. The one that only grew the second you found him tonight, the second he let you in, the moment he asked you to stay— Carrying your baggage and all. 

“Good,” you breathe, trying to mask the waver in your voice. “It looks good.”

He smiles at that, faint and pure and utterly devastating, just the smallest of movements wrecking you completely. Lids are still drawn shut—light and relaxed—a gentle push into each movement of your hands, so small you wondered if you were making it up in your head.

Was it all in your head?

When he opens his eyes and takes himself in through the vanity mirror over your shoulder, he bites at his lip and hesitates, soft blue eyes glimmering with a trace of worry and nose crinkled a tad. 

“It’s, uh, does it—does it look kinda orange…?” He says it gently, like he shouldn’t be questioning a thing, like the wrong set of words strung together will make him lose you, make you run. 

“Don’t worry it’ll tone down,” you reassure, working your way to the back, leaning over him to make sure you cover it completely. “I purposely picked a shade with a warm undertone so we don’t run the risk of your hair going green.”

His jaw falls slack and he snaps his eyes off his profile and up to you, chin tilting to fully take you in, your lips being all but a breath away.

“Green? What—What do you mean— Th-that can happen?” 

Despite your best efforts to suppress it, an airy laugh escapes your lips and fans across his face, you ducking your head down into the crook of his neck at his panic only to be met with the intoxicating scent of chemicals and fresh laundry and him flooding your senses. 

“Don’t worry,” you manage to say, laughing a bit harder now as his fingers find your forearm for no longer than a second, cutting you off with a worried huff and trace of a smile spreading across his lips at your giggles— The ones that were almost too close to his skin. 

“I’m serious,” he levels with a clipped laugh, saying your name and trying to sound convincing but it was flushing out of his voice with each sound of yours. A medicine only you could prescribe. “I-I can’t go green, everyone will definitely hate that.”

You compose yourself and pull back to look at him now— Worry worn on his face, yet something reminiscent of ease flickering through when he sees your grounding stare. It was hard to not take his concern seriously— Not when he looked so effortlessly adorable, melting into a pool of a helpless mess at your fingertips. Who could blame you?  

I’d like you no matter how you’d look, you think, pausing cautiously to enjoy one last moment of the crooked smile on his lips. One that said all he needed to. 

Instead, you say, “It won't, I promise.”

“Pinky?” He raises an eyebrow and holds his pinky out to yours, a silent offering, only yours to take. 

“Pinky,” you affirm, holding yours out to his without a second thought.

Then,

“Bob, no, wait—”

Before you could snatch your hand away he meets his skin to yours— Hot, firm grip wrapping around your finger, sure and steady against the cold, dye-covered black plastic of yours.  

“This stuff stains,” you mumble, searching his expression for a reason as to why he did it. 

He doesn’t answer at first, just pulls at the hem of your shirt—his shirt—billowing loosely at your side, suddenly bashful as he wipes the color clean off his skin to bleed into the fabric covering you. 

“There,” he hums, the corner of his lip pulling into a proud smile at his good work for a fleeting second, then wiping it off like it said too much. “All better.”  

You shake your head with a laugh under your breath at his dreamy stare, like he was screaming out something you just couldn’t quite hear yet. 

“You ruined a perfectly good shirt for no reason.”

“I’d, uh… I’d say it was a pretty good reason.”

He says it like he just said something absurd— Like it was incomprehensible, the thread that stitched each word together and delivered them to you like an oath disguised as a letter. Like it was something ordinary, and yet, not at all. 

If you didn’t take a second to walk yourself back in your mind, you might’ve done something stupid— Something like beg him to say what he really means. Something like just answering him by kissing him. Something like telling him you can’t hold back any longer, this feeling you were drowning in, unbearable. 

But you keep it together, biting at the inside of your mouth and playfully rolling your eyes like it could mask the tension of that unsaid, responding with something reminiscent of a laugh as you pull his hair back into your hands where it belonged. 

“C’mere, Reynolds,” you say with a smile, tenderly tracing alongside the edge of his hairline at his temple— A quiet promise in your touch. “We’re almost done.”

He mulls in the silence for a while, letting you feel him in your fingers like it was telling him more.

You rub your hands through him and he asks,

“How d’you know so much about all this?”

You smooth your hands from front to back.

“I don’t know. The printed instructions and a YouTube video or two… A lot of practice.”

You curl your fingertips at the nape of his neck.

“Practice?”

You run them through again.

“How do you think Valentina keeps that stupid stripe so perfectly silver?”

And again…

“Really? Wow.”

And again…

“Yup. Sometimes I don’t even think she could tie her shoes if I didn’t hold the laces for her.”

And again…

“I know it was you, by the way.”

You freeze. 

Fingers release from his hair and you step back slightly, shifting under his gaze and studying him carefully— Trying to read between the lines woven on his face and focus on anything other than the spike in your heart rate or the tightness in your chest.

He said it calmly—smoothly, just like how you touched him—without a trace of malice or blame, only quiet intention. 

You go to turn back to the sink but he stops you in your tracks, solid and warm hand grasped around you. It was insane how he held you so gently yet with so much power, so much purpose. Your eyes glance down, noting his fingers were wrapped around your wrist and not your hand, all like he avoided it— Like he was still so afraid to touch you, to go beyond with you again, but he needed contact.

He needed you to stay. 

So you stopped, running your tongue over your teeth in thought before asking, 

“What do you mean?”

It was said evenly, like all your confidence didn’t just crumble under the weight of your curious words. Like it didn’t just throw you for a loop and leave you a sputtering mess in your head.

But he read right through it. His gaze steadies you—grounds you—somehow walking you back from an invisible edge just by looking at you, all without saying a word yet. 

“Who called— I… I know it was you who called Bucky.”

It was said with such certainty, a phrase harbouring something more honest than truth, a love letter delivered through pure intentions. 

He let go of your wrist, a timid hint of fingertips against the racing of your pulse before he let it drop to your side. Wandering eyes try to meet your gaze, a whisper of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You immediately retreat, suddenly razor-focused on peeling the gloves off and discarding them into the sink, setting a timer on your phone and mulling in thought. Eventually, you turn to him, your back flush against his vanity, his stare still fixed to you and chilling your skin more than the cool granite.

Patience is what he granted you, biting gently at his lips that were drawn into a tight line now. Eyebrows wobbled ever so slightly into soft crescents as he watched you stir, like he was worried about the weight of the world on your shoulders. Like it was hurting him to see you taken aback.

And yet, still, patience.

“Bob, I…” You trail off, struggling to form a coherent sentence, a huff breaking through instead of more words lost in the shake of your voice. “That-that’s—”

“I know, it’s okay.” He cuts you off and before you could blink he was already moving across the tile and standing in front of you, wading in the wake of your shadow. Your body, an eclipse. His hands find refuge in his pockets, tucked away like that somehow makes him take up less space. Like it somehow makes his earnest confrontation less invasive, less emotionally charged. 

It doesn’t.

“You were in there,” you whisper, voice cracking at the end as you try to blink back tears stinging the corners of your eyes, looking anywhere but at him, fingers picking at hangnails you created. “You were in that vault and I—and I—”

“And you called,” he reassures, steady voice countering your wavering one. Something new. With a touch as gentle as his breath fanning across your face, he tilts your chin up to him, finger lingering a whisper too long. “It doesn’t matter when it was. You called and I got out.”

His features were soft, taking you in like you were the only thing that mattered, like if he didn't study the shapes and swirls in your irises he no longer knew the purpose of living. 

“Bob, you died.” 

The hard truth hits the floor with a thud, yet the words were spoken so faintly you thought for a second maybe he didn’t hear them, maybe you spared him from acknowledging that gut-wrenching truth.

You were anticipating the worst— Ready for him to hate you, to yell at you, to force you to leave and to never want to speak to you again. 

What you didn’t anticipate, however, was for him to break eye contact.

His stare flickers down to his hand instead, slowly reaching out to yours at your side until your palms are pressed together— A fragile anchor between people who don’t know how to say what they need to.

It was cautious, desperate yet restrained— No fingers intertwined, no firm grip, just the raw press of skin to skin, something certain for you to hold onto, just like the words he spoke. 

And it felt like maybe you were the one who died and came back to life when his thumb brushed over yours—a tender, hesitant sweep—so gentle, so honest, his fingers a rope pulling you back from the depths you’ve fallen to. 

It was like time stopped when he looked up again, shy and raw, a sneaking suspicion of unbearable intimacy daring to drag you under, rip you from your guilt-wracked reality and trap you in a dream beneath his grasp. 

It was the kind of look that would leave you only to wander in your dreams after seeing it— One that would leave you wondering how to crave the unimaginable after getting a taste of his eyes.

“And now I’m alive,” he whispers, lips twitching upwards at the word ‘alive.’ “Now I have a reason to be.”

Your fingers flinch in his grasp, small and unsteady against him— Suddenly aware after the initial shock that he was holding your hand in a moment still tethered to this reality. You feel it for a split second, the flex in his fingers, like he’s weighing running again— Like he wasn’t yet believing he deserved to be holding onto someone. Like it wasn’t the feeling of you beneath him that made it dizzying, but the fact that you were letting him.

That you don’t pull away.

Glassy eyes dart back and forth between his, trying to decipher if you really just heard him flip your world upside down with a few simple words— If you really were holding him in a way you never thought possible, like maybe—for a split second—he needed it too.

Were you dreaming?

For a fleeting moment, his gaze slips down to uncharted waters, tracing the curve of your lips with a hesitant hunger. You barely dared to believe it’s real—convinced it was your imagination caving to your desires—before he abruptly clears his throat, the spell now broken.

“I-I have this new family,” he clarifies, but he doesn't stop looking at you like you weren’t completely insane for reading beyond what he was saying, for thinking that maybe—just maybe—he meant something else entirely. “I have this job… I have purpose— Or will eventually, at least. If you didn’t call when you did I maybe never would’ve gotten that chance. Maybe I never would’ve gotten out of… there.”

His voice cuts off, a short and sharp breath pulled into his lungs at the mention of it. You knew what he was alluding to, that sinister darkness that swallowed him whole and trapped him with no sign of release— A vault maybe worse than the physical one he escaped before. 

You squeeze your eyes tightly at the reminder of what he went through. 

“Why are you doing this?” you manage to ask, finding him studying you when you come back to your senses, your fingers stiffening against his for a beat before granting a subtle squeeze at his loose fingers, reminding him you were still tethered to him— Reminding him he’s still human and is allowed to crave the warmth of another. 

A tinge of melancholy stains his wobbly smile, and he says, “Because I know what it’s like to only judge yourself on your worst mistakes.”

He hesitates for a second, soaking in your eyes that softened at his words, biting gingerly at his bottom lip, hanging on the moment like he wanted to say more— Like he had another reason he was trying to will himself to set free. 

But he doesn’t.

Instead, his thumb brushes over yours again—slow, methodical—like he was learning every crease and every line.

It was intoxicating.

You never wanted him to stop.

“I just thought that maybe if I kept this job I could try to change her,” you admit, feeling exposed at your honesty— But you wanted him to know. You wanted to unravel yourself and lay every fractured piece at his feet. You wanted to give yourself away, like you were never really yours to begin with, only his.

“I thought maybe I could help become a real part of this team if I—”

He stops you, gaze heavy and dripping with something you couldn’t quite place. “You are a part of the team.”

You stared back at him, reveling in the electric energy coursing through your veins, flowing from his hand to yours, presence finding a missing piece in each other, like you both were a source of oxygen through the tender weight in the air. An addictive and alluring heaviness you couldn’t quite shake.

“I thought maybe I could work from the inside,” you continue, narrowing your eyes, teasing now— Desperate to escape the weight of your own soul. “Y’know, like black-ops or something…” 

Only he didn’t laugh.

He didn’t even crack a smile or let a pulse of air drift from his lips. He just stared at you like he couldn’t turn away from something sacred, like he couldn’t let you do it either— Like you were wrapped in something more meaningful than life itself.

He waded in the pools of your eyes and flush of your skin like you were the only thing tethering him to linear time, like not even God himself could rip him from your grasp—from this moment—from the high he chased by clutching onto your skin— Something more addicting than any drug he’d ever been on. 

It made your heart pound harder against your rib cage, a pull stirring deep at the pit of your stomach— A yearning awakening from restless sleep. 

The only thing that mattered was your breathing— In time, parallel, humming in seductive silence together. 

It’s a fever, bulletproof, impossible to break. 

And then it happens again— That hesitant glance down at your lips like he was doing something unfathomable, like the way he chased the rosey flush of your pout was obscene. 

For a second, you started to believe that maybe he could want this. Maybe he wanted this just as much as you. Maybe, somehow, he wanted it more…

Thin lips part open, but nothing comes out. So he tries again, voice thick and low with rasp. “I—”

Suddenly, the phone’s timer blares, sharply shattering the fragile silence with no remorse. The unwanted sound echoed off the tile, vibrating through every inch of skin and ripping you clean out of the moment— A feat you once thought impossible, now accomplished with ease. 

His hand jerks back as if he was caught in the act of something forbidden, retreating with a sudden, awkward haste. You let out a sharp exhale, remembering how to breathe without him again and make quick work of silencing the deafening noise, wanting to scream at what it had ruined. 

You had him.

For a second it felt like you honestly and truly had him. 

And now he was gone. 

“Guess you’re all done,” you say, not even recognizing your own voice anymore. Not when he was taking over your body, your mind. Your soul.

“Yeah,” he mumbles back, looking down at the tile— Far away now, in more ways than one.

The distance between you stretches, leaving you to freeze in the loss of his body heat hovering over yours— And yet still, the chill of his retreat is warmer than the company of anyone else in this world. 

Something you never wanted to live without now.

You suddenly lost all your confidence—what little of it you had—struggling to do what comes next.

“Do you, uh, do you want to,” you stumble, gently gesturing to his shower, “or do you want me to—”

“No, I trust you,” he interrupts, silencing your words and worries with a shy smile, still looking down at the floor until he flicks his gaze up for a second— Something shy and innocent. “I-I want you to do it.”

And for a moment, it feels like even though he let you go, he was still holding onto you.

You feel it when you lead him back to the tub, having him sit down against the cool tile and lean his head back, waiting until the water runs warm out of the faucet in the tub.

You feel it when you take a second to watch him— The way his long neck stretches over the tub, the bump in his throat catching the dim glow of moody bathroom lights. His jaw is relaxed now—soft—a way you rarely see it, lips parted in a hazy, unguarded half-smile like it’s a reflex when you’re this close to him. Deeply dark, glossy hair hangs off the edge, a few thin strands clinging to his forehead. The same strands that slipped free when he waded over you against the sink— A piece of that moment, still pulsing. They hang on like they belong there, like they couldn’t resist their natural state.

You feel it when your fingers hover over his hair—a blink away—a breath until you meet him again. This certainly wasn’t your first time touching him… So why did this feel so different now?

And like he knew you were hesitant, knew you were wrestling yourself deep in the corner of your mind, fighting back against yourself— He touches you first.

It was slow, careful. Like he understood breaking that gap between you and him would break something else too. Something unspoken, something unaccounted for. Like every delicate touch was a vow exchanged, a promise to never stop, to allow yourselves the grace to give in. 

You wanted to surrender.

Did he?

You don’t say a word, just let him gently guide your wrist down the rest of the way so your fingers could wade in his hair, the calloused heat and strength of his presence lingering for a second like he was fighting his brain's command to retreat. Like his fingers wanted to belong on top of your skin evermore. 

When you reached over to test the heat of the water with your other hand, you could swear his face tilted up a fraction toward yours— Like gravity, a new and sudden pull always drawing him to center around you. 

He watches you move. 

Silent. Still. 

Heavy-lidded eyes follow your body as you pull away, gaze thick with a look that reads as tangible desperation. Like he isn’t sure whether to be relaxed or wrecked by the moment. You can feel it humming under his skin, the pulse of something neither of you have had the courage to name. Something unmissable in the air, tension strung heavy like the room was holding its breath for you. 

He exhales when you finally pull your fingers through him again, a jolt pulsing through the air— So quiet, so unsure, yet aching.

Haunted ocean eyes lull shut under the delicacy of your touch, your fingers beckoning him one motion at a time. Deep brown runs from his head like ink spilling over a perfect white page, all sense of direction lost in the bleeding of his former self.

You wash him back to life, tenderly, with deliberate pace, keeping yourself present by focusing on everything utterly and innately him. Long, intoxicating eyelashes flutter under your touch, trembling with a fragile, exchanged energy he didn’t dare to let falter. Soft pink lips drift open, imperceptibly— The gentle gap between them like nothing more than a faint and distant shadow. Stained beads of water cling to the edge of his forehead, down his brow bone, around his jaw, down his neck…

The water collects in your hands and flushes over strands of his hair, cascading over him like a veil. Fingers work through the thick, damp strands, massaging through his scalp with a tenderness that feels more like an admission than an action.

His head pushes into your touch again—honest and true—no longer testing the integrity of your mind that wondered if he craved you as much as you craved him. This time it was done undoubtedly. 

The smell of cheap dye rises between you like a confession neither of you will say out loud. Not yet. 

Like gravity draws you there, your fingers trace along his temple, rubbing free a messy drop of tinged water off his features, like you were wiping away the empty version of him you no longer knew. 

He lets out a breath at the contact, soft and shaky, barely there. The corners of his mouth twitch like he was trying to conceal something that yearned to be set free. 

His careful exhale hung off the edge of his lips and you were jealous of it— Jealous of the way something gets to live so impossibly close to the vulnerable and intimate parts of him. The gentle in and out, all like the complications you wrestled down deep inside.

The ones that questioned if you were worthy of indulging in him. 

“This okay?” you murmur, voice small and cautious, a gentle hum craving to be reassured. 

Cool and grounding blue of his eyes flutter to life at your voice, finding your gaze through the misted air, charged and heavy with sincerity. 

“Yeah,” he says, his voice low and hoarse in a way that turns your stomach over— A reminder that he was real under your touch. “It’s… it’s better than okay,” he whispers, warming the air that’s run cold between you.

He says it delicately, a formidable prose, all like he was revealing something that was meant to be hidden, to be buried behind a calm tone rather than the intoxicating cadence of something worshipful. 

You don’t say a word, taking your time to learn each strand like a lost language, sacred scripture, senseless desire. 

Slowly, he’s painted back to himself.

Back to you. 

Tainted conscience comes clean by your hands buried in him, molding him to your touch, inch by inch, second by second, until the stained trail circling the drain lightens to something clear and pure.

Renewed light whispers through the air, a steady rhythm of the running water, beading drips from loose tendrils— The sound, a severance of a soul from purgatory. 

You lather his shampoo through the strands, something earnestly clean and simple filling the air, blending with the smell of chemicals and weighted intentions still chasing the drain.

You don’t mean to drag your fingertips a little slower, trying desperately to memorize the feeling of him tangled through you.

You don’t mean to press your palm against the curve of his neck when you chase away the suds left at the edge of his curls, his pulse a steady drum rattling through your hand.

You don’t mean to let your stare linger, the wet mess of himself suddenly the furthest thing from your mind now that you realized he was looking at you too.

But you do.

And neither of you dare to look away.

Electric tension evaporates any trace of air in your lungs. Neither of you breathe— A moment so delicate, you fear even a gentle exhale would break it.

He’s left to look up at you through familiar brown trusses framing his flushed face.

For a moment, divine intervention takes over— Your lips moving like flesh possessed by something ethereal, something by the grace of God, too earnest to name. 

“You’re back,” you whisper, honey-sweet tone drenching your words.

Beat.

“You came back to me.”

You say it like a vow, like a prayer— And perhaps, this is how religions are made. The cheap dye that ran through your fingers and mingled with the water, the soap that rinsed it free, the whispered words and a devout touch— A confessional, an act of reconciliation. Atonement for your sins done onto him.

His voice cuts through like rolling thunder, like rain on your skin— Clinging and desperate and impossible to ignore. The words come out broken and exhausted, all like they had to crawl their way up his throat to fall from his lips.

“Maybe I never really left you.”

The faucet runs dry after you turn it off, silence stretching unfathomably far. The air between you thickens, heavy and muffled with the weight of almosts.

Impossibly, the city that never sleeps seems to have fallen into slumber the second your world caved to just him. 

You should say something. Say anything. You should pull back, laugh it off, grab a towel and pretend this doesn’t mean what you both know it does. You should stop before you can’t turn back.

But you don’t.

Instead, you lean a little closer, your fingers trailing down the side of his neck, your thumb brushing over his pulse point as your hand cups his jaw, rubbing water into his skin like you can dry it beneath the heat of your touch— Through the heat of your skin, fused to his like it belongs. 

His chest is fluttering faster, pulse a steady beat under the pad of your finger, reminding you this was real. You were really here with him— This is happening. Then his eyes fall down to your lips, and you start to feel dizzy again.

He pulls you back to reality when his lips rasp your name—something sure, something even—a pleading cadence trying to attach itself to you. 

His hand comes up and catches the bend of your wrist gently, heavy fingers finding yours pressed against his neck, and you wonder, for a split second, if he was going to pull you away— If the call of your name was a warning and not a plea. Yet he holds you there, keeps you tethered to him, wiping away any doubts and insecurities you have with something more sure than words.

“I’m not going to stop you,” he murmurs, voice unhurried, lingering in the swelling silence, dancing with the steady beams of light flowing through the veins of the city beneath you.

It’s a promise, it’s a challenge… Maybe it’s both— A reverent ache granting you permission, begging you to take him up on an offer too holy to extend through anything other than an honest whisper. 

The words get stuck between your teeth, careless fibers woven between the cavities and creating pressure against your tongue. 

Warm water snakes from his neck down your wrist, staining your forearm, his wet form clinging to you, reminding you of what was just within your grasp. If you dared.

Instead, you mumble, 

“I’ll get you a towel.”

It’s like you blacked out the second you say those words— The second you leave his body, hot and weighted and impatient against cool tile. It’s like your mind moves to autopilot, rummaging through a cabinet for a towel when he’s already right behind you, always a half a step ahead, grabbing what you seek from a towel rack right in front of you.

And it’s like you're brought back to life the second he holds the plush fabric out to you, heavy breath warming the back of your neck, a steady drip of water beading off the ends of his hanging hair and onto your shoulder, rejuvenating what was lost within you.

So you soak the towel in his hair, slowly, gently, all until it’s merely damp in your hands. 

He watches you, silent worship, eyes roaming you like it was something sacred, completely unaware that you could sense the storm brewing beneath his gaze— The intention that boomed through his thoughts, carefully.

Quietly. 

Fingers linger at the nape of his neck, the towel clutched between your grasp like it’s a lifeline— Something you could hold him through, but still a thin barrier between what you want and what you have. 

It’s only then that you realize how long you’ve just been holding him.

Legs clung so closely they were basically between each other. Chests, heaving heavy with the weight of all that was quietly exchanged and pulsing between you. His eyes— Melted and wrecked and never leaving yours, so completely and utterly new.

Like if he blinked, he’d miss it. 

You tear your lingering gaze from the nape of his neck—his messy, tangled curls—and notice instead the way his hands ghost over the curve of your waist, caving and bending in the wake of your skin. Close, but not close enough. Like if he touched you, you’d vanish.

He notices too, eyes dipping down to his own cautious limbs, breath catching just enough that you could hear it and all it held. 

“Bob…” you whisper, an aching plea—something between a question and a statement—almost too dazed and lost to know if you were really speaking or just beckoning him only in your mind. 

He swallows, thick and heavy, throat bobbing just at your eyeline, body wrestling with his mind— His familiar state. 

Slowly, he retracts his fingers from your space, gone in a heartbeat, cruelly, like they were never even there.

They drum at his side, restless movement like he’s trying to break free of an invisible weight. 

“I keep…” he exhales sharply, like the words hurt to admit, and rubs trembling fingers hard across his face. “I keep thinking if I touch you now, I’m gonna screw it up…”

His confession comes weakly, weighted words faltering— Too afraid to hold all of their worth. An admittance, in some way, of what you both wanted, but have spent so long avoiding.

A religious routine you didn’t dare disturb.

The end of his words trail off and get lost in the space around you, eyes that were so suddenly sure of holding yours, lost again and looking anywhere else. 

He said it so cautiously, like they were damned letters too broken to string together, too haunted to bring to fruition. 

Little did he know, you felt the same exact way— But he doesn’t need that from you.

Neither of you do.

So instead, you let your hand reach out, achingly slow, like there was lead in your fingertips instead of flesh and blood that were all beating for him. Chills shoot through your body as you graze them along his forearm, a gentle up and down, barely moving yet purposeful— A steady movement mimicking his breath that quickened at the contact.

Up.

You trace the curve of his body with your eyes, free hand carefully tilting his chin off of the floor and up to look at you.

Down.

You linger there a second too long, shifting your gaze down at his lips and away in the blink of an eye. 

You stop.

Your voice cuts through, a gravel thick with honesty as you say just above a whisper, “I don’t think that’s possible.”

And there it was, suspended in electric air between you, hanging in the open. Waiting. Watching. 

A devout invitation to stop pretending you didn’t feel what you did.

And that was all it took. 

The hesitation that was rooted in rotten, wild insecurity burns off like fog in pure sunlight. The world narrows down to this, to him. To the way you’re both still terrified, but no longer running.

You don’t know who moved first. 

Maybe it’s been happening for hours, days, months— All in fractions of time since the moment you met him, a subtle shift, your orbit changing direction, slowly, yet all at once. 

Hesitant fingers brush the fabric of the shirt clinging to your upper thigh, pausing for a split second before finding their home against your skin, a sacred pull of his hands up your body. He pauses at the dip of your shoulder then caresses your collarbone that pokes through the slope of the fabric. 

It wasn’t fast, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hard or demanding, but an aching yearn bleeding through every cell of his body. A desperation that grew the longer that he lived in a world where his flesh wasn't connected to yours. 

Your eyes flutter shut for a breath and you can’t help but wonder if he’s actually set your body on fire with his patient touch, a miracle granted from a god himself— Somehow, worshiping you. 

A simple touch of a body that burned for him.

His other hand found its way to your lips, controlled strength of his thumb tracing the top of your lip and down your cupid's bow like he was saying a prayer to something otherworldly. To something devout. 

You’re so caught up in it you don’t even realize how close he is now, finally leaning into the confidence you offered him. 

The crisp blue of his eyes melt to a deep and desperate cerulean when he looks at you— Every ache and desire flickering behind his gaze. They find the flush of your lips and settle there, unmistakably this time, wading in the wake of their shadow as his thumb stills against you.

Slowly, he slips his other hand up to cup your cheek, featherlight touch cradling the curve of your jaw and skin that’s gone remarkably red. He holds you in the same way his words do— Like you were the only thing tethering him to this reality. Like if he gripped you too hard you’d vanish beneath his grasp and he’d lose himself with you. 

Like you were suddenly the only thing keeping him alive. 

And like he’s already wasted all the time in the world, he closes the gap, breath whispering across your lips as he takes them into his— Delicate, questioning. Like his only mission in the world was to make you melt into him and question the matter you were made of. 

The kiss was gentle, tentative— An exhale of all you held onto as his lips meet yours, a pleading cry to let yourselves get lost in each other, at last, once and for all. Finally achieving salvation through the trembling of your skin introduced to the newfound certainty of his. 

He was soft, careful, but totally and undoubtedly yours.

Your lips stay pressed together for a fraction of a second that felt like a lifetime, pure and aching touch— A thirst you never quite realized would ever be quenched until he starts to move his mouth around yours, cautiously exploring the plush skin of your lips sealed to his. 

Your hand clutches the cuff of his t-shirt sleeve, like gripping onto him would somehow make this moment more real— Your mind in overdrive as you begin to kiss him back. 

It was racing almost feverishly, pounding with a million conflicting thoughts and screaming sensations. He made it all go quiet—just for a minute—but it was starting to flood back again: doubts and insecurities and a nagging, incessant voice that still taunted, 

This is just a moment. 

This is just because you’re here. 

Even the taste of you doesn’t wash away what you’re trying to rid yourself of.

You try to wrestle it down, focusing on the way he gently parted your mouth open and slipped your bottom lip between his, a reverent and sensual pull at your flesh— Pulling you back to him, back from what tried to dull the dizzy stars in your eyes from the way he kissed you like you were the oxygen that filled his lungs and kept his heart beating.

His hands that cupped your face roamed shamelessly, one still anchored and tracing your jaw, the other sliding across your cheekbone before brushing hair out of your face and down to cradle the back of your head. 

Now it was him who made a living in your hair— Rough knuckles tangled in the nape of your neck, raking through the strands and discovering more of what he’s never felt before.

His hands against your skin weren’t greedy, weren’t possessive— They were catharsis incarnate. A living, breathing exorcism of somber restraint, as if the whole city might collapse if he didn’t hold you.

It was a quiet surrender to the hollow kind of ache neither of you could bear to carry alone anymore.

When you let both your hands slide up his arms, fingers wrapping around the curves of his muscle until they settle on his shoulders, he’s drawn to the small of your back like a magnet. Like you touching him back even in the smallest of ways was monumental. Like it was dusting off what he knew of intimate actions. Like it was permission for him to allow himself to have this— To have you.

He brings you in closer, the press of his palm flush against the small of your back like a weight. Your bodies fused together, chests thumping in time, a screaming heartbeat in your ear so loud you were deprived of the sweet sounds he made.

Like the frantic prose of his breath against you.

Like the shudder he let slip when both your hands wandered further up to explore his neck and jawline, fingers tracing every inch.

Or the just barely audible whine that curled in the air around you before he finally speaks again— Noses brushing, bodies heaving and fingers lost in discovering one another. The gift of something new. 

“You’re thinking,” he whispers, lips pulling apart from yours with hesitancy, body reeling you in somehow closer to make up from the sliver of space that lives between you now, all like he was afraid you’ll disappear there. His voice was heavy, deep— The sound of a shameless crave wrapping around each letter he let slip. 

It was making you dizzy— The way he somehow managed to read between what your body is doing and your mind is raking through underneath the surface.

The subtle disconnect you’d never want him to feel, yet he did. 

“So are you,” you murmur, not strong enough to resist flipping his question back on him instead of answering it yourself. “What’re you thinking about?”

For once, he answers with no hesitancy—for a fleeting moment—no longer fearing the insecurity of his own mind and its integrity. 

“Just how much I want this,” he breathes, honest and true, weighted words dancing across your skin and making it shiver with chills. He lets the hand in your hair fall so he can clutch the bottom hem of your t-shirt, his t-shirt, hugging your body. “About how much I want you.”

He takes you in— A deep, desperate gaze, all like he needed you to believe it in order to survive. And when he does, something shifts. It doesn’t break open inside you, it doesn’t crash, or crack, or splinter. 

It’s an unexpected bend, your soul finding his and staying.

Your self-sabotage is suffocated— The one that whispers this is being done out of haste, out of palpable lust and loaded feelings you projected onto him. No, you scold yourself. This is the realest thing you’ve ever had.

So you connect again with urgency, letting yourself fall into him and return your lips to his— The place you wanted to belong forever after getting a taste. Your hands run up his neck with a tender pressure until they reach his hair, instinctively closing around the damp curls at the nape of his neck, helping press him into you again. 

A sharp exhale gets caught in the back of your throat at the feeling, his lips rapidly picking up the pace against yours— Kissing you back. It still wasn’t rushed, or messy or careless, but the kind of frantic burn that scorns through sensual and desperate touch. 

Like you’d never get enough of each other.

His thumb grazes at the hem of your shirt before snaking its way up at the side of your rib cage, helping pull you into him the same way his lips are. The other is still splayed on the small of your back, rubbing tentatively— A gentle vow, each movement making your head spin and your knees uneasy as they begin to tangle with his from the breached space.

His movements become more sure, the power behind his touch no longer grounding but pleading— Soft sounds and labored breathing daring to drag you into a reality where only this mattered.

The weight of him pressed to you felt right, like a prophecy you let haunt you was finally being fulfilled.

You, merely an extension of him, and him of you.  

Damp curls thread through your fingers like an anchor as he holds you tighter, intensity building behind his body— Crashing and hungry and worshipful all at once. It was hardly your first time raking your fingers through his hair but now they moved like they believed they belonged there, no longer like they were asking. 

He pushes it further— His mouth angling to take you in more, noses carrying frantic and heavy breaths as they bump together, your tongue eventually finding its way to his like it's something you’ve done a million times. 

His breath shuddered against you— Vibration sending shockwaves through your body.

Legs tangled, bodies twisted, trying to invent new ways to be closer together right where you belonged.

Then you’re moving— Grabbing harder on his neck to pull him with you, messily stumbling back toward the doorway until your back rests flush and heaving against the cool paneling of the wall. 

You leaned into it, pressure of his hands finding that sweet spot right above your waist, gentle and honest pull until your hips were flush against his, thumb circling slow and steady at the dip of your skin and bone. 

You feel it for a fleeting second— His fingers twitching against you before one hand slips further down, cupping the crest of your waist, your hip, your thigh…

His body betrays him, the questioning flicker of doubt pulsing through the flex of his fingers as they finally rest around the curve of your ass. It was like he was journaling every reaction you had, every careful movement that was flushed out with delicate intentions to know more of you. 

His lips pull apart just barely, forehead resting against yours, and asks,

“This okay?” It comes out with a pant, his ehale warming the inside of your mouth that hangs slightly open trying to catch your breath, lips still clinging against yours as he speaks. The question broke apart as it’s asked— Frayed at the edges, all like he was scared to think he might’ve pushed a non-existent line too far and too fast. 

You nod, peppering the gentlest of kisses at the corner of his mouth and around his jaw, selfishly hungry and not wanting to stop like you were now addicted. 

He’s wrecking you— You shamelessly basking in the broken gasp that breaks across your skin when you push into his hold with something more weighted than that of your body. 

“More than okay,” you mumble into his skin, smiling on his mouth as you get to return the words he assured you with in the tub. 

Then something stoic washes over him, glowing like his skin in the haze of steam and city ambience that cuts through the deep of the night. He bites at the edge of his lip, his mouth twitching like he was cursing himself— Like he was afraid, like he was about to be vulnerable for the first time with you. Like his hand wasn’t currently pressed deep into the curve of your ass and cradling you through sensual, electric tension.

“Is this real?”

The vulnerable cadence of his words gets swallowed into the silence, only the twin beat of your hearts and ravenous breath hanging in the air with the question. It’s asked with disbelief and careful wonder and something reminiscent of awe basking in your presence. 

And you knew what he meant immediately, like you’ve lived inside his head forever. Like he was the better side of a coin you shared. 

You know he asks it because he knows the feeling of living in something of an illusion all too well. The feeling of questioning the integrity of every breath he took— Of everything he touched, or more so, didn’t.

So you do something that shatters the hesitancy in him, shaky breath, an exhale— Your promise to him. 

You pull one of his anchoring hands off your waist and into yours, softly, delicately—no trembling, no hesitation this time—the most honest thing you’ve ever done. 

His brows knit and he pulls back just enough to watch you do it like it was grounding him from losing control. Like you were creating gravity for him. 

His breath hitches in disbelief as your fingers thread together—in the easy, certain way you give him what he was too terrified to ask for—hollow hands whole again once wound in each other.

And for the first time, there’s no flinch. No retreat.

The city’s heartbeat beneath you softens, booms lower, quieter— A romantic rhythm in tandem with yours, like it was alive for you. 

Alive with you.

Fingers squeeze around his— Tight, knowing, sure. You don’t want him to be mistaken as you touch him there, in a place you both avoided, knowing it holds a weight heavier than the breaking of all unsaid.

Eventually, his grip matches yours; slow, reverent. His thumb brushes over yours, unwavering this time. There’s no flex like he’s weighing running, no hesitation like he can’t believe he’s allowed— Only certainty. 

You let him be present in this universe with you. Nowhere else. No other time or memory or false feeling.

Just here. 

Your confessions to him lay naked and bare in the wake of his grasp, no presence feeding off the stained parts of your soul and dragging him away into a place where time lost all meaning. But instead, it loses all meaning here.

Because for once when his hand touches another, time doesn’t shrink or fall still or cower— It expands.

It evolves. 

It grows and moves forward. It feels right— An exchanged commitment to one another in the shape of skin that caves to each other.

A vow that bends linear time. 

You didn’t have to answer his question with words, just your reverent touch he clung onto like you were the answer to all he lost in the fabric of this reality— Like if he let you go his soul will lose its center of gravity.

He lets out a huff in utter disbelief, pure wonder, the mesmerising and magical cadence of something real.

And he moves like fire when you whisper against the shell of his ear, 

“Keep showing me how real it really is.”

Your delicate command gets lost in the sounds of him moving back to how he held you before—pushing you into the wall harder—his mouth crashing into yours with passion and desperation. It swallows the sweet gasp you make as he leaves whatever soft and tentative actions he wore on the forefront behind him, abandoned on the floor of that bathroom that glowed from the fever of your aching touch.

Fingers fly free of your hand and rope through your hair, guiding your face to kiss him deeper. And you do.

His other hand squeezes into the curve of your ass he grips onto, mimicking the way his lips shape around yours— Gentle pull dancing with dizzying pressure with every press at your skin. Then you hook your leg around his thigh, helping him push into you more. 

Even then, his fingers danced like your flesh was burning him, roaming with feverish intent, never lingering too long in one spot. They’re everywhere and anywhere he could reach.

They press flush to your waist, trail up your tummy and follow the gentle curve of your ribs. They live in the marrow of bones that carved your shoulders and neck in sacred city lights, tracing your jaw until he replaces his touch with his mouth, fingers tracing your hair out of his way like it was an act of penance.

You hold his middle, a breathless run of your fingertips on his chest— The same kind of breathless like the sigh that leaves your lips when he bites gently on your neck, like he’s electrocuting every nerve ending in your body with reverent praise. 

Every contraction and flex of otherworldly muscle pulses under your touch, your hands skimming the surface until you slip them under and melt your curious touch into the vast expanse of his body— Skin on skin.

He groans at the sensation of you touching him now without a thin cotton barrier— Soft and pleading and thanking you with the religious pull of his lips on your neck. The mark is dusted with an honest kiss before he finds your mouth again, the sweet taste of cherry candies and deep red wine and something unmistakably him flooding all your senses utill you couldn’t bear to imagine anything else. 

For a split second, your legs wobble from the sensation—like you were becoming drunk off the taste of his mouth on you—but he steadies you, gripping the hand that held you up more firmly against your skin, forearm anchoring the underside of your upper leg that wrapped around him. 

“I got you,” he murmurs, so faint in between deep and lustful kisses you couldn’t tell if it was real or not. 

He holds you like you were nothing more than the air he breathes— Like it was the easiest and most natural state for him to dwell in. It’s done delicately, fingers careful against your skin like you would break from one wrong touch. He holds you with devotion, something sure and unmistakable in the pressure of his body against yours. 

Once he feels you stable yourself, the fingers holding your thigh travel up along your spine and under your shirt. They find the center of your back and rest along your bra, careful, alert, meticulous. They snake around the strap, a gentle pull and play around the stretch of the elastic. It wasn’t rushed or possessive, but grounding— Honest and pure intention breaking free to only leave his questioning fingers tracing another part of you locked away from him.

Your mind is screaming for him to take the leap, so loud and hungry you almost wondered if he could hear what's trapped inside your skull when his fingers find the clasp and fiddle with the latch— Something of a questioning hum or mumble of  “can I” lost in the careful mangle of his fingers.

He focuses harder, his lips stilling against yours slightly until you reach a hand off his chest and over his frustrated fingers behind you, guiding him with ease to pop the clasp open and give more of yourself to him. 

He steers the garment free and it falls to the floor, tangling with your feet.

They move around it, suddenly walking backwards like second nature as he guides you off the door frame and into his room.

His mouth and tongue still meet yours without skipping a beat. His hands, large and wild and lazy, leading you into something new with him. 

The hand tangled in your hair clings to the base of your neck—gently—listening to the cadence of your pulse and ghosting over the sensitive mark he left blooming against the plush of your skin. 

The fingers that splayed around your jaw rub and trace along the shadow of your cheekbone in the moody glow of his abandoned room coming back to life once you were in it. 

The other guides you back, slipping out from under your shirt and finally exploring the side of your ribcage now free of everything other than the clothes of his you wore.

You moan into the haze of his personal space as you press into his mouth deeper, hands trailing up and pushing gently on his neck and head to help him give you what you needed. 

It’s a successful endeavor until you imperceptibly tug on his hair, causing him to lean his head back for a breath and match the sounds you made— Something shameless and broken and desperate cracking between each messy motion toward his bed together.

He’s all over you— Like watercolors on stale paper, like fog clinging to shadows. Like doubt disguised as deliverance. 

His confidence grows steadily with every leading step— His teeth clinging gently at the bottom of your lip making you sigh into every touch, all while simultaneously and haphazardly kicking random things out of your path— Like the damp towel that got tangled at his feet and dragged a few steps or your discarded shoes you stumble over.

You let out a tiny sound of pain as you stepped on the sharp, pointed heel, and though you didn’t really notice or care—considering you were currently under a spell from his mouth—Bob did.

He lets out a taut puff of air through his nose against your upper lip as he continues to kiss you and waves his hand casually, a sudden bang of the hazard in question crashing with undeniable force into his desk and knocking over the chair, your ragged movements coming to a screeching stop at the realization. 

He looked over his shoulder, chest rising and falling quickly, your gaze settling right past him and at the shoes— Now scuffed and torn apart. One of the stiletto heels is broken in half from the impact, making your mouth fall slack in shock at his casual power. 

A red flush sweeps over his skin—even more so now—and paints the soft porcelain of his skin from ears down past his neck and under his t-shirt. He blinks steadily, looking back and forth between you and the mess behind him, mouth desperately trying to spit out words. 

“I-I, shit, I’m so sorry,” he says, voice still raspy and heavy from the taste of you on his tongue. “I didn’t mean to do that, I’ll— I’ll buy you new ones, I—”

You cut him off with another kiss, helplessly giggling at the way you could feel his brain short-circuiting underneath you, instantly moving to hold you again and kiss you back— But with hesitancy as his mind tried to catch up with the instinct now settled in his bones.

“I don’t care. It’ll go on my work card,” you mumbled in between kisses and continuing to pull him backwards again— Into you and back on track to your destination. “Comes with the job,” you continue, caressing his tangled hair out of his face and behind his ears. “Common business expense.” 

He snorts at that— Real, genuine laugh under his breath that vibrates through every cell in your body as it breaks through his starving movements against your skin. 

“Field work,” he adds, smiling against your lips until he finds your ear and kisses gently below it— Nose nudging your hair, breath tickling your skin, all of it making you melt. “Some crazy enhanced got too handsy with you.”

“The only thing crazy about it is saying he’s too handsy,” you tease coyly, head tilting back, breath quickening. He’s kissing your ear, your jaw, your neck… 

You sigh earnestly at his touch, halting once the back of your knees finally meet the side of his bed.

When he pulls away, your eyes flutter open to take him in and he’s breathtaking.

Soft, supple waves blur at the edges, lined lightly in soft, golden light from the bathroom still pulsing behind him. The harsh contrast of the nightswept city flickers with life like the heartbeat you could see in his eyes when he looked at you— Wide and blissful and utterly dazed in your presence. They soaked in the cool blue hue of skyscraper haze and melted into something sacred. His thin lips are fuller now, softly parted and swollen, slicked over with evidence of you all over them— Bright pink flush matching the familiar warmth settling over his skin, his cheeks only reddening as you study him religiously. 

Out of all the ways you watched him blush tonight, this was your favorite. Easily.

You could hear it thrumming in every corner of the room now— His soul, his heartbeat, all an extension of him you now waded in. 

It was pressed between the pages of the books that littered his shelves. It was bouncing off the walls in his room that darkness clung to. It was living, breathing in the floorboards that cushioned your feet and held you afloat— The pure and perfect vulnerability of him, his molten honesty, echoing through everything he touched.

Echoing through you.

Your next moves are slow— More careful and intentional now than the frenzy you let yourself get lost in before has eased. Fingers slip down to the hem of his shirt, electric and alive like sparks when you gently hold it and feel his skin underneath. Like you weren’t just all over him before. 

They toy with the hem gently in waiting question— The smooth cotton flowing against your touch, your eyes on his, burning with something stronger. Hungrier. 

Lips part slightly to do it—to ask—but he beats you to it. His hand finds yours, a gentle rub at your thumb, before he helps you guide his shirt off. It's a slow, aching travel up his body, neckline catching and somehow further messing his tangled waves once it pulls over his head and falls to the floor.

You try not to stare— You really try not to, but god, you can’t help it. How could you?

He was somehow more defined than you ever could’ve imagined, muscle carved through every fiber of his being like he could break you in half with a pinch. He was so gentle, so cautious— So over-calculated and constantly over-thinking, like he was always one step away from curling in on himself and inventing a new way to manipulate matter into sucking his body into a black hole. 

You could feel it brimming behind him still, that unshakable urge to try and hide himself somehow, like his body—this remarkable temple for his soul—was somehow unworthy of existing. Like he didn’t deserve to be observed or watched. Like he was meant to be lost and forgotten about with other unloved things that stilled under the haunted dust of this building. 

But when he stood in front of you like this—like he had a reason for simply being—it was the complete opposite. 

It was evident in the way he looked at you now— Stable, sure, an aching crave of you smothering any small flicker behind his eyes that tried to catch into a flame of doubt.

You wouldn’t let it.

He swallows hard, like he’s pushing down the urge to run again, then moves. 

Slowly, rough and secure hands guide your fingers back to his skin, curves of his muscle heavy under you like stone, expanse of his chest and arms and abs dusted with freckles and marks— Millions of them, all waiting to be brought to life by your hands. 

You drift them along, taking him in, all until your palm rests over his heart, the frantic rhythm of something reverent under your fingertips. 

Something you know beats for you.

Eventually, you break the silence, voice low and honest as you say, “You’re incredible.” You say it like you were in disbelief— And that’s because you were.

He smiles—crooked, wobbly joy etched into his lips—and shifts under your gaze, like he wasn’t used to the praise. Especially when you meant it, truly. Wholeheartedly. 

He comes closer, heaving chest rising and falling against yours now and ghosts the edge of his face against yours. 

A hand brushes wisps of your hair from your eyes, forehead resting gently along yours until your noses are touching. Until you could feel his eyelashes fluttering against your brow bone and the swell of his lips— Holy, like they were swollen from the mere thought of you until they touch yours again.

He slots his lips into yours with a gentle and breathless sigh, free hand cradling the bend of your elbow in his palm.

“So are you,” he murmurs into your mouth, the low and sultry tone vibrating every nerve ending like a tuning fork striking through your body, your cells and soul all singing the ethereal tune of his praise for you. “So perfect.”

Carefully, he guides you back— Slowly, sensually sitting you on the bed beneath him, his body caging you in and hovering just a heartbeat away. His lips whisper against yours as he leans down, melting right back into a deep and methodical kiss like he never left, the weight of his body helping ease you back onto the mattress.

He’s slotted between you like a lost key now returned. One arm presses into the bed parallel to your shoulder, propping himself up to ghost the slope of your body. The other loosely trails up the rest of your arm until he’s cupping your cheek, rubbing aimless circles into the flush of your skin and holding you like he was holding the world. 

The undeniable weight of his built frame clings just above you, enough contact to wrinkle your shirt and send a set of shivers up your spine as you imagine having him fully against you. 

So you do just that, grabbing the back of his shoulders and easing him onto you— Back where he belongs. 

He was reluctant, still holding back like he was afraid of crushing you beneath him, but he relaxes as soon as you work your hands up his shoulder blades and into his hair, pulling him into you with a low and sultry moan— Reminding him how desperately you craved to be kissed as deeply as he could bear.

Lips part your mouth open for him, his tongue gently tickling the tip of yours before he pushes it further, sliding it flush against yours and making a living in the heat of your mouth. The groan he makes when you let him gets caught low in the back of his throat that is already bitten radiant red from your kisses.

You smooth your hands over every inch of his neck, his shoulders— Anywhere you could reach, really. Restless fingers tentatively wrap around the sculpt and flex of his arms, applying more pressure to match the weight he was kissing your mouth with. The way you were kissing him back.

His lips are soft—thin like the boundaries between you now—plush and aching and reverent search against yours like he’d find his will to live there.

He was rewriting everything broken in you— Every trace of guilt replaced with the honorable trace of his fingers along your skin, every mumble no longer shy or cautious but words overwhelmed with hunger or a vibration against your body. 

Every memory of him in a sheen of sweat in a bed that once haunted you, rewritten in real time as it adorns his skin from being pressed against you— Moving, exploring, changing what it means to remember him on a mattress once he’s with you.

No one else.

Like it’s second nature, he rubs at a spot on the side of your upper neck that makes your toes curl and your core coil with striking heat. It’s a sensitive curve just on the underside of your jaw littered in shadows, aching to give itself to him. He kisses at it with an urgency that makes you gasp louder beneath him— A proud smile flickering on his lips and across your skin for a split second, clearly amused at how he was already learning your body so incredibly well. 

Your hand flies up to his hair, pulling him in with a gentle tug to apply more pressure, both of you reveling in a weighted and shaky moan from the way you wanted each other more.

Rough and sturdy palm on his hand finds refuge in the dip of your side, free to roam now that his mouth did that for him on your jaw. It snakes down until it hits your hip bone under your shirt, a careful yet intentful press of his fingers just below your ribs. 

When you hum in approval—too busy turning your neck from the pressure of his mouth and meeting your impatient lips to pepper kisses along the pulse point on his wrist that steadied him above you— he slips his hand up the fabric.

His fingers trail achingly slowly against your skin, rewarded by the anticipating squirm and roll of your body into his touch until they find the beginning swell of your breast. The sensation makes you dizzy, your eyes fluttering to life at the contact and you could swear the room was being lit up with fireworks from the flickering lights that danced above you. 

You should probably be acknowledging the abnormal sight of it, but, selfishly, you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. 

Not when each suction of his lips was rewriting your brain chemistry or when he was absentmindedly pressing his wrist firmer against your kiss. Not when was working your breast with more confidence now that made you shudder like you were saying a prayer. Not when the undeniable pull of his presence was making your body shamelessly lift from the mattress for a fleeting second to push deeper into his. 

Definitely not when he did it too. 

Impatient flush of your lips craves his, so both your hands find his face, still buried and busy in your neck, and pull him up to you— Both your thumbs rubbing gently just under the restless flutter of his closed lashes as you guide his mouth back to yours—back where it belongs—and he kisses you like he’s never going to let you go.

The movement, the pressure— The combination of his mouth deepening against yours, his tongue warm and tangling around yours. The scrape of calloused and heavy hands against the sensitive skin of your breasts, the smooth of his hair tracing along your forehead and your cheeks make you melt into something for him to piece back together and bring back to life. 

Every heavier touch was balanced with something softer—more delicate—like a light pepper of a kiss pressed to the place his face would hover when one of you needed to catch your breath. Or the whisper of his fingertips tracing the slope of your breast after you’d feel sensitive peaks forming under his feverish touch. 

Each moment was like a love letter, a language— Checking in with you, asking you, talking to you without words. It was thanking you and reminding you through it all, the type of man you were really here with under the heavy tension of a Watchtower bedroom.

A suspended moment trapped in a city that never sleeps that has fallen into slumber when compared to the energy of your body meeting his.

You do it back, slipping a hand free from the slight stubble poking through his face and back to dance along his fist that propped him up above you. It’s needy now, the way your fingers whisper against his skin, pleading to let you in again. 

They do— Finding yours immediately and threading together like they were once forged to be one. 

His other hand works like honey over your chest, fingers rubbing and palming deeper against your sensitive skin until you’re moaning just a hair louder under his reverent mouth— Growing restless as you drown in all the ways you want more of him.

He reads you, one of his legs slipping free from between yours, and he braces the outside of your thigh until you feel every inch of him— Every pulsing, screaming piece of him flush against you.

The pounding of your hearts are loud, heavy— Completely in sync all like the rest of you, labored breath shallowing at how hard you were both working to find new ways to be closer like this was the only chance you’d ever get. 

A sharp, sudden puff of air fanned against your mouth—his exhale cutting—when your hips gently rock up against him. 

Just once. 

It’s quick, it’s fast—it’s barely even a movement at all—but the way he reacts is like you’ve electrocuted all his nerve endings until they were scorched— On fire, burning like the desire washing over his body and flooding your veins.   

He uses the leg that’s still between you to slip up until the weight of his thigh is resting against the fabric of your underwear, covering the part where you needed him most. A breathless and raspy ‘god’ floods his mouth when he does and falls across your skin.

Every sound, every touch, every increase in palpable pressure all fans the flames you swore you’d never feed. A spreading burn you didn’t dare deny any longer.

Now it’s you who’s gasping— Biting down gently on his lip for a moment at the shift in pressure. The hand that wasn't tangled between yours flies from your chest down to the curve of your thigh, pressing with a new buzz of force and desperately anchoring you to him with a steady and sure palm— A signal for you to continue.

It’s a bit harder this time, your move against him. A sleek and steady leg hooks around the back of his, pulling him in as you do it, your body shamelessly arching off the dip of his mattress beneath you.

His hand that grips onto yours flexes tighter at the movement, pressure leaving every line of his fingertips pressed into you— Like all his molecules and matter were being fed into this one moment. 

Like it was inevitable—incontestable—the way your body was carved to be connected to his.

Lips break apart from yours imperceptibly, his gaze holding yours— Something desperate drenched in desire and worship, something unfathomable. Something more intimate than any caress of your body, a fever flickering in a faint trace of pale gold lining the edge of his iris, staining the holy blue.

Then he moves too, undeniably craving you and rolling down into your leg he’s braced over, both of you gasping like the air has thinned from the tension pulsing through the room— The tension of your bodies and their desire for more friction, lips moving around yours again like they knew nothing else. 

And when it happens again, you both do it at the same time. 

Then your name falls from his lips through a breathless and aching plea— A reverent and holy prayer that makes you both freeze, suddenly bringing you back to Earth and realizing just how far you were about to take this. 

Just how far you were both willing—wanting—to go. 

His fingers twitch against yours from the reluctance to pull apart, so you squeeze them and carefully drag your lips across his in an achingly slow comedown. You rest against his lips until he frees them— Heavy breath cooling the flesh he made hot for him. 

Your mind is whirling, reluctantly coming back to life and processing all that’s happening— Trying desperately to will yourself into opening your eyes and saying what you have to. 

When you do, he’s not looking at you anymore, just clinging like a shadow. His head hangs heavy in the wake of your neck, heat washing over you from his presence that was still slotted against you like it was made for only that purpose. 

You move first, free hand coaxing through his curls and tucking stray away locks that cascaded down his forehead so you could see more of him. His hair is still damp, only no longer from the water you bathed him in, but rather in the evidence of your intimacy collecting on him like dew on a morning field. 

His breathing against your chest slows to a more natural pace, but the cadence of his exhale is still frantic— A sharp and staccato dance across your collarbone, calling out to you. 

You’re about to say it— Break the silence and face the reality of what you both waded in. But he does it again, remarkably, reading you in places you didn’t even know you were speaking from. 

You’d start to believe mind reading was a part of his powers, but if that were true, this wouldn’t be the first time his body claimed yours. 

You wouldn’t be stopping.

When he speaks it’s broken, breathless— Barely above a whisper, voice wrecked with the ruin of what he was letting slip through his fingers. 

“We shouldn’t.” 

You know he’s right—you were thinking the same thing—but hurt still flashes through your chest like a pinched nerve— Something heavy, the pressure of what you wanted and what you couldn’t have swelling to life under the reality of his words. 

The sentence pricks across your ears like glass on sensitive skin, but you still say, “I know.” And you say it honestly.

You mean it.

It’s like he doesn’t hear you, slowly lifting his gaze to look at you. When he does, something breaks. 

It’s raw and vulnerable— It’s a look that carries an undeniable weight like lead in the depths of his eyes, wide and calling out to yours. They’re glossed over, all like the rest of him, shimmering in the afterglow of something too holy to name— To shake free of, even if you tried. 

All the confidence he once wore breaks free of him in an instant as he tries to let you down easy, all like you didn’t just agree with him. Like you weren’t on the same page already. 

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” he croaks, the pressure of his hand against your thigh easing slightly. “I do, I really do just… not like this.” 

You’re about to agree but he keeps going, shifting under your gaze and about to recoil his body off of yours like it was unwanted now— Like you weren’t still intertwined in his fingers, like you didn’t still have your leg wrapped around him, tethering him to you without a doubt. 

“N-not that there’s anything wrong with this, I-I loved this,” he stutters, face flashing somehow even hotter and making you smile softly. “I just mean, uh, I—”

“Bob,” you soothe, running your fingers through his hair still. “I know.”

He starts to pull off of you when you grab his arm. It isn’t possessive, it isn’t forceful— Just a simple, grounding touch to extend the offer for him to stay. 

If he wanted. 

And he does, relaxing slightly when he realizes the pin in your intimate dance hasn’t shattered what he held so dearly. 

That it hadn’t shattered you.

“I just don’t want my feelings to get confused.” His fingers lift from your thigh and find your face, hesitant for all of a millisecond before sweeping gently at the height of your cheekbone like his touch could explain better than his words. “I just mean that I don’t want you to think I only want you like this,” he continues, the edge of his voice cracking and showing something more vulnerable he tried to hide. “I don’t want to ruin anything by moving too fast.”

You smile, moving the grip from his arm to meet his hand on your cheek— Running your thumb over his lazily and holding him there firmly, reminding him it was where he belonged. 

“I thought I already told you that wasn’t possible?”

It’s only then that he smiles too—something soft and pure—a wobble in his brows, all tension melting to show what he wore underneath for you. The most honest parts of him that flickered with life because of you. 

And this time when he finally lifts from you, it’s not like he’s running.

It’s like he’s rising— Rising to the occasion of something more meaningful. Like he’s changing with you, holding on and never letting go, even with the fraction of space that lives between you now. 

His leg slowly slides down and out from your center— You trying to hide a hiss that slips between your teeth from a cold rush hitting you from the loss of contact.

It was just then that you realized you were only in your underwear and a thin t-shirt beneath him. All rational thought and awareness slipped from your mind the second his lips touched yours. 

But now you lay pressed into his mattress—still recovering from new parts of you just being pressed into him in more ways than one—and it makes you shiver. 

He breaks through it, slowly freeing his hand from yours to splay it against your shoulder. He helps you rise with him until your intimate positions have unraveled and you’re sitting on the edge of his bed, sitting on the edge of something more earnest— Something new, yet again.

Your ankles are still dangling around each other, thighs pressed gently like the thoughts brimming in your brain.

It’s then that he turns your chin to look at him, this time, holding you there and not retreating.

“I… I don’t regret it.” He says it like a confession, sweet and honest and something more rare than life itself. “Any of it.”

You find your way to him again, no longer scared to allow yourself to have him, your lips pressing gently across his. It’s a closed kiss, yet more open than ever before. 

When you break apart you run your fingers against his temple, damp curls dancing with your touch.

“Me too,” you say. “This was perfect.” And you mean it.

You know he means you too.

You continue, voice finally coming back to life after being suffocated into sensual silence for so long. “Do you know how hard it was to stop though?” 

He laughs in disbelief, like you just said the most absurd thing— Like you just said the unfathomable. 

“Yeah,” he huffs more to the universe than to you, “I do.” The soft laugh lacing his voice falters, his fingers still clinging to you. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to touch your body?”

You pause, a teasing smile crawling across your lips and his face flushes a feverish red once he realizes what he’s implied— Suddenly stuttering and awkward all like he wasn’t just driving you insane with the savory of his intimacy two seconds ago. 

“I-I— Fuck,” he mumbles. “I didn’t mean it like that, I mean, I, uh—I just meant—”

“You’re cute,” is all you say, voice light and sure, all worry lifting free and left abandoned to wither. 

He pauses for a moment, marinating in the compliment, eyes flickering back to life as they settle in the light glistening from yours. He ponders, sweet smile growing as he recalls delicately, 

“Just another reason you should stay.” 

You remember immediately— How could you ever forget when he said that to you? When he broke something open inside you, the starting crack that chipped down the guilt you wore like a shield. 

How could you ever forget the moment you started to realize you might really allow yourself to want him? Realize that maybe—just maybe—he could want you too?

All in that kitchen, still a heartbeat— A pulse tethered to the tangle of your souls.

You couldn’t think of anything else— Any invasive thought as to why you shouldn’t. Any nagging and unwanted reminder that you were somewhere you shouldn’t be, because that couldn’t be more wrong. 

You couldn’t think of anything else when he finally lifted from the mattress, leaving a gentle and sweeping kiss on your forehead to go turn off the bathroom light. 

You couldn’t think of anything else when he left the room and came back sheepishly with a pair of sleep shorts to fit you— The smallest gesture that threatened to drown you in its sincerity.

You couldn’t think of anything else when he let you crawl into his bed again, his body settling into place behind you and pressing a whispering kiss to the crook of your neck like a vow to never stop. 

And now, a sense of knowing blooms in the caverns of the unsaid— The quiet reckoning of something stronger than patience and care and honest truth revealing itself in the places it’s been watching all along.

You feel it pressed against his sheets with you— Desire exchanged for devotion.

When you fall asleep that night, you do it for the first time in a long time with a smile— An unmovable force pinned against your lips you didn’t dare disturb. 

You didn’t know it, but he did the same. 

And remarkably, 

The crest of his body curls around yours like a fallen star, a new sense of belonging, splitting matter and mere fragments finding a new orbit once wrapped around you. 

It’s daybreak when John Walker arrives at the tower. 

His limbs are heavy, tired, exhausted and quite honestly too worn to care about how pissed Yelena is at him. The evidence of his indifference is worn on his face— Gruff brows knit together, their natural state, his eyes hard and narrow, lids heavy with something other than the crave of sleep. His mouth, chapped and drawn into a tight line, shoulders straight and stiff, patiently waiting for the elevator to work even a little bit faster so he could get the hell out of this dirty, disgusting suit as soon as possible. 

In all honesty, he wasn’t mad at Bob. How could he be? Sometimes the rest of the team were too delicate with him— Treating him like a child when he was more than capable of spending a full 36 hours alone. Like he wasn’t a grown man. It was ridiculous— Laughable, even. 

He didn’t need the supervision, and John didn’t need to be bothered with it. 

Actually, he’d be lying if he didn’t admit he was the teeniest bit proud of Bob for sticking up for what he wants— Even if John had to swallow his pride over how he worked him like a sucker to get it.

Even if now that meant Yelena had a bug up her ass and it was directed at John who—somehow—always managed to be responsible for everything. 

A taut grumble leaves his mouth as the elevator doors whirled open and he watched his call to Bob get banished to voicemail for a third time. 

Whatever. Not his problem. He couldn’t be bothered to think about it. He couldn’t be bothered to think about anything besides a hot shower and some antiseptic, actually. 

Except, he was forced to when he walked into the residential floor, expecting to see Bob sucked into some new useless book—completely oblivious to all the chaos he was causing in the world that existed outside of him—but rather, was greeted by complete silence. 

John’s steps slowed, taking in the eerie lull of quiet washed over the Watchtower, untouched and dead to the world, bathing in stillness and the steel-colored glow of the city waking up along with it just beyond the windows. 

His eyes narrow and sweep across the floor, falling on the kitchen that looked like it was a victim of a bomb drill gone wrong. 

Dirty dishes were piled up in the sink—which was completely clean and empty before he left—and virtually every single culinary-related thing the team even owned was scattered across the counter. 

Spices, utensils, ingredients, dishes— You name it, it was there.

“Jesus, Bobby,” he mutters to himself, tone flat and unamused at the mess left behind to greet him. “Least you could’ve done was cork the damn wine.”

It’d be a lie to say a bottle of wine paired with Bob left alone didn’t make his blood rush a bit harder to his head, indifference mulling into real and genuine confusion… and begrudgingly, concern. He rolled his eyes loosely as he shoved the cork back in and stuck it in the fridge before Yelena saw it and really gave him something to chew on.

Damn, it’s like Bob was trying to screw him over.

He’s about two steps out of the kitchen—stalking off to find Bob to, one, make sure he’s okay, and two, rip him a new asshole—when he stops hard in his tracks, the grip of his combat boots squeaking against the too-shiny, obnoxiously-polished floor. 

One. Two. 

His eyes count them. Wine glasses. 

Two of them. 

They almost got lost in the mess, camouflaged so well that the stain of just nearly crimson left at the bottom of them nearly went unnoticed— Just a mouthful of evidence ratting him out. 

And right next to them, abandoned at the corner seat at the island, was your stuff. 

John knew that bag anywhere. It always brought some kind of new bullshit for the team to mull over, something to ruin their day— New paperwork, new briefings, new completely ridiculous ways Valentina had found to treat them like a multi-level marketing scam in capes and tactical gear. 

But more importantly, it always brought a stupidly bashful grin to Bob’s face whenever he’d see it. 

Because it came attached to you.

“Son of a bitch,” he mumbles in disbelief, more to the room than to himself. He stands like a fool, realization washing over him as he nosily fiddles with a folder abandoned under your bag. He shakes his head and lets a puff of air pass through his nose, a cheeky laugh bubbling at the back of his throat as he glides over to the intercom— A sly pep in his step. 

He pauses and laughs under his breath, remarkably, at just how good Bob got him. 

Then, with a teasing tone, and the tiniest lace of respect he could muster to thread through, he pushes it and says, 

“Well played, Bobby.”

The crack of John Walker’s voice through the intercom of Bob’s room rips you free and reminds you that this world wasn’t just you and him after all. 

Even if it felt like it. 

Even if it still did when he looked at you like this—like he is right now—holding you closely, eyes lusted over with something unspoken. Clear and shallow blue whispering more than his lips ever could.

You and him, still tangled together, unmoved forces drawn to each other like gravity, knowing nothing else than the peace found in the arms of each other now. 

Even if you tried, you couldn’t deny the way you always found your way to him now— Legs woven, slotted loosely together, your knee resting just above his. Your chest, now facing him as one large hand rests casually along the crest of your waist like he’s done it all his life. His elbow bent gently under the pillow to prop his head up, his hand just in your reach, haphazardly toying at the collar of your shirt and your hair. Yours lies flush against his chest, steady rhythm of his breathing making it rise and fall like the dust that danced in the air under warm morning haze. 

Together, no longer scared of what closeness might cost in the daylight. 

It woke you gently, the crest of morning sun slipping between the endless height of skyscrapers just beyond the foot of the bed, collecting the pale pink of budding morning. 

Light suspends in the air— Clear. Warming. Patient. It has filled the void of words unspoken that now lives in a realm where hope is watered with opportunity. It dances on his honeysuckle skin as he sleeps, no crinkle of worry or bite of stress carved through the lines in his forehead. It’s sweet, it’s soft— The crescendo of June spilling over his body.

He looks different like this, warm and familiar, pressed against you like a memory you haven’t quite made yet. He looks younger, softer, lips slightly parted— Maybe the most himself you’ve ever seen, and yet, all like you’ve never met him before. Like you didn’t know this version of him.

It pings in your chest—a crawl of yearning—and you realize, 

You really want to. 

You would think it was a dream if you weren’t surrounded by the reminders of you living in his space— Your suit jacket tangled with the comforter half kicked off the bed, your body wrapped in his clothes, your broken shoes, blending into the background of his room like they belonged there. 

You would think it was a dream if you didn’t watch him stir under curious fingers that traced the slope of his nose and curve of his jaw with delicate presence, coming back to life with fluttering eyelashes and soft smile lines at the privilege of being awoken by your touch— Wading in a bed with you, a serene scene rewriting one of your worst memories, knowing now when you see him like this, he’s safe. It’s the good kind of vulnerable. No longer alone. 

You would think it was a dream if you didn’t feel a shock of reality take over you when Walker’s voice cuts through the static of the intercom, the lazy lull of Bob’s heavy eyelids when he looked at you now snapping open into wide panic at the sound— Flinching at the tone, thick and sarcastic like he somehow knew more about your new relationship than you did.

Smug. Just like always.

When the room falls silent again it’s you who speaks, reaching out to gently trace an aimless pattern in Bob’s open palm that stiffened against your hair at the interruption.

“What’s he talking about?”

You ask it evenly, calmly— No accusation or annoyance, no rise in your tone or inflection in your voice. Just patient wanting, voice still glazed over with the best sleep you’ve had in months. 

Bob inhales slowly, his eyes blinking as they settle from the shock. His lips begin to tell you but it’s hard to focus on the words when they’re still swollen and flush with the memory of you wiped all over them. 

Then, they pull into a smile. It’s something knowing and bashful and maybe even a little proud, all accompanied with a hush, breathless laugh caught in the back of his throat like it was a secret cracking through the thin parting of his lips. 

“I lied,” he says, extracting a hand from your waist to rub the dawning of sleep from his face before it finds you again like an instinct. 

Your brows knit together subtly at his response, not really expecting to hear that from him at all. Not when that was your role in your dynamic, even if it were now abandoned once and for all when you vowed to give your heart to him in your sacred touch last night. 

He senses your confusion and continues before your mind can finish raking through the pre-mature, half-formed thoughts it wanted to make. 

“To Walker, I mean. To Walker,” he clarifies, eyes dipping down to watch himself brush a stray lock of hair behind your ear like it was a holy act. “I kinda maybe told him Yelena wasn’t on a mission yesterday when he was supposed to be off even though she was that way I could get him out of the tower since he thought she’d be around.” 

A smile crawls to your lips as you watch him explain, voice lazy and low and scratchy from sleep that made your skin tingle, reminding you of the way the dawning of his stubble would scratch just right whenever his face would find yours.

It was going to be really hard to focus around him now— God, you could barely keep a straight face.

“Why’d you do that,” you hum, leaning closer until your nose was almost touching his, like you couldn’t bear to be any further away from him. Like you needed to feel the words dance across your skin in order to hear them fully. 

“I, uh, I-I don’t know,” he sighs, searching for the right words, eyes gazing into yours like he’d find the answer there instead. “It’s hard to explain, it’s just... sometimes I just want a chance to, like, breathe, you know?” You nod gently, nose bumping into his at the motion which makes him grin just a fraction wider, something for only you to see. “I like having people around, sure. I don’t get lost in my own head as easily when they are. I know they mean well… but I also just want time to myself without feeling watched… or bothered.”

“I get it,” you soothe, wrapping an arm around him to pull him closer, wide and wonderful blue of his eyes becoming your only view. He looked at you like he still couldn’t believe you were beside him, like he was dreaming, just like you.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. You hesitate for a moment before hooking your leg around his with more pressure now to pull him closer, eyes dancing with a flicker of tease, your fingers tracing along his arms and saying, “You still wound up being bothered, though.”

Bashful pink floods the smooth of his skin, eyes widening and wobbly lips pulling into a gentle smile like he couldn’t help it— Like he never wanted to stop.

“No,” he whispers, steady and sure, something reminiscent of a loving-tone wrapped around every letter that curls in the air and makes your skin dance with chills. “It was the best lie I’ve ever told.”

Your heart pounds and your head spins and it feels like the grip of his hand on your waist is the only thing keeping you in this new orbit. The light flickers around his face, gentle, natural, but alive— All like it was envious of how he could burn through your shadows in ways it never could.

When he says things like that, it was like he was the one carving you, the one making you, shaping you, holding you— You, merely a vessel, made whole from every swell of him through the pulsing chambers of your soul. 

He carries the softness—the truth, the intent—of his words in every inch of his body. He holds it in his eyes, he holds it in his hands. He holds it down in his blood and bones, every word threaded together with something holy, something that runs all the way down to his marrow. 

When he says things like that, he makes you believe it’s okay to let go. 

To simply be— For him. 

So you do and confess, “I lied, too.”

His expression never falters, just scans your face like he was looking for clues in every line, every glance, every glisten of your eyes. 

“We need to start having different conversations than this,” he teases, nose just barely nudging yours just so he could hear a breathless laugh rise in the air like your heart was singing for him. 

“No, no, it’s not like that again,” you breathe. “I promise.” 

He waits for you to continue, fingers whispering along your skin like he could trace it out of you that way— Each touch, a turning page, your story, meeting the echo of epilogue. 

So you swallow whatever bubble of fear burns at the back of your throat and say, 

“Before. Last night. Outside the Watchtower.”

His brows crinkle more. Now he’s really confused. 

“When you asked me why I was looking at you...” 

The wave of words wash over him like a pulling tide, lips parting gently at its command. Then comes a breath of air that still manages to whisper, “Oh.”

“It wasn't nothing.” 

Your heart races, maybe from the new sense of honesty and beginnings that pulsed through his room, no longer bathed in soothing shadows that made it comfortable for you to bare your soul, but rather, like the light and the time that stretched forward made everything more weighted. 

More meaningful. 

“I was thinking about how perfect you are,” you confess, a silent murmur suspended in the shared sliver of space fighting for dear life to exist between your bodies. “I was thinking about how much I wanted you.” Beat. “About how easily I could… fall for you. If you’d let me.” 

You don’t say it.

You don’t want to scare him, to push him, to unravel too quickly. But you know he feels it too— A new thing unsaid, fostered by delicate touches and sweeping words, blooming gently between you in the hush of twin heartbeats. 

He doesn’t respond with words, just a delicate brush of his lips against yours, sighing into you like he remembers how to breathe only when you’re taking his breath away. When he pulls back, his eyes are still closed, face still resting on yours like you’re holding him together and he whispers against your cheek,

“I already am.”

And through steady breath, a simple exchange, through the soft riots of acquainted souls— Limerence becomes love. 

Or, perhaps,

Quiet truth revels in what has always been.

edit: thank you for 400+ notes ! it means the world to me that people are reading and liking it enough to leave kind comments telling me so. i poured my soul into this little story, so i hope you enjoyed 🤍

[shaiyasstuff]

a dance of ice and fire | zayne

synopsis : Betrothed to the Crown Prince for the sake of peace, you are seen as a weapon to be wielded, not a queen to rule. But it is not your arrogant, power-hungry fiancé you fear—it is his brother, Zayne. As alliances shift and tensions rise, one truth becomes clear: he never wanted the crown, but for you, he will take it. content : medieval!au, strategist/advisor!zayne x princess!reader, loads of eye-fucking, savage reader and zayne, political intrigue

parts | one | two | three

The war table stretched long across the chamber, its surface weighed down with silk-draped maps, shifting borders inked with precision, and the quiet hum of consequence. The scent of melted wax and parchment clung to the air, heavy with the unspoken weight of decisions yet to be made.

At the head of it all sat your betrothed.

Not the man your heart was bound to.

Not Zayne.

He stood at his younger brother’s side, arms folded loosely in front of him, the very picture of indifference.

Pft, look at him. Acting like he doesn’t want to be here.

The courtiers droned on, voices blending together in a swirl of politics, war, and of course, predictably, your marriage.

More specifically, the matter of your so-called uncontrollable fire magic.

They spoke of you as though you weren’t in the room.

“Indeed. Fire is unpredictable. Dangerous, if left unchecked,” one noble mused, his voice carrying the same tone one might use when discussing a volatile weapon rather than a person.

Not a princess. Not you.

You resisted the urge to sigh, fingers curling against the edge of the table.

“They think themselves clever, cloaking their insults in diplomacy.”

A slow burn simmered beneath your skin. You cleared your throat, feeling the warmth coil deep in your core.

A subtle glance from across the table, Zayne’s hazel-green eyes meets yours.

He gave you a look as if to say, “Calm down.”

You flicked him a sharp look in return but obeyed, cooling the heat creeping up your spine.

Your betrothed, the crown prince, leaned back in his chair, a smirk barely masking the insecurities you knew festered beneath his skin.

His tone was condescending. That smirk, arrogant.

“You forget that she is to be my wife. Under my guidance, she will serve as an asset to this kingdom.”

The words landed like a slap, an attempt to remind you of your place.

You did not react.

You refused to.

“Heh. Asset, he says?”

“Do they think I’m a tool?”

You met his gaze without flinching.

A moment stretched between you, unspoken but clear, and you watched as his smirk faltered, just slightly.

Tilting your head, you let the silence settle before finally speaking.

“A wife or an asset, Your Highness? You speak as though they are one and the same.” A slow, deliberate smirk of your own curved at the edges of your lips.

The crown prince’s eyes narrowed. “I speak of ensuring stability. It is in everyone’s best interest that your… passions are properly directed.”

You inhaled, the simmering heat rekindling beneath your ribs.

It was always the same.

These men. Weak men, had never known fire. Not truly.

They only wished to harness it, shape it into something convenient.

Something obedient.

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, a voice cut through the thick tension like a blade.

Low. Calm. Unhurried.

“You mean contained?”

The air stilled.

Zayne.

For the first time since the discussion began, he stepped forward from the sidelines, his posture casual, but his presence undeniable.

He leaned against the war table, fingers drumming idly against the polished wood, his expression unreadable.

The crown prince stiffened. “Then what would you suggest, brother?”

Zayne tilted his head, his movements slow, deliberate. “That you recognize the difference between ruling with fire and being burned by it.”

You saw it. The flicker of doubt in your betrothed’s eyes. The way his jaw clenched, frustration barely contained. “And you believe I am incapable?”

Zayne exhaled, the sound closer to an actual than a scoff.

“I believe the court is still debating whether you are capable of ruling at all.”

A murmur spread across the room, an uneasy shift in posture from those seated at the table.

Some looked away. Others suddenly found the tapestries on the walls utterly fascinating.

Zayne was not a man to waste words.

So when he spoke, even in the quietest of tones, everyone listened.

Your lips curled into the faintest smirk, hidden behind the rim of your goblet as you lifted it to your lips. “Perhaps the real discussion should not be about my power, but how little faith your court seems to have in yours.”

You could barely conceal the amusement in your voice.

A pointed silence followed.

One of the older lords cleared his throat. “That is not what we meant, Your Highness—”

“Isn’t it?” Zayne’s voice was still calm, still soft. And yet, it carried weight heavier than any decree the crown prince had ever issued.

Your betrothed’s grip on the armrest of his chair tightened. “Enough.”

You set your goblet down with a soft clink against the table, tilting your head slightly.

“On that, we agree. I tire of being spoken about as if I am not in the room.”

The words landed like a challenge, wrapping around the court like a vice. You let your gaze drift, meeting the eyes of every lord and lady present, watching as they struggled to form a response.

Beside the crown prince, Zayne smirked, just barely.

“A mistake they will not make again.”

Your betrothed was barely containing himself now. His pride wounded, his patience wearing thin. “And you speak for her now?”

Zayne shifted, crossing his arms with effortless ease. “No. She speaks for herself. You were simply… thoughtless enough to ignore her.”

Silence.

No one dared to fill it.

And there it was. The opening.

You did not hesitate.

“You assume I need guidance,” you said smoothly, your voice steady as you turned your attention back to the court.

Your fingers traced the rim of your goblet, slow and deliberate. “You speak of control as if it is something I lack.”

The room had fallen so quiet you could hear the faint crackle of the hearth.

“And yet, here I sit. Regal, composed, unmoved.”

The tension in the room was palpable, thick like smoke in the air. You could feel Zayne’s presence beside you, unwavering. No words passed between you, but it didn’t matter.

It never had.

This was how it had always been. Moving in sync without needing to speak.

“I am not a weapon for you to wield,” you continued, voice even, but edged with something unmistakable.

Authority. Power. Fire.

“I am a ruler. And if you cannot understand the difference, then perhaps you are the ones who lack control.”

Silence stretched long.

Zayne smirked, just barely, the glint in his eyes almost approving. “Well played.”

The crown prince’s glare burned with poorly hidden rage, but for the first time tonight, he had no retort.

—•

The court had been left in stunned silence, your words lingering like smoke in the air long after you and Zayne had walked away from the war table.

The heavy doors shut behind you with a dull thud, sealing the courtiers and their feigned diplomacy within.

The corridor was dimly lit, lined with towering stone pillars and torches that flickered against the cold walls.

You exhaled, pressing your fingers against your temples, the weight of the evening pressing against you.

Footsteps.

You didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

“You handled that well,” Zayne’s voice was laced with amusement, his tone as effortless as ever.

“Though, I think you nearly gave my dear brother an aneurysm.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “Pity.”

Zayne chuckled under his breath, then leaned casually against the nearest pillar, his arms crossing over his chest. He was watching you, observing you, as he always did, with that unnerving calm.

It made you shift. You knew what came next.

“You’re fuming,” he observed, though it wasn’t a question.

You sighed, letting the flames of your frustration flicker beneath your skin. “Wouldn’t you be?”

Zayne tilted his head. “I don’t let idiots bother me.”

“And I’m supposed to?” You shot him a look, eyes sharp.

His smirk was slow, almost infuriatingly so. “You’re better at playing this game than they are. You shouldn’t let their pettiness get under your skin.”

You scoffed, stepping toward him. “And you shouldn’t have had to speak for me.”

At that, his expression flickered.

“I didn’t,” Zayne said smoothly. “You did just fine on your own. I only nudged them in the right direction.”

You gave him a dry look. “Oh, of course. And your ‘nudge’ just happened to be a complete dismantling of your brother’s authority?”

Zayne shrugged. “He walked into it.”

You exhaled, rubbing a hand over your face before glancing up at him again. “It’s dangerous, Zayne.”

His smirk faded, his features turning unreadable. “It’s the truth.”

You studied him, the way the flickering torchlight cast shifting shadows over his face, making him seem even harder to read.

Zayne always had a way of slipping through cracks, of appearing indifferent while moving pieces behind the scenes. But tonight, in the way he had stepped in, the way he had so effortlessly undermined his brother in front of the court, it felt different.

It felt like he wasn’t just playing a game anymore.

“…You enjoyed that,” you realized, narrowing your eyes.

His expression didn’t shift. “What are you implying?”

You took another step forward, voice quieter now. “That you aren’t as disinterested as you pretend to be.”

Something in his gaze flickered. “What I am,” he said, “is someone who knows when to speak.”

You held his gaze.

“And when to stay silent?”

A beat. Then, slow and deliberate, “Yes.”

A shiver ran through you, though you weren’t sure why.

Maybe it was the way his voice dipped, the way he looked at you like he was trying to see something beneath the surface.

You swallowed, turning away slightly. “You’ll make an enemy of him, you know.”

Zayne exhaled through his nose. “He was already my enemy. He just didn’t know it yet.”

That should have unsettled you. Should have made you wary.

But it didn’t.

Because the way he said it, the quiet ease of it, the certainty made it sound like a promise.

And that, perhaps, was what made it more dangerous.

—•

The scent of blooming nightshade lingered in the air, blending with the crisp bite of the evening breeze.

The palace gardens were quiet at this hour, the sky painted in the deep purples and golds of the dying sun.

This had always been your place.

Yours and Zayne’s.

Hidden away behind the hedge-lined paths, far from the ever-watchful eyes of courtiers and expectations, you sat on the low stone wall that framed the fountain, your bare fingers trailing over the cool marble.

He stood before you, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, the other tucked loosely into his belt. Silent, as always. Watching.

“You’re brooding again,” you teased, kicking your foot out lightly, the tip of your slipper grazing his knee.

Zayne raised a brow. “And you’re distracting me.”

“Good. You could use a distraction.”

His lips curled slightly, but he said nothing.

Instead, he moved closer, standing between your knees, his presence a quiet weight in the space around you.

The air changed, charged with something neither of you dared name.

Your throat felt tight. “You’re leaving soon.”

Zayne sighed, glancing away. “You know I have to.”

You swallowed. You knew it.

Of course you did.

His duties and obligations would always call him elsewhere.

That was the nature of his existence, the shadow to his brother’s gilded throne.

But knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.

“I hate this.” The words left you before you could stop them. “I hate that you always go, and I never know when you’ll return.”

His gaze snapped back to you, sharper now. “And you think I enjoy it?”

You looked down, fingers curling against the stone. The truth sat heavy on your tongue, unwilling to be spoken aloud.

Zayne exhaled, then very softly, carefully, he reached for you.

His fingers brushed against your wrist first, hesitant, as if giving you a chance to pull away.

When you didn’t, he traced his touch upward, gliding over your forearm, curling around your hand.

A shiver ran down your spine, though it had nothing to do with the cold.

“I always come back to you,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against your knuckles. “You know that.”

You should have pulled away. Should have scolded him for making promises he had no right to make.

Instead, you curled your fingers into his, holding him there.

“I know,” you whispered. “That’s the problem.”

His grip tightened.

The space between you narrowed, the warmth of his breath brushing your cheek, but neither of you moved further.

Because this was what it had always been.

A breath away.

A step too close.

A love neither of you could afford.

And yet, when he finally let go, his touch lingered like embers beneath your skin, one you knew would never fade.

But that was in the past, a past that no longer existed.

Buried underneath so-called duties and obligations, and your betrothal to his brother.

And yet, standing there in the dim corridor, bathed in the flickering glow of torches, you could still feel it.

The past.

Him.

Zayne.

The memory of his touch ghosted over your skin, as if time itself refused to let you forget.

The walls around you were cold, suffocating in their silence, but the air between you?

Charged.

Stifling.

Dangerous.

“You’re thinking about it again.”

His voice was smooth, quiet, but it curled around you like smoke, and you could not escape.

You swallowed hard before turning to him. “And what exactly am I thinking about?”

He leaned against the archway, arms crossed, his posture lazy, but his gaze?

Unyielding. Searching.

His lips barely curved. “Us.”

Your stomach twisted.

“There is no ‘us’,” you said, keeping your voice even.

Zayne didn’t blink. “And whose fault is that?”

Your breath hitched before you forced out an easy shrug. “Fate’s, I suppose.”

A sharp exhale. “Ah, yes. Blame fate. Much easier than blaming yourself.”

His words struck something deep, something raw, and you hated how effortlessly he could do that.

How he could still see through you, past the composure, past the armor you had so carefully crafted.

Your jaw tightened. “You walked away just as much as I did.”

He pushed off the wall then, his steps slow but certain, closing the space between you too quickly, too easily.

“No,” he murmured, voice impossibly low. “I let you walk away. There’s a difference.”

The air changed.

Your pulse pounded, your breathing shallow as he came closer, his warmth wrapping around you even before his body did. The heat of him was too much, too familiar, too tempting.

You should have stepped back.

Should have stopped him.

But you didn’t.

Because this was Zayne.

The man who had once held your hand beneath the stars, who had whispered your name in the dark, who had been everything before duty and responsibilities had torn it all apart.

He stood before you now, the space between you nonexistent, his voice barely a breath away.

“Say it like you mean it.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

Because how could you?

How could you lie when his gaze was burning through you, when his scent, his heat, his very presence was pulling you under like a tide you had spent years trying to resist?

His fingers brushed your wrist like a whisper of a touch, but it sent fire racing beneath your skin. You shivered, your breath unsteady, and his eyes darkened at the sight of it.

“Say it,” he murmured again, softer this time, but no less demanding.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

Say it like you mean it.

Say it like it doesn’t keep you up at night.

Say it like your body doesn’t still crave him in ways it shouldn’t.

Say it like it wasn’t the worst mistake of your life.

You opened your mouth, searching for words, for anything, but Zayne wasn’t patient.

His fingers lifted, grazing along your jaw, his touch soft and gentle, like he was daring you to pull away.

You didn’t.

Because god, you still wanted him.

Zayne’s fingers barely touched your skin, but it was enough.

Enough to set fire to the air between you.

Enough to make your breath catch, your pulse erratic.

His thumb ghosted over the curve of your jaw, his touch deliberate.

Too light to be possessive, too heavy to be innocent.

You should have pulled away.

Should have reminded him of the ring on your finger, of the man waiting beyond these walls.

But when you exhaled, it wasn’t in protest.

It was in surrender.

His eyes flickered to your lips, just for a second.

A heartbeat, a breath, a mistake waiting to happen.

He was close now. Too close.

You could feel the warmth of him, the steady rhythm of his breath mingling with yours, the weight of his presence.

His cold ice pressing against every inch of restraint you had left.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet. Dangerous.

“Say it, and I walk away.”

Your fingers curled at your sides. “Zayne—”

“Say it, and this stops.” His forehead nearly brushed yours, his words laced with something unspoken, something almost desperate.

You swallowed, but you didn’t say it.

His fingers slid down, grazing the column of your throat, lingering just below your pulse like a silent challenge, a dare.

Your heart pounded against his touch.

His breath shuddered.

“…that’s what I thought.”

And then ever so slowly, so torturously, he pulled away.

Cold air rushed between you, but the damage was already done.

You were burning, and it was not because of your magic.

—•

The next morning.

The war table, its silk-draped maps spread wide, was marked with careful ink strokes, shifting borders that could just as easily shift again with the wrong decision.

You sat poised, your hands resting lightly against the table’s surface, composed yet unyielding.

Across from you, a noble, Lord Callas straightened in his chair, his gaze sharp, his mouth already forming another shortsighted argument.

Zayne stood near the edge of the room, arms folded, unreadable.

But you felt his presence lingering as if beside you.

Watching.

Waiting.

Just as he always did.

Callas exhaled sharply. “Your Highness, we must establish dominance.”

You tilted your head slightly, fingers grazing the edge of the map.

“Dominance?” Your voice was smooth, measured.

“Tell me, what kind of dominance do you imagine? One built on empty threats? On brute force?”

Callas narrowed his eyes. “A display of strength is necessary.”

A soft hum left your lips as you tapped a finger against the capital city inked onto the map.

“A display of strength, you say.” A pause. Then, you lifted your gaze. “And when has brute force ever earned peace?”

The tension crackled.

Besides the crown prince, Zayne shifted slightly, just enough that his attention became unmistakable.

Callas scoffed, his fingers curling against the table’s edge. “My father served in—”

You leaned forward slightly, voice turning smooth, precise.

“Your father.”

His jaw twitched.

“What about you, Lord Callas ?” Your hand moved across the map, fingertips gliding over contested borders, lingering over cities on the brink of war.

“Have you ever stood on the battlefield?”

Callas hesitated.

Your eyes locked onto his.

“Have you ever seen men bleed for thoughtless orders?”

A flicker of uncertainty passed over his face.

Your voice lowered.

“Have you watched as cities burn under the weight of a war that could have been avoided?”

Silence.

A moment too long. A pause too telling.

And in that hesitation, you struck.

“No?” You leaned back, your fingers leaving the map as your hands folded in your lap.

“Then I suggest you reconsider before you advise me on matters you do not understand.”

The room stilled.

Callas’ face darkened, but his mouth remained shut.

He wouldn’t dare argue.

Across the table, Zayne smirked.

Just barely.

But enough.

Silence settled over the chamber, heavy and sharp, the weight of your words pressing against the gathered nobles like a blade to the throat.

Lord Callas sat rigid in his chair, his lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line.

He did not speak.

Because he knew he couldn’t.

But, of course, your betrothed would not allow the silence to linger.

The crown prince leaned forward slightly, his fingers tapping against the armrest of his chair in slow, deliberate movements.

His expression remained composed, but you could see it.

The flicker of irritation in his gaze

The faint tightening of his jaw.

“Lord Callas speaks from experience, Princess.” His voice was smooth, but there was an edge to it, cold and thin like a knife’s point.

“He has studied warfare extensively, as have many on this council. It would be unwise to dismiss their counsel so easily.”

You inhaled slowly, fingers grazing the edge of the map before you, tracing the ink-stained borders of a world they sought to carve into something that suited their desires.

“Studied warfare?” you echoed, tilting your head.

And then, with a slow blink, you lifted your gaze, your voice turning soft, thoughtful—dangerous.

“Tell me, Your Highness, has Lord Callas ever read about the sound a man makes when his lungs freeze from the inside out?”

Callas stiffened.

You did not stop.

“Or perhaps he studied the way a body turns brittle in the cold, the way flesh cracks apart like shattered glass when left in the dead of winter?”

The temperature in the room seemed to shift.

It wasn’t real, at least not yet, but the weight of your words made the air feel thinner, evident in the firelight flickering against the frost creeping at the edges of the war table.

“There is a difference,” you continued, voice cooling like a blade dipped in ice, “between knowing war and surviving it.”

The crown prince’s fingers stilled against the wood.

His smirk, polished and practiced, barely flickered.

But you saw the tension settle into his frame.

“You forget your place, Princess.”

You tilted your chin slightly, meeting his stare without hesitation.

“No, Your Highness.” A slow smirk curved your lips, one that did not reach your eyes. “I believe you forget mine.”

A sharp inhale, his eyes narrowed.

And the tension stretched.

And then Zayne spoke.

“Careful, brother.”

The words were low, unhurried, amused.

He hadn’t moved from his position, still leaning against the table’s edge, arms crossed, posture effortless.

But there was something different now.

There was a quiet shift in the air, a subtle weight settling across the chamber.

Zayne tilted his head slightly, his smirk lazy, his words laced with mock concern.

“Wouldn’t want to raise your voice at your future wife.”

A beat.

“It would be… unseemly.”

The jab landed clean.

A few courtiers glanced away, shifting in their seats while some others barely concealed their intrigue.

The crown prince’s patience snapped like ice underfoot.

“Enough.”

Zayne arched a brow.

“Oh?” He exhaled, feigning a look, thoughtful.

“Have I offended you? That wasn’t my intention.”

A pause.

“Not entirely, anyway.”

The crown prince stood.

And Zayne, never one to be outdone, stood his ground.

The shift was immediate.

The air turned sharp, the warmth of the torches dimming slightly, the faintest hint of frost licking at the stone beneath their feet.

A subtle show of power.

Silent, but undeniable.

A challenge.

The room stilled as the tension coiled, as cold crept along the edges of the chamber, biting at the air between them.

Zayne’s smirk remained, but his breath misted slightly in the cooling air.

The crown prince’s fingers curled against the wood of the chair, frost cracking along its edges.

The courtiers felt it.

You could see it in the way they hesitated, in the way they darted quick, careful glances between the two brothers, one, the heir to the throne and the other who had no interest in it.

But of course, power did not care for intentions.

Zayne’s voice was softer than it should have been, given the weight behind it.

“Careful, brother.”

A quiet breath.

The frost spread an inch further.

And the crown prince said nothing.

Not yet.

You could feel the frost creeping along the war table, spreading in thin, jagged lines across the polished wood.

The torches flickered, their flames dimming under the weight of the cold pressing into the chamber.

The air was sharp, biting, charged with a tension that no one dared to break.

The prince sat rigid, fingers curled around the armrest of his chair, ice cracking under his grip.

Across from him, Zayne stood with effortless ease, hands resting against the table, expression unreadable.

The cold between them wasn’t just power, it was a warning.

No one in the room moved.

The courtiers watched carefully, caught between fear and fascination, knowing full well what a battle between brothers could mean.

You, however, were already tired of it.

Fingers tapping against your goblet, you let out a slow breath.

“Tell me, are we really going to start a blizzard indoors?”

The frost stopped.

The crown prince’s eyes flicked toward you, irritation flickering behind them.

Across the table, Zayne’s smirk deepened.

“I’d win.”

The prince’s jaw tightened. “Would you?”

The torches wavered and the temperature dropped another degree.

Zayne leaned forward slightly, ice blooming beneath his fingertips, creeping just a little closer to his brother’s.

“Do you really want to find out?”

The courtiers stiffened.

“That’s enough, boys.”

With a calm breath, you placed your palm against the war table, letting your fingers trail through the frost.

The ice melted beneath your touch, fading into nothing.

The shift was immediate.

Not an attack. Not a challenge.

A reminder.

The frost recoiled.

The tension however, did not.

Your gaze slid between them, unimpressed.

“Are we done?”

Silence stretched, heavy and unyielding, before the prince finally exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to relax.

The ice at his hands faded, his expression smoothing back into his normal, unfazed look.

Zayne watched him for a moment longer before leaning back, smirk still present, but the storm in his eyes dimming.

He met your stare briefly, as if to say he understood exactly what you had done.

You pick up your goblet, fingers curling around the metal that was still warm from your touch.

“If the theatrics are over, perhaps we can get back to actual politics.”

Zayne chuckled under his breath.

The prince said nothing, but the irritation in his gaze was clear.

The courtiers hesitated before shifting back into quiet discussion, the meeting resuming as if nothing had happened.

But as Zayne tilted his head slightly, watching you with quiet amusement, you knew the fight wasn’t over.

It had only just begun.

—•

The corridors of the palace were empty, save for the two of you. The torches lining the stone walls flickered weakly, casting shifting shadows against the cold marble floors.

The weight of the meeting still clung to the air, lingering like frost long after the ice had faded from the war table.

You walked beside Zayne in silence, steps slow, measured.

You could still feel the tension from earlier, the quiet storm between him and his brother, the unspoken challenge.

But, this felt different.

This wasn’t the casual, detached Zayne who always lingered at the edges of power, just close enough to influence, but never enough to claim it.

No.

This Zayne felt closer. Sharper. Decisive.

“You handled them well,” he said eventually, voice smooth, but lacking its usual amusement.

You glanced at him, arching a brow. “You mean I handled you well.”

That earned you a flicker of something familiar.

A smirk, faint and fleeting. “If that helps you sleep at night.”

You hummed, tilting your head slightly. “You enjoyed that too much.”

Zayne’s smirk didn’t last.

Instead, he slowed, gaze drifting toward the high windows where moonlight stretched across the stone floor.

“He makes it easy.”

He.

You didn’t need to ask who.

The crown prince. His younger brother. The man you were meant to marry.

The man Zayne had once let rule without challenge.

But something had changed. You could feel it.

His fingers twitched at his sides, barely noticeable, but enough for you to see the tension in him.

A tension that hadn’t been there before.

You studied him carefully. “You never wanted the throne.”

His jaw shifted slightly. A slow exhale. “No.”

But there was something else in his voice now. Something new.

“And now?”

Zayne didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he leaned against one of the columns, arms folding across his chest, eyes flickering toward the darkened hallway beyond.

“Now, things are different.”

Your breath caught, just slightly.

“Because of him?”

A humorless chuckle.

“Because of you.”

You stopped in your tracks.

Zayne tilted his head, gaze settling on you fully now.

Nog lazy, not indifferent, but weighted with intent.

“I spent my whole life letting him have it,” he murmured.

“Because I knew what that crown did to people. What power did.”

His fingers tapped absently against his arm, slow, deliberate.

“You take the throne, and suddenly you don’t own yourself anymore. Every move, every word, every alliance, every sacrifice—”

His voice dipped lower. “You don’t rule it. It rules you.”

His eyes darkened. “And I never wanted to belong to it.”

You swallowed. “But now you do?”

Zayne didn’t move, didn’t break your gaze.

But the shift in him was undeniable.

He wasn’t just watching the game anymore.

He was stepping into it.

“Now, the prize is worth it.”

He didn’t say your name.

He didn’t have to.

Because you both knew exactly what he meant.

The air between you was cold, but the tension was sharper.

The corridor stretched long and empty, the torches casting flickering shadows against the stone.

But you weren’t looking at the walls, or the flames.

You were looking at him.

At the weight of his words still hanging between you.

“Now, the prize is worth it.”

Your expression didn’t change, but something in your chest twisted.

Heat curled under your skin, not from anger, but from something close to disappointment.

You stepped forward, closing the space between you, forcing his full attention.

“A prize?” Your voice was soft, feeling offended.

Zayne didn’t move, his expression unreadable, but you caught it.

The flicker of tension, the way he had expected this.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Isn’t it?” You didn’t let him look away.

“You talk about power like it’s a game. Like the throne is a war you’ve suddenly decided is worth fighting because of me.”

His jaw tensed. “That’s not—”

“I am not a prize.” Your voice was steady, unwavering. “Not a throne to be claimed. Not a crown to be won.”

His eyes darkened, but he stayed silent.

“I have spent my life being bartered, measured, weighed for my worth. I won’t let you do the same.”

Zayne’s gaze held yours, quiet but relentless.

“You think I don’t know that?” His voice was low, but there was something behind it, something deeper than frustration.

You swallowed, but didn’t speak.

“You are not a prize, Princess.” His words were deliberate, calm, unshaken. “But you are worth fighting for.”

The torches crackled in the silence. His expression didn’t soften, but the intensity in his gaze was unmistakable.

“And you deserve someone who will.”

Zayne never wasted words.

That is why they are impossible to ignore.

You know you should have walked away.

Left him standing there in the dim corridor, let his words fade into the silence.

But you didn’t.

Zayne watched you, waiting.

His words hung between you, firm and unshaken. He wasn’t taking them back.

He wasn’t giving you an easy way out.

“And if I don’t want to be fought over at all?” Your voice was quieter now, controlled, but not weak.

His head tilted slightly. “Then I’ll stop.”

The words came too easily.

They should have reassured you, should have given you the control you wanted.

But something about the way he said them, the way his gaze held steady, the way his body remained perfectly still, made you wonder if he was lying.

Or worse, if he was telling the truth.

If you told him to stop, he would.

But that didn’t mean he would ever truly let you go.

You exhaled, fingers curling at your sides. “You’re making this more complicated than it needs to be.”

Zayne let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “I don’t care about simplicity.”

Your lips parted, ready to argue, but before you could speak, he moved.

Not closer, not away, just a shift of weight, a breath of space given and taken in the same moment.

Your breath caught.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

His gaze flicked down to your hands, still clenched at your sides.

His fingers twitched at his own, like he might reach out. Like he had the right to.

He didn’t.

But it would be so easy.

Your throat tightened. “You don’t get to do this.”

“Do what?” His voice was smooth, maddeningly calm. “Tell the truth?”

You inhaled sharply. “Act like this is a choice.”

His smirk faded slightly. “It’s always been a choice. The only difference is I’ve finally made mine.”

Your stomach twisted. “Zayne—”

“No.” His voice was steady, firmer than before. “You don’t get to tell me I should have wanted the throne all these years, then be angry when I finally decide to take it.”

Your pulse pounded against your ribs. “You’re only doing this because of me.”

Zayne’s gaze darkened. “Yes.”

The admission was too quick. No hesitation.

Your fingers curled. “That’s not how this works.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

“Then tell me…how does it work?”

You weren’t sure who moved first.

But suddenly, the space between you disappeared, stolen in an instant.

The cold of the corridor pressed in, but his body was warm.

Too close, too much, too familiar.

Zayne’s breath brushed against your skin.

His voice was low, controlled, edged with something raw.

“If you think I’ll stand by while you’re bound to another man, a man who wants to use you as a bargaining chip, then you never knew me at all.”

Your throat tightened.

Your hands shook.

But still, you didn’t move away.

The space between you disappeared.

Not by hesitation. Not by accident.

By choice.

Zayne’s breath was warm against your skin, his body close enough that you could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest.

The flickering torchlight caught the sharp angles of his face, the shadowed curve of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes that had been building for way too long.

Your pulse pounded.

Every rational thought screamed for distance, for restraint, for control.

But control had been slipping since the moment he stepped into this fight.

Since the moment he chose you.

His hand lifted, hovering near your waist, fingers twitching as if caught between restraint and inevitability.

You felt the hesitation, the last fragile thread of self-control fraying at the edges.

You could stop this.

You should.

But you didn’t.

Your fingers curled into the front of his tunic, just barely, just enough that he felt it.

The moment stretched between you, heavy and breathless, before he finally moved.

His lips crashed into yours, fierce and unrelenting, years of tension snapping in an instant.

There was nothing hesitant about the way he kissed you, nothing careful in the way his hands could finally grip your waist, pulling you against him, pressing you into the cold stone wall as if he had been holding back for too long and had finally given in.

Heat surged under your skin, your body igniting in a way that had nothing to do with magic.

You gasped against his mouth, fingers tangling in his hair, gripping tighter when his teeth scraped against your lower lip.

Zayne exhaled sharply, breaking the kiss just long enough to rest his forehead against yours.

His breath was ragged, his grip firm.

Like he was afraid to let go.

“Say it,” he murmured.

Your fingers curled into his sleeves, voice barely steady.

“Say what?”

His lips brushed yours again, teasing, testing the last remnants of your resolve. “That you don’t want this.”

“That you don’t want me.”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Because it would be a lie.

And you both knew it.

His smirk returned, softer this time, his thumb tracing slow circles along your hip. “That’s what I thought.”

You didn’t stop him when he kissed you again.

Because, you wanted this.

[starsofang]

CALL OF THE SEA / PART SEVENTEEN

pirate poly!141 x f!reader tw: NSFW, MDNI, violence, degrading, mentions of death/blood, dove is called some nasty words, please heed warnings for this chapter masterlist a/n: girlbossed a little too hard and finished the chapter a day early. posting this after my 14 hour shift with nothing but hope and dreams. this chapter is a long one, i think the longest one so far, so have fun :p

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

Up close, Graves was even more sinister than imagined. It was as if you were living in your own nightmare come to life, with beady eyes crinkling back at you as a curled smile stretched over his face. Adorned in all black from head to toe, with the only spouts of color being the mess of dark blonde atop his head, nearly covered by the old, leather pirate hat.

His skin was deathly pale, a feat you knew to be from his reaping sins. To take a life in return for a piece of his—a soul bind.

If he weren’t such a sick man, you’d dare say he’d been handsome, if it weren’t for the look of rotting to the core. His personality did no justice, something cocky and mighty. He knew exactly how to play his game, and he played it well.

In your turmoil, you dared to wonder if all of this was indeed another nightmare. Perhaps you were still asleep, stuck in an endless loop until Soap or Gaz awoke you as they always did; but with a sharp pinch on your thigh beneath the thin covers of Price’s bedspread, the world remained at ease.

This one wouldn’t be easy to get out of.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Graves mused, smile so wide you worried the corners would crack and bleed. You wished you could see him writhe like a helpless roach beneath your shoe. “Why the long face?”

“How—” You swallowed, fisting the sheets. “How are you here?”

Graves stood straight, glancing around the room. He pretended to ponder, holding his arms up to shrug. “I let myself in.”

Your eyes followed his every move as he slowly stepped throughout Price’s quarters, taking it in. You sat as still as a statue, completely frozen in place. The sound of his heavy boots along the wood floors rang alarm bells.

The air in the room fell icy cold, rising goosebumps on your skin. There was that frigid chill that felt as if you’d just stepped into a slaughterhouse, a hint of decay tickling your nostrils.

This was the feel of death you’d always felt, lingering behind you, watching. He’d always been there, even if only in your mind.

“Where is the Captain?” you asked, attempting to make your voice firm. Show no weakness—it was the very thing you’d been taught since your first day on the ship. You hoped Price would be proud that you remembered.

Graves’ eyebrows raised and while his smile remained, it only seemed to glimmer with excitement when the question was asked, as if you asked a dog if he wanted a bone.

“He truly has you on a leash,” he snickered, finding something amusing in all of it. “You’re like their little bitch, aren’t you?”

Your blood ran hot at the demeaning nature his words brought, but you knew better. They were for show, something to make him appear taller. If you fell for it, you’d only be digging a deeper grave for yourself.

“No,” you muttered, eyes narrowing. “I am a pirate, just as them.”

Graves barked out a laugh, one that made your ears bleed. It was meant to deplete your confidence, poisoned with arrogance.

“Is that right?” he asked with a shit-eating grin. “A pirate, are you?”

Graves stalked towards you, agonizingly slow, stopping when his knees bumped the side of the cot. He leaned down so his face was level with yours, empty eyes peering deep within your soul. His breath reeked of death and despair, nearly knocking you unconscious.

“I’d like to test that.”

His icy hand wrapped around your bicep, hauling you out of the bed. With a yelp, you stumbled to your feet, bare of their shoes. The world beneath your soles felt foreign now, ever since Soap had given you your gift and you’d never take them off unless you were falling asleep.

The grip was tight, causing your heartbeat to thump through your muscles angrily. Your skin under his hand paled from the sheer force.

Graves tugged you along as you fought to resist him, squirming and attempting to plant your feet to the floor. Without the help of your shoes compared to his unruly strength, your fight was deemed useless. He continued dragging you, so much so you could feel little splinters begin to dig into your soles and invoke dull pangs of pain.

Fear filled your body from head to toe, your heart pounding against your rib cage. A lump filled your throat, coated with anxiety. Your mind filled with millions of thoughts, smothering any confidence you previously had and replacing it with the idea of death.

Was this where all would end? Your crew was one of the most feared among the seas, a healthy bounty placed over their heads. But there would always be one person above, and that person was Graves.

Every kick, bump, resist was fruitless as Graves hauled you to the door. What lay beyond it terrified you, images of your men dead flashing before your eyes.

Coated in their own bloodbaths, bodies laid limp amongst the floors of their own homes, sprawled out as if they meant nothing. Oh, you couldn’t bear it. You’d have to go, too—you’d have nothing left.

When Graves opened the door, you weren’t sure if the sight was any better.

It was dark, the moon only a sliver in the sky, granting no room for light. A single lantern was all that was left to cast orange shadows, its fire flickering in a dance for a way out.

Your crew was lined shoulder to shoulder, on their knees in a submissive front, hands bound with thick rope behind their backs. Graves’ men, his Shadows, held the barrel of their guns to each of their heads.

Though the sight was an improvement from what you initially prepared yourself for, it was far from good. It was bordering those images, a glimpse into what could be a massacre.

The moment you were out of Price’s quarters, Graves let go of you, shoving you. You lost your balance, tumbling to your side, your head slamming into the deck. Pain blossomed under your skull and you hissed in pain.

“Dove?” you heard one of them call out. Your head spun, making it hard to figure out who it was.

A heavy blow landed on your side where you lay, and you wheezed, Graves’ boot unexpected. It kept you in place, applying pressure to guarantee you wouldn’t try to flee and fight back.

“Get the fuck off of her,” Price growled. You could recognize it, filled with a burning venom that dared to kill anyone that was in its crossfire. “This has nothin’ to do with her.”

“It’s all to do with her,” Graves spat, digging the toe of his boot into your rib cage. His previous cockiness had melted away, revealing his boiling rage. “Isn’t that right, dove?”

Graves lifted his boot, granting you a brief moment of relief before it slammed back down. It knocked the air right out of your lungs, leaving you croaking out a plea to stop.

You coiled in on yourself, curling into a ball in attempts to lessen the damage. It did nothing to stop his boot from weighing on your side. The pain felt like nothing you’d experienced before, and you were sure you felt a bone crunch.

“Dove,” Gaz called out, frantic. He tried leaning forward to get a glimpse of your face, to search for your eyes, but the barrel of the gun only pressed deeper into the back of his skull in warning. “Dove, it’s okay. Just listen to my voice, alright? I’m right here.”

Your eyes were widened with fear, chest heaving to catch the breaths that were stolen from you. You couldn’t move, frozen in place, even as Gaz called out for you with the threat of a bullet through his head.

“I don’t know what you’re plannin’, Graves,” Price snarled, “but this is between us.”

Graves laughed diabolically, throwing his head back. It only made everything much more tense.

“Isn’t she apart of you now?” Graves humored, cocking his head. His fingers drummed along the gun in its holster on his hip. “If I’m not mistaken, she’s a pirate. I believe those were your words, Price.”

The realization that Graves knew had you going cold. The closer he got, the stronger the connection became.

“What the hell is it ye want?” Soap asked through gritted teeth. His eyes were darting back and forth between your crumpled form and Graves. “S’always somethin’ with ye, aye?”

Graves eyed Soap, a glint in his gaze. There was something unfamiliar in it, as if he held a personal grudge towards the man in question.

“There is something I want,” Graves agreed, letting out a dramatic sigh. He tapped at the gun once again, staring up at the sky in thought. “I think dove here knows exactly what that is.”

Graves dug his boot once again, peering down at you as if you were scum. You couldn’t stop the small whimper from the agony drumming in your side.

“Go on, dove,” Graves taunted, grinning. “Tell them.”

“I don’t know,” you panted. You were unfocused, eyes staring at the old floor from where your head rested.

You tried recalling what it is he could want, anything at all, but nothing was becoming clear. You scavenged through the deepest parts of your brain for even a simple clue, but the blows had made you dazed.

“I swear, I’ll fuckin’ kill you—”

“You do know,” Graves repeated, cutting off the Captain. His tone grew annoyed. “Think real hard, dove.”

“I don’t know,” you cried, shoulders beginning to shake. All the built up confidence to fight back had vanished into thin air. Now, you felt like a scared little girl, begging for mercy.

Graves’ boot lifted, then returned back down. A string of curses were thrown his way from your crew, who were thrashing in the binds, unable to aid you under the lineup of guns to their heads.

You felt wetness cascade down your cheeks, dampening your skin and falling down to the side of your head from the angle you laid. It was then you realized you were crying, embarrassingly so.

Only mere hours ago you were deemed a pirate, and yet at the start of war, you fell apart like a damsel.

“The telescope,” Ghost said, voice low. It was the first he’d spoken, only sitting there silently as you were beaten down. His head hung low, as if ashamed, though the darkness in his eyes was enough to cast doom across entire continents. “He’s talkin’ about the telescope.”

You blinked away the tears, eyes burning. Realization dawned on you the moment Ghost spoke. Through your huddled position, you tried to tilt your chin down to meet his eye. As if thinking the same thing, he lifted his head, connecting your gazes. You could see that familiar apology pooling out of him, expressing everything he needed to say.

Washed away to land and shore,

shall be the looking glass for ocean eyes.

The telescope you found for Gaz was an innocent gesture. The sight of it called out to you, as if meant to be owned by you. If you would’ve known it was Graves it was calling, you would’ve thrown it into the deep sea so it could never be found again.

“So he speaks,” Graves mused sarcastically.

Ghost broke contact first, eyes boring into Graves. He looked murderous, plotting his own bloodbath with just a simple look. The dim light of the single lantern did nothing to lessen the ominous glow, only highlighting it.

“Don’t fuckin’ talk to him,” Soap hissed, scowling. The look of pure disgust was such a contrast to his normal, boyish grins.

Graves paid no mind to him, stuck in a contest with Ghost. The two of them had a dark force swirling between them, one that even outside made the air heavy and suffocating.

“A point for your bravery, Ghost,” Graves sighed dramatically, breaking his stare. He looked between each and every man, sparing you no glance while his boot remained in place. “My telescope. Give it to me, and I’ll let her go.”

You instantly shifted your eyes to look at Gaz, who seemed to be struggling with a decision. You knew why he was having a hard time—you gifted the telescope to him, unknowing of who it truly belonged to. It was something he treasured, something he didn’t want to let go of.

“I have it,” Gaz said lowly, head bowing. “It’s in my quarters. I’ll take you to it.”

Graves sucked his teeth, feigning pity. He shook his head, hand fully resting on the gun at his hip. “Not going to work on me, Gaz. I’m quite capable of getting it myself. You sit tight, aye?”

Gaz stiffened, expression growing grim. Nevertheless, he said nothing, deciding silence was the best contender for a fight bound to end in loss.

Graves gestured for the man behind Price to fetch the telescope from Gaz and Soap’s shared quarters. Price didn’t tear his eyes away from Graves once, even as the Devil of the Seas took out his own gun and pointed it right at Price’s forehead.

He pressed the barrel of the gun into Price’s forehead, indenting the skin. It was a snug fit, a perfect shot for Graves if he wished to end things the easy way.

Graves didn’t like it easy. He liked it fun.

“Scared we’ve caught on to your trail, aye?” Price bluffed, voice gravelly and malicious. “That’s why you came out here like a fuckin’ mutt, hidin’ in the storm until you found the right time to ambush us?”

“You have your dove to blame,” Graves replied nonchalantly, rubbing his boot back and forth along your side. The pressure had you sucking air through your teeth, eyes clenching shut. “She might be your new toy, but she’s just as much a mutt as I am.”

“You shut your fuckin’ mouth,” Price snarled, body shaking with feverish rage. If he could pounce on Graves, you knew he would.

“Looks like you finally grew some balls, Captain,” Graves snickered, pulling back the hammer of the gun. It resounded a loud click, which translated to a warning bell in Price’s favor. “Such anger. That anger has never worked for you, Price. It didn’t work for Ghost—it won’t work for her.”

Price let out an animalistic growl, his lips pulling back in a sneer. You’d seen the Captain angry, and you’d seen him under the guise of a scary, ominous pirate who would kill any innocent bystander that stood in his way.

This was entirely different. This was personal. A build up. This was a storm that had been coming for ages, and you were only toeing the edges.

The Shadow returned, holding the telescope you’d gifted Gaz. It shimmered in the lantern’s glow, glinting its gold details and showing it off. It felt like a goodbye.

“I’d be real careful from now on, Graves,” Price warned. It was the first you ever heard him speak so menacingly, like the demon inside of him was erupting with a stream of hot lava filled with nothing but spewing hatred. “When I find you, I’ll fuckin’ kill you myself. String you up on my sails until you’re dry, toss you into the ocean to the sharks. I’ll take pleasure in watchin’ you burn until there’s nothin’ left but ash and dust.”

Graves took the telescope from his Shadow’s hand, inspecting it. The words Price spoke clearly struck a nerve, for the arrogant grin had vanished, replaced with a gloomy, threatened expression.

“Hm,” Graves huffed, letting his gun fall and placing it back in its holster. He signaled for his men to follow suit, and you watched as all weapons dropped. “I await the day that happens, Captain. Until then, keep your mutt on a leash, aye?”

Graves made no effort to untie the crew, leaving them bound as he gathered his men to walk the plank connecting the two ship. A long, woden plank that creaked under the weight, one od wish you could kick from its balance and send them flying into the dark sea.

The moment was brutally silent as they left. Nobody moved a muscle until Graves was on his ship, the plank pulled from its placement, and the skull flag waved goodbye as they set sail into the pit of the night.

Time stood still, but the second Graves and his crew were hidden in the waves, all hell broke loose. Price and Gaz worked together to unbind each other with their backs to one another, frantic to be released. Ghost sat silently, eyes staring into the floorboards as if they’d speak to him.

“Say somethin’, dove,” Soap begged, scooting on his knees to be by your side.

As if the dam broke, you began to cry once more, heartbreaking sobs coming right from your core. You curled up tighter into your ball, your hand resting on your side as if it would magically ease the pain.

“It hurts,” you replied, voice cracking.

You’d stayed strong up until that point. Now, you couldn’t hold up your front.

You were scared. You felt more helpless than ever. You couldn’t remain strong for the sake of pretend anymore. Everything hurt, and Graves’ presence shook you to your very core.

“I know,” he cooed. He made a frustrated noise when he struggled against the binds. “I know, dove. We’re right here, alright?”

It felt strange, being on the other side of the spectrum. You were used to being the one to aid people in their injuries, but now, it was you being comforted. You couldn’t grasp what your life had become.

Price was released from his binds, quickly helping Gaz slip out of his. While Gaz made quick work to move to work on Ghost, Price was by your side in an instant.

One hand rested on your hip, turning your body towards him while the other found your face, resting his palm on it. His eyes were filled with worry when you faced him and he urgently wiped at your tears with his thumb.

“Dove,” he breathed in relief, his heart aching at the sight of you so broken. This was his fault. “You’re okay, I have you.”

You whimpered when he shifted so he could slide his arms beneath you, one under your shoulders and the other in the bend of your knees. The movement flared pain all over again, and Price murmured apologies, unsure of what to do.

He hurried to his quarters, his men following closely behind like scared dogs with their tails between their legs. Gaz held open the door, and you only caught a glimpse of his guilt-stricken expression before you were ushered in.

Price carefully slid you on to his cot, wincing every time you whimpered or cried. The pain felt excruciating, your breathing quick and labored.

“She needs a medic,” Soap stressed.

“She is a medic,” Gaz reminded, resting his hands on the edge of the cot so he could lean over and inspect your face. “We have no help besides her.”

“Well, she can’t treat herself, ye fuckin’ oaf,” Soap snipped, shooing him away from your space. “Cap, she needs to get checked. She can’t even breathe properly!”

Your head began to pound from the sheer loudness that filled the room. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to will away the ache while simultaneously trying to correct your breathing.

You knew well enough that there was something shattered or broken. A rib, though small in theory, but dreadfully painful without the correct medicines. Not to mention the amount of force Graves had used—it was pure hell.

Price was silent, as was Ghost, the two of them sharing a conversation with just a look. There was an understanding shared, and Price gently shoved Gaz and Soap aside, replacing them.

He mimicked Gaz’s previous stance, leaning on the bed. His hand came to brush a stray tear away, frowning embedded in his mouth.

“Tell me what to do, dove,” he said softly. “I’ll do whatever it is.”

You sniffled, hand shaking where they rested on your side. You shook your head, nearly deranged from the shock and horror of it all, unable to snap out of it.

“I—I can’t fix it on my own, Captain,” you quivered, lips trembling. “It hurts.”

Price nearly broke, filled with guilt. He glanced behind him at Ghost, who quickly looked away, hands balling into fists.

“I know,” he assured calmly, brushing his finger along your cheek where he wiped the tear away. “We’ll fix it, aye? You just have to sit tight until we can. Can you do that for us, dove?”

Though you knew the wait would be cruel—a slow healing process until you could receive proper care—you found yourself nodding shamelessly, instantly trusting Price and his promises.

Price nodded along with you, giving your cheek a comforting pinch. “Attagirl,” he praised, calming your nerves.

“I’ll fuckin’ gut him,” Soap muttered, jaw pulled tight. “He’s fuckin’ dead.”

Gaz reached up to grip Soap’s nape, tugging at his hair. Soap threw him a glare, one Gaz promptly ignored, turning his attention to you.

“Listen to Cap, birdie,” Gaz encouraged warmly. “We’ll get you all fixed up. You won’t even know you’re hurtin’.”

Price had a look of hesitation when you caught his eye. You furrowed your eyebrows, frowning in confusion before he spoke again, causing you to grow uncomfortable.

“We need to check it first, dove,” he said apologetically. “If you don’t feel well with all of us bein’ here, you can pick who you prefer. No hard feelin’s, hm?”

The idea that one, if not all, had to see you undressed in order to inspect the damage was one that made you a bit dazed. You’d never been seen beneath your raggedy clothes in the village, and the same applied for your time on the ship. It felt sacred, like your vulnerability was on the line, but you had to remind yourself that it was purely medical—you’d done it plenty of times when in practice at your old home.

“It—it is fine, just… just turn away, yes?” you pleaded, unable to meet any of them in the eye.

You heard a round of shuffling, only seeing Gaz elbow Soap in the corner of your vision. Once you were sure they feasted their eyes upon the old wall, you began to carefully lift your hips, biting your lip to muffle the pained noise that threatened to leave.

The hem of your dress was swiftly pulled up past your thighs, all the way until your torso was exposed. You stopped it beneath your breasts, quick to tug the blanket over your nakedness that remained uninjured and in no need to be checked.

The anxiety that pooled in your stomach left you queasy, but you toughed through it, knowing how important it was. If you had more than a mere fracture, it could become worse over time.

“Okay,” you said quietly, cringing when they turned to take you in. The men did their best to make you feel as at ease as possible, gearing their focus towards the nasty swelling on your side.

You dared to take a peek yourself, fearing for why they were so quiet. What you saw was ugly—swollen and puffy, beaten to the point it was already turning purple and blue. It was tender to the touch, even more so without clothing as a barrier.

The worst was the gnarly, black veins that spouted out like roots, dipping deep into the new bruising. It was inhuman, something completely out of the ordinary. You knew it was Graves’ dirty work, and it reminded you of when Ghost had cut his finger in the kitchen and his blood turned black, vanishing into thin air.

When you shifted your eyes from your injury, you searched for Ghost’s, who was hard-stuck on the veins. His body was tense, a darkness swirling in his irises.

“Ghost?” Soap tried, nudging the brute lightly. “Any idea what that is?”

Ghost glanced over to Soap before returning to your side, taking in the sight. “Could be anythin’,” he muttered, unsure. “I don’t know what all he’s capable of. For all we know, it could already be infected.”

“Infected?” you asked, a worried chill racking through you.

Price reached out a careful hand to spread his fingertips along the veins. You choked on a gasp at the immediate discomfort, face scrunching up into a wince.

“We’re goin’ to a doctor,” Price nearly growled, taking his hand away. “I don’t care where. The moment we spot land, we’re goin’.”

“We still have bounties on our head, Cap,” Gaz reminded with a frown. “We can’t just go anywhere. It’s not the same as shoppin’. If we end up in the wrong place, we might get ourselves in deeper shit.”

“That is a risk I’m willin’ to take,” Price argued, firm in his stance. “If we start nitpickin’ where to go, it might be too late. You’re either in or out.”

The room fell silent as the men stared at their Captain. The answer to them was obvious, though you knew why they hesitated; if they were imprisoned, it would do you no good.

Emotions were high and the clock was ticking. It placed everyone on edge.

“I agree with Price.”

All heads turned to Ghost, who stood with his arms crossed, eyes boring into yours.

“It’s my fault she’s marked. So long as she gets fixed up, I could care less about bein’ thrown into a cell. I’m with Price,” he finished.

“Ghost—” you tried.

“I am quite firm in what I’ve decided,” he interrupted harshly before realizing his mistake, calming himself down. He looked away from you, crossing his arms a bit tighter. “I’m in no mood for arguments.”

You went quiet, watching Ghost turn towards the door and plot his escape. You knew out of everyone, he was affected the most, tormented with sickening guilt for all that’s transpired. You could only imagine how he felt, now that times had grown darker.

“Let him go,” Soap murmured softly, gaining your attention. “He’ll be alright. Let’s just worry ‘bout ye, aye?”

You were torn, but you nodded nonetheless, silently agreeing.

“You’ll stay with me for now,” Price explained. “No use in movin’ you anymore than I have. I’ll get you situated for now, and then you can rest.”

Gaz, Soap, and Price muttered amongst themselves, discussing a brief plan of what to do. The two set off to find more pillows to extend your comfort while Price remained by your side, plopping himself in his chair with a heavy sigh. His elbows rested on its arms, his fingers coming up to rub at his temple.

He looked exhausted, the bags under his eyes becoming more prominent the longer you looked.

“I am sorry, Captain,” you said quietly, eyes glueing to the ceiling.

“What have you got to be sorry for?” he asked, frowning. “Got nothin’ to apologize for, dove. Our worry stems from care.”

“Yes, but,” you paused, gathering the words, “I have caused much trouble since my arrival. Things only seem to be harder for you.”

“Life was hard before you, dove,” he assured, letting his hand fall from his face. “That’s the way it goes. It is to no fault but the world.”

You took in his words, letting them sink in. You hadn’t known a true life of trouble before, the only hardships being your utter loneliness and daily taunts from the local villagers. This was something beyond your knowledge, and you were beginning to understand that there was more to life than simply displeasuring people. There was more than what meets the eye, but there was also light at the end of every tunnel.

“You do not see me as a mere burden?” you asked, and he huffed.

“What have I told you before?” Price pressed in return, tilting his head. “You are one of us. A true pirate, if that is what you’d like.”

“I am far from a pirate,” you scoffed to yourself, ashamed. “I could not even defend myself or any of you.”

“Dove,” Price called out softly. He scooted his chair closer to your bedside, forcing you to turn your head and look at him. “A loss is not always a failure. Some wars are too big to handle on your own. There’s nothin’ wrong with that. Why must you speak so lowly of yourself?”

You stared at him unblinking, studying the furrow of his eyebrows and the curl of his lips, hidden beneath his beard. The worry lines on his forehead showed years of hardship, and you wondered how he managed to live through it if you could barely survive your own smaller ones.

“I have known nothing else,” you confessed bitterly, though not towards him. You were angry, not only with yourself, but at life for dealing its deck of cards in such an unfair way.

“I see,” he hummed, leaning back in his chair. He tapped his fingers along the armrests, getting lost in thought. “It was the same for me as well.”

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Really?”

“Mhm,” he sighed, picking at the splintering wood of the armrests. “My father was a captain before me. Had the tongue of a devil. Always angry, always cold—treated me like scum, even as a child.”

“I am sorry,” you murmured quietly. Price bristled, frowning.

“That is not the point, dove,” he replied. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on the side of the bed, mere inches away from where you laid. You waited patiently for him to continue, keeping your gazes connected to show you were listening. “Some may treat you like a mutt on the street and deem your worth how they please. The only thing that matters is how you take it and how you come out of it.”

It dawned on you what he was implying. It was his way of comforting you, shielding you from your own burdening insecurities that never seemed to escape your mind.

“I could’ve remained angry and bitter, but now I captain my own ship and crew. The same applies for you—you may have experienced cruelty all your life, but you must take the reins on your own worth and decide what it is, dove.”

A blinding warmth shrouded you, like a blanket after being trapped in the icy cold, and you welcomed it with a smile. You’d never known Price to be so well with words, not int he way he was expressing now.

He knew what you needed to hear after being trapped in your own world of darkness, and he provided the light you needed to find your way out—all of them did. A glimmer of hope in a world full of loss.

“I am very thankful you kidnapped me,” you blurted, unable to contain your inner thoughts.

Price laughed, boisterous and loud, a smile washing over his face. It was a lovely sight, one that made your heart pound. Even through your pain, you found solitude in the aftermath, reaching a level of comfort you’d always wished to feel.

“I am happy to have you here despite it,” Price teased warmly. “I can say the same for the rest.”

You laughed, almost immediately regretting it at the shooting pain coursing in your side. He shot you a sympathetic smile, slowly standing from his chair.

“I will let you rest,” he said, giving you a gentle pat to your thigh over the blanket. Your heart jumped at the action, and you repressed it.

“You are not staying?” you asked, deflating.

“Soap and Gaz will be here with some more pillows soon. I must gather a plan so we can get you to a medic as soon as possible.”

It made sense, and you knew it was important. There was no telling what was flowing through the black veins, but your heart longed for more of his presence.

“Just for a moment longer?” you dared to request, voice small.

Price peered down at you from where he stood over you, a hint of surprise flashing on his expression before it softened. He nodded, reaching over to give your hand a gentle squeeze. You held on as long as you could.

“Just a moment then,” he repeated. “I will do it for you.”

You squeezed his hand in return, feeling as if you were on cloud nine. Your feelings were uncertain, but the more you spent with them, the clearer your vision became. It was an inner battle, forcing yourself to push them back in order to protect yourself. Now, though, you decided to allow yourself the comfort, just for a little while.

“Thank you,” you told him, unaware your voice had become a mere whisper. The air between you felt heavy, as if something unspoken was there.

Price glanced down at your hands that remained interlinked before shifting his gaze back at you. The gears in his mind were turning, and just as you were about to ask if it was alright, he beat you.

“I am not an emotional man,” he murmured quietly, seeming just as unsure as you were. “I make very stupid decisions and take paths I shouldn’t take. One of them is tellin’ me to kiss you, and I’m not sure if that’s alright.”

You froze in place, eyes growing wide. You were unable to look away, lost in your own little moment. Everything in you was yelling yes, yes, yes! and it was hard to ignore. You had always been weak in your feelings.

“Gaz tried to when I gifted him the telescope,” you said, unsure of why you did. “I hope that is okay.”

Price broke out into a smile, huffing out a breathy laugh. “So long as he did not beat me to it.”

You released a relieved breath, a shaky smile spreading on your lips. Price did not seem angry, and for that, you grew more enticed for a kiss. While your feelings for the others were all different in their special ways, having Price be the first was not something you could deny. It excited you more than it should.

Before you knew it, Price leaned down, capturing your lips in his own. There was no spark like you’d read in books you’d read at merchant stands when you couldn’t afford them, nor were there fireworks.

Instead, it was a calm sea that smothered you in peace, easing every worry that crowded your mind. They washed away, replaced with a warm buzz.

He was gentle, hand still grasping yours, the other coming to rest beneath your jaw. His skin was hot to the touch, rough from the callouses on his palm.

The moment wasn’t long, and when he pulled away, you wished you could reel him in for more.

“Rest,” he encouraged, his smile brighter than a thousand suns. “We’ll get you fixed up and better before you know it, alright?”

You nodded dumbly, your head empty. You were practically vibrating with excitement, the feel of his lips still tingling on yours.

He stroked his thumb over your cheekbone before pulling back, stepping away from the bed. He gave you a soft farewell, reminding you that the boys will be back soon and to try and sleep until then.

Once he was out of the room, the quiet didn’t bother you. It wasn’t maddening, driving you up a wall, suffocating you with loneliness—it was peaceful and kind, welcoming you with open arms as you slipped into unconsciousness, the images flashing behind your eyelids of the four of them in your life only bringing you true comfort after the storm.

[latin5mamii]

Can you do one with Jude just purely dirty talking to you being very mean and possessive

Yours - Jude Bellingham

|WARNINGS: smut, unprotected sex, dirty talking, possessiveness |SUMMARY: You and your boyfriend get into a fight, but there's only one way to make peace...

“He was totally flirting with you, you can’t say otherwise”

Here you were, arguing again because of your friends.Actually, if you have to say it right it wasn’t your friend’s fault,it was your boyfriend’s.

“He wasn’t flirting with me Jude.He was just being gentle!”

“Trust me, I have experience and i know that he was.I’m not a fuckin’ idiot”

“Even if he does, what do you even care about?You think I would cheat on you?”

“I’m not saying that.I just don't want to share what's mine and don't expect me to sit still when someone flirts with my fucking girlfriend!"

 He says raising his voice, you know you shouldn't push, but you do because he can't boss you around as he pleases.

"You can't just claim me like some object," you retorted, your voice shaking with a mix of anger and something deeper, something you couldn't quite name.

Jude's eyes darkened, and he pinned you against the wall, his grip firm but not painful. "You think you're so fucking hot, don't you?" he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "All those eyes on you. Well, guess what, princess? You're mine. Only mine.Do you understand?”

Probably never once has there been so much passion during an argument. You can feel the tension between the two of you as he waits for an answer. Little does he know that the answer you give him will not be so satisfactory.

“Really?If i’m yours show me, then”

Jude's expression hardened, a flicker of something primal in his eyes. Without another word, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you closer, his grip unyielding. "You want me to show you?" he snarled, his breath hot against your ear. "Fine."

He kissed you roughly, his lips crushing against yours with an intensity that took your breath away. His hands roamed your body possessively, leaving no doubt that he was claiming you. You tried to push him away, but he pinned your hands above your head, his grip ironclad.

"You like this, don't you?" he whispered harshly, his lips trailing down your neck, biting and kissing with a desperate hunger. "You like it when I'm rough with you, when I remind you who you belong to."

You moaned softly, the mix of pain and pleasure igniting a fire within you. "Jude," you gasped, your body trembling under his touch.

"You're doing this on purpose, right? You want me to get angry so I can be with you like this" His hands touch your core, already soaking wet, from the things he's telling you. Him being so hard on you makes you so horny and he knows it very well.

“Oh baby, you're already so wet, just for me” He moves your panties to the side and sticks a finger inside you, making you gasp and moan loudly. You bite your lower lip to hold back, but he grabs your chin and whispers in your ear:

"Don't do it, I want to listen to you carefully"

As soon as he says that he immediately pushes another finger inside you, you moan out loud and he smiles giving you a kiss on the head.

"You're so beautiful when you want to challenge me but you can't"

"Please Jude, I need you"

"What do you need? Tell me"

“Stop teasing me and just fuck me” He kisses you hungrily, removes his fingers from inside you and begins to unbutton his pants quickly, he certainly doesn't want to keep his princess waiting.

Soon you wrap your legs around his hips and he starts rubbing his tip at your entrance. He moans at the sensation of entering you, as if he hasn't already done it a hundred times. He doesn't want to hurt you given his size, in fact he enters slowly, holding you tightly to himself. His movements are decisive and deep, the speed increases every second that passes and the room fills with the moans of both of you.

"Look how fucking beautiful you are. All for me" He whispers in your ear.

"Oh god, Jude." He can feel you getting close to your peak and you can feel it too.

"Please come inside me, please." The thrusts become more demanding and he places his thumb on your clit to stimulate your orgasm.

The thrusts become sloppier and his moans and words make you come on his cock, the feeling of you coming with him inside makes him empty himself inside you until he fills you completely. He places you gently on the bed, your breaths begin to calm down .

“I'm yours, always.” He smiles against your lips and kisses you gently.

"This is my beautiful girl"

[sweetestmilli]

We Will Be Free

00. | 01. | 02. | 03

an: hello! this is my first fic ever and i haven't written anything in SO long so i'm kind of rusty with this stuff and i apologize for that. english is also not my first language so please, please, be kind. this is unedited and i’m quite unsatisfied with its length and how it turned out but i had fun writing it. still, i hope u enjoy! <3

very short chapter. sorryyyy

there's barely any dialogue on this part!! but the next parts will have many of it

CONTAINS WARNING FOR K-POP DEMON HUNTERS!!!

guaranteed happy ending :p

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Rumi hated nights like this.

Ones when it was so dark you could barely see anything and not even the brightest of the bright city lights that shine below helped. Nights when the stars seemed to shine a little duller than the usual. When the moon hid, not daring to show its face and it seemed to have been in a deep slumber way before the thought of sleep even crossed anyone's mind.

But if Rumi had the chance to be honest, what she hated, in truth, was the silence that comes with nights like this. The silence that kept ringing on her ear. The same silence that she once found solace in was now something that she couldn't even bother listening to for a second more. What used to be a comfort was now associated with fear.

Not of monsters and not of demons.

But the thought of him. And this turmoil of feelings that never found peace ever since that fateful night happened almost half a year ago.

She hated how the silence seems to be whispering those last words. The words that’s seeping through her cracks, making its way right into the very core of her heart, twisting it just enough to make her feel the weight but not so much that it distracts her from the things that needed to be done and the words that needed to be said. Gripping it oh so tight but never crushing it.

On her usual days, the thought and memory of Jinu would be something that keeps her moving forward. A source of strength. But seldomly does she let herself go. Let herself fall apart and mourn til her eyes almost fell apart with all the crying. Grieve him and grieve what could've been.

If only...

Rumi shooked her head and waved off the thoughts that were filling her head. She looked around, feeling the air thicken as every second pass. Her footsteps becoming heavier with each step.

Only now does she realize that she often found herself back here. She doesn't know why. Not exactly, at least. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was because here, right here, was the first time she felt free and it was with him.

As she walked past the very same alleyway, her mind flooded with the memories. The words to the song they sang. The almosts. The way his grip on her wrist was so tight yet so gentle and so warm and soft didn't go unnoticed by her. The risks they were finally willing to take.

Her train of thoughts on till to up was immediately cut off when Derpy—with a quick and sudden movement—stood in front of her, its back facing her as it fiddled with something on the ground while Sussie could only look back at Rumi, seemingly tired of Derpy’s antics while Rumi could only chuckle at the sight.

Rumi bent down. "Well, what do we have here?” She asked Derpy, her hand grabbing whatever it was that caught Derpy's attention.

She stared.

And her heart dropped.

Her hand shook as she traced the intricate knot of the bracelet. Colored in blue and purple. Her head tilted to the side as she brought it closer to her, inspecting it, seeing how the bracelet is so identical to the one she'd given to Jinu.

“But that's impossible.” She spoke in a low and soft voice, careful not to let it tremble like the way her hands—heck— perhaps her whole body did. “It's supposed to be gone.” She added, wanting to convince herself.

And suddenly, the wind felt like it blew a little stronger. Like the stars were shining a little bit brighter. And she was quite sure that the moon had finally come out of hiding.

And then she heard a voice. A voice a little too familiar. It sounded so soft but she could swear that it almost made her knees go weak, almost making her stumble and fall to the ground.

“I think that's mine.” The voice said.

She didn't know what else to do but to look up and meet those eyes

“You...” Her breath hitched, eyes almost watering as her heart thumped against her ribs. “Jinu?”

The way his name rolled out of her tongue, it sounded like a prayer. An angel's song. A lover’s poem. A siren’s lullaby.

But he just stood there.

Unmoving. Unaware. Unbothered.

Not even uttering a single word. His eyes—they were not blank but she wished that they were. She wished his eyes reflected anything but this.

────୨ৎ────

all works and contents belong to @sweetestmilli. do not reupload.

[scarletttries]

Baldur's Gate 3 Companions With a Shy GN!Reader...(Baldur's Gate 3 Request)

Request: " Can I request for Baldur's Gate 3 companions with shy gender neutral s/o please?"

Pairings: Astarion x Reader, Wyll Ravengard x Reader, Gale Dekarios x Reader, Shadowheart x Reader, Karlach x Reader

Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who sent in requests and has been reblogging my Baldur's Gate posts! Consider me open for any BG3 requests, let me know if you want to see more headcanons like this :)

Astarion:

- At first Astarion would find it hard to reconcile your shyness with his understanding of the way people behave. He would be suspicious of you initially, wondering why you insist on playing your cards so close to your chest. It wouldn't be until you finally warmed up to him and started to talk a bit more that he realised that this quiet tone to you is actually very endearing to him.

- When you two get together he would feel very proud to be the person you speak to the most. Astarion can be a little insecure sometimes so knowing that you choose to talk to him despite being selective with who you speak to would mean a lot to him. It would help him to trust you more too, knowing the the deep bond between you is almost a secret that you would never dare whisper to anyone else.

- Astarion loves being able to communicate with you with just a sly glance or a single whispered word, the two of you often having entire conversations without saying a word to those around you. When you need to talk your way into somewhere Astarion's always happy to do the talking, but he can't help but be impressed with the way you can navigate through a room quiet and unnoticed.

- As a partner Astarion needs more reassurance than he ever likes to show, so knowing that you'll go against your shy instincts to whisper a flirty thought or a sentimental memory to him when he starts to look worn out always boosts his spirits. He didn't know how much he needed someone just like you in his life until you became a core part of it.

Wyll:

- Wyll never shies away from the public or a spotlight, announcing himself as he enters almost any room, so when he meets someone who prefers to listen to those around them instead of interrupting, he'd become very interested in what you have to say. He'd make the effort to get to know you even if it didn't happen as naturally as sometimes other bonds have come to him, but as he worked to gain your trust and attention he'd never regret a moment of time spent getting you to warm up to him.

- When the two of you are together Wyll will never miss an opportunity to sing your praises, no matter how bashful it makes you! He needs you to know how amazing and appreciated you are, as he can never tell if you fully recognise your own brilliance.

- Wyll falls in love with the way you think before you speak, listening to every part of his story and really considering everything he tells you, never jumping to an assumption as so many people in his life have. He finds your accepting nature makes him a better man, and in return he only grows a deeper fondness for the way you carry yourself.

- As a partner Wyll always needs someone to be there for him, listening and reassuring, and he really finds that partner in you. He's never felt more loved and respected as he does when you give him the time and space to work through his feelings and history, the quiet stillness you bring to his life letting him find a peace he's never known before.

Gale:

- Gale has spent enough time studying magic at scholarly institutes to have met more than a few shy souls in his past, so when he notices you playing the shrinking violet he knows exactly how to give you all the time and space you need to finally share a bit of yourself with him.

- He knows that the most important things to hear usually come from those who don't speak unless they have something to say, and there's no exception to that in you. He really gives weight to everything you share with him, every opinion you pose, and every compliment you reward him with through flushed cheeks and nervous laughter. It only makes it that much sweeter that you don't dish out such comments absentmindedly.

- Gale also enjoys using a bit of your shyness against you, gaining a certain amount of satisfaction from being overtly flirty in public once the two of you are well into dating. He can't help but smile at the way you shy away from his loud declarations of love and the flirty comments whispered far too loudly across a tavern. His heart practically bursts when you try to hide your face in his hands when he's being far too vocal about how beautiful he finds you in front of the rest of your companions, and not a day goes by that he doesn't remind you of that fact.

- Thankfully he usually waits until you are alone to let his adoration pour out in his gentle words and touches, enjoying that while he can be a brash as he wants in public, he can feel your true appreciation in the quiet you spend alone. His life has held more than one dramatic chapter, so having someone who loves him so sweetly and mutters his name so softly when they praise him really means the world to Gale.

Shadowheart:

- More than anyone else, Shadowheart can appreciate the desire to keep parts of yourself hidden behind some firmly closed doors. She finds herself drawn to your quiet personality as the rest of the party are a bit boisterous for her taste, often favouring the seat beside you at any given campfire, knowing her boundaries will be respected, and any conversation made will be worthwhile.

- Once you two are together, she sees you as a respite from the endless questions of the outside world. The two of you can spend hours in comfortable silence together, only your interlocking fingers letting the other know you are still there. You give her the space to think through her decisions, but at the same time she knows that if you choose to speak up then she really should consider listening to what you have to say.

- Shadowheart finds herself more able to share pieces of herself with you, as you open up at the same gradual pace that she does. You don't rush to tell her everything or bombard her with questions like the others. Instead she'll often finding you waiting outside her tent at first light when she rises, offering her a hand for a quiet stroll through the forest as you softly tell her a tale from your childhood and she tries to imagine herself growing up alongside you, in a sweet version of her life she could almost convince herself is the truth.

- Shadowheart doesn't fully know her past, but with you as her partner, her future finally starts to come into focus, all because of you.

Karlach:

- Karlach has been loud and brash since the moment she could speak, so at first she thinks your shy demeanour is a sign of rejection of her friendship. It's disappointing that you don't want to talk to her, but she's not sensitive enough to worry about what every single person thinks of her. It would be endlessly frustrating to you that you have to really put yourself out there, making every effort to be by her side and forcing yourself to respond to her every remark to try and let her know you really do like her. In the end you'd just have to ask her to dance at a celebration with the rest of the group, and when she laughs and says she thought you didn't like her, please prepare yourself to tell her you like her so much that it makes it genuinely hard to talk sometimes.

- Once Karlach understands the concept of shyness and that it is not a personal affront to her, she will be very happy to do all the speaking for both of you. Every journey you take across the lands she will gladly fill the silence with every thought and tale, celebrating loudly every times she manages to make you gasp or laugh along with her.

- Karlach will take a lot of pride in the thought that you like her so much that you are almost rendered speechless, and get quite jealous when she realises you are being shy around other people too. Worried that everyone will be seduced by your strong-silent type behaviour she would definitely insist on holding your hand as much as possible, or loudly shouting across combat that you and her are an item just in case anyone was getting the wrong idea.

- While your personality might have started as a bit of a mystery to Karlach, once you two really know each other she'll come to highly value your way of carrying yourself, learning a few things about protecting herself from undue influences, while keeping herself open to the important people in her life, like you!

[roamingwildflower13]

Soapbox

I know the internet is often a cess pit, but I can’t honestly believe there are supposed jikookers out there who actually think that Jimin and Jungkook would use a show to patch things up as if they are from some k drama going through a breakup/ fall out / miscommunication or rough patch.

I know we don’t know them, but have we all ‘met’ Park Jimin? The perfectionist idol of idols. You think he’d use a filmed reality show to mend things with someone? Friend or foe? 

Honestly it’s so delusional to think that, let alone incredibly disrespectful of Jimin and Jungkooks relationship and bond.

If they are together like we think, there is no way they would have gone on camera to fix things. 

They aren’t the Kardashian’s. Jimin has extremely deep emotional intellect and empathy, you think he’d air his and JK’s dirty laundry for entertainment.

What we saw if you want to describe it as awkward, in episode 1, was them getting used to being on camera together again. Imagine going on camera together, just them, for the first time in a very long time (and even then not to this extent) and knowing how exposed they were going to be. Just watch the show and watch Jimins face when he gets into the Jeep for the first time. Do you see it?

We all have those moments right? Where you decide on something and when it gets closer to the time, you start to doubt yourself and your decision. 

This is what Jimin surely meant when he said he was starting to doubt himself on the plane over to the US.

They made themselves vulnerable by doing this show, they were putting their bond on full and pure display for the first time ever, all by themselves, no other member to protect them or shield them, or play off of. In front of Army who for the most part do not know how to label them, (seeing as Jikook never labelled themselves outside of all nighter friends ) and whom most would not even consider the closest, let alone this and the enlistment.

Can you imagine what that was like? For vultures, the cult, etc to pick apart your bond, even doubt the very core or truth of your friendship. Then on top of that you’ve got so called supporters questioning you and inventing drama for funsies. Them, a probable closeted queer couple from the biggest band in the world. They were brave in my eyes.

They knew what they were intending to do with the show but that does not make it any easier.

As it was, by the second day, despite Jimin being poorly and JKs cold, they got into the groove of the slow and simple travel show. They set sail on the high seas and looked so at peace just being together. 

They deserve that, they deserve their moment of peace and happiness. Them just being together, and enjoying time off their hectic schedules. I sincerely hope they afford themselves more of it in the future, and as much as I love the show, without cameras too. They also deserve to be respected.

So to those who are creating drama filled narratives in their heads, or posting them for all to see, please consider all of this before spouting such nonsense and drivel, because our beautiful men and their beautiful love deserve better. 

Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk

(I just love this picture)

and please stream Who!

[actuallysaiyan]

She Keeps It Pumping Straight To My Heart(Vergil x Fem!Reader)

warnings: mentions of having a baby, Vergil is needy, smut, creampies, unprotected sex, mentions of breeding word count: 0.9k pairings: Post DMC5!Vergil x Fem!Reader a/n: This just kind of popped into my brain! Hope you enjoy!

He shouldn’t want this. Not at his age or with the way things have gone in his life. Even with the way things ended up with his first son, Vergil knows that having another child might be the wrong idea. This nagging sensation deep inside of him lately makes him think that you could be the right person to have this with.

Even Dante and Nero notice a change in Vergil. He’s less abrasive, less angry. They even see a smile on his face, which makes them both feel very much at ease. They know that Vergil needs to know real peace, and you are the one to bring it to him.

This all culminates one night into something so passionate and loving. With the two of you freshly showered and now lying in bed, in crisp fresh sheets, you are caressing one another. Sweet, loving kisses are shared.

“What’s gotten into you lately?” you ask, a smirk on your face.

Vergil chuckles, “Ah, so you’ve noticed it as well.”

He then maneuvers you both so that he’s on top of you, your legs spread for him. Still, his kisses are gentle and loving, but you can feel the heat growing in them. He grunts softly as he ruts against you, his cock becoming unbearably hard.

“We’ve been together for quite some time, yes?” he wonders out loud.

“Yeah, almost two years now.”

The words that come from your pretty lips both excite and warm his heart. He never knew he could have a love so pure and so tender for this long. Even at the beginning of your relationship, Vergil thought he’d fuck it up somehow and lose you forever. But you proved to be resilient and determined. You loved him for who he was and you weren’t just going to abandon him. Vergil meant everything to you, especially after he saved your life from a horde of evil devils.

Vergil breathes, “I think…I think I want another baby,”

You giggle nervously, “Another baby? But you only met your son when he was an—”

He interrupts you with another kiss, “You’ll give me a baby, won’t you?”

Your heart skips a beat. How are you supposed to deny such a request? You stutter out the word “yes”, but you nod as well to let him know you’re more than interested. With your arms around his neck, he moves you into a more comfortable position.

“Just the thought of carrying my seed must excite you,” Vergil comments as he uses the tip of his cock to smear your arousal all over your tight hole. “You’re already so wet,”

He continues his teasing for a while, making sure to tap the tip of his cock against your swollen clit. You never thought you’d get to this point in your life, but you cannot deny the fact that having a child with Vergil would be amazing. The thought of making a baby is exciting too.

He captures your lips in a kiss as he presses himself into you. You’re both panting and moaning as he bottoms out, leaving you both a little fucked out already. Vergil smirks when he realizes this is actually going to happen. You’re going to be carrying his child.

Your hands soothe up and down his back as he starts a slow pace, getting you both used to these sensations. Vergil finds it hard to not blow his load from the beginning, as he always gets so over excited to make love to you. He takes a deep breath before pressing your legs to your chest which places you in the perfect mating position.

“You will carry my seed in your womb,” Vergil says, his voice full of need and lust.

“Yes, yes! Please, Vergil!” You cry out, his cock bullying the sweet spot so deep inside of you.

His hand traces down your chest to your core, rubbing the swollen clit that’s just begging for attention. Your eyes screw shut as he begins pounding into you, making you feel that familiar tightening in your stomach. Your cries of love and ecstasy begin echoing off the walls.

“That’s it, sparrow,” he coos at you. “Milk my cock. Be a good girl and milk my cock,”

His words arouse you as much as they surprise you. He’s not usually one to talk filthy like this, and it’s just fueling your fire even more. It takes but only a few more thrusts to send you over the edge.

Tears slip down your cheeks at the intense pleasure. Your spongy walls squeeze and contract around his throbbing cock, milking him for his warm and thick seed. He’s grunting and growling, his voice sounding almost distorted. And with a passionate and hungry kiss, Vergil spills himself so deep inside your pulsing walls.

The two of you continue to grind against one another, riding out the remnants of what is the most intense orgasm you’ve both felt in forever. And when Vergil pulls away, you almost think he’s going to get up to get you something to drink. It’s just that the sight of his thick cum running out of your puffy cunt sends him into a frenzy.

You cry out as he slams himself back into you, clearly not done.

“I said I wanted to have another baby,” Vergil huffs as he fucks himself into you. “And we are going to have another baby.”

[sashi-ya]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤAs cold as your heart ･:*:｡𓏲ּ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤDr. ishida uryu x f! reader

Chapter 5: Desperate. lust can't wait

❄ a/n: sorry for the delay! vacation got in the middle but my "hornyness" for this man (men, count Ryuken too) never goes away. Enjoy a slightly longer chapter! ❄ tw: MDNI. This chapter contains smut. their first time together, tinted by desperation and desire. oral. fingering. passionate love making. vag. no protection. creampie asked and given :p. sorry about the end, but I just can't let it pass... from now on shit is about to go down... AGAIN. ❄ wc: 3,6k ❄ masterlist

“Ryuuken!” Uryu calls his father from the door of his room, allowing you to swiftly slip past him into the hallway. With your heart pounding, you make a beeline for your office. 

The door finally closes behind you, and you breathe a sigh of relief. 

Quickly, you strip off the wet clothes and replace them with dry ones. Both sensations, cold and warmth, attack your skin; how embarrassing? Will Uryu make up for some random excuse? What if you tell a different lie? 

“Never mind, back to work” you murmur, easing the anxious thoughts away. However, the smirk on your face seems plastered, inked. It would take a lot to erase it from your lips, and especially to get rid of the soft touch of Uryu’s hands on your skin… of his kisses, of his hardness against your core. 

Soon, and without noticing, the hours pass. You weren’t really worried for Uryu’s fever, as his father hasn’t left the room since the moment he came back; you can assure he is in good hands.  

However, as the leaving time approaches, you most definitely visit your patients one last time. You decide to leave Uryu’s room to be the last, and when inevitably the moment comes, you take a deep breath before knocking on his door. 

“Can I come in?” you ask, a little shy.  “You may come in” Ryuuken’s voice, low and almost whispery, sounds from the other side of the door. 

Slowly, you get yourself inside. No lights but a little reading bulb on top of Dr. Ishida’s book and the blue hue of a snowy night coming from the window. 

Uryu seems to be asleep, but even with the lack of illumination, you can see his skin tone looks healthier; he must have stopped running a fever a long ago. 

“How is he doing, Dr.?” you ask. “He is doing better; no fever since you left the room” Ryuuken comments, barely looking at you from over the glasses. 

You can tell he is back at being the cold man he used to be when Uryu was still around six years ago… does he know already? 

“I see… we use cooling methods” you comment, writing on Uryu’s report. 

“Hmm…” Ryuken answers, as he continues reading a book completely written in German. 

A shiver runs through your spine; he hasn’t acted that distant for so long with you, it feels you’ve done something wrong. In any case, you won’t stay to find out.

“My shift is over, Dr. Ishida… I’ll go back home now and shower so I can come back and take care of Ury-“ you inform, but you get interrupted by his hand being lifted up to stop you. 

He stands up and shows you the way out of the room. You comply, scared. What did Uryu tell this man? 

Ryuken closes the door behind him, both being in a very empty hall already. When the shifts are over people seem to vanish, to disappear from work -which is totally valid-. 

“You’ve done too much for my son already. I’m thankful but now he should be at peace. Please, go home and rest” the snow haired doctor commands; his hand on your shoulder feels cold, distant… almost mad at you. “I don’t want you him to be a complete distraction on your job, remember you are my most important collaborator here” 

You look down at the paperwork in your hands; you aren’t able to look into his blue eyes. Somehow, you understand what’s happening now, and he isn’t mad at you for taking his son away from him… But he is mad at his son for taking you away from himself.  

You nod, in silence. And equally in silence you walk away, feeling the intense sight of the man that should only be your boss – and the father of the man you love- fixed in between your shoulder blades, or perhaps, down, down your waist. 

You practically run away, grabbing your coat and bag all at the same time. Never have you ever wanted that cold slap of winter to hit your cheeks faster than tonight. No matter how much it might be snowing, you only want to walk away from that hospital. 

“What the fuck…?” you murmur to yourself, feeling your feet become two blocks of ice as you run through the streets of Karakura. “I must be delirious… I haven’t slept well, that’s all it is” you continue as the pedestrian sign turns red and you wait to cross the street. 

The sudden vibration of your phone scares you a little; it comes as a surprise, but you are still able to tell whose that number is. 

Unknown > what did he say? Why did you leave?  You > to go home and have some rest. How are you feeling?  Unknown > going home rn. Send me your location, will be there later. You > Uryu… your whole point is to never let me rest, right?  You >  📍 location  Unknown > you bet I won’t let you rest tonight 

You giggle, noticing your cheeks become hot and your stomach a butterfly mess. Not enough cold outside can compete with your inner heat right now. 

“Do I have something to offer when he arrives?” you think, making a quick stop by a convenience store before going back home. Truth is, you find yourself trying to remember Uryu’s favourite snacks back then, annoyed by the fact that the sunflower seed store he loved has already closed a couple of years ago. 

Something savoury should do, despite knowing, deep inside, all he wants to eat is you. 

You quickly -and panting- arrive at your apartment. As always, everything looks like an organized mess. You can’t waste time on being a perfectionist, but you most definitely take time to hide the panties you hanged inside to dry; or the chocolate wrappers you left the other night on your bedside table while you were watching One Piece. 

Your reflection catches you out of guard, as you run through the little hall that separates your room from your kitchen. There, a little mirror shows your face tinted in every shade of anxiety; now, a lot more mature than six years ago, absolutely sure and unsure at the same time, waiting for Uryu to be finally yours. For you to be finally, and once and for all, his. 

The sudden ring on your door scares you a little; your hands, that had fallen upon the little table that still holds old picture frames of your younger days, curl their fingers around and carve your nails against the wooden surface. 

You take a deep breath and run to open the door; it’s cold outside, and Uryu shouldn’t be waiting after being sick. 

Uryu’s fist helps the door open faster, making space for his desperate self to pass. No word said before his hand slid through your waist to pull you closer against his body.

You gasp, with your lips barely millimetres from his. Your chest goes up and down, your cheeks on fire getting a little bit of relief as the cold breeze filters from the still opened door. 

“Hi” he grunts before attacking your lips. 

Your eyes open big in surprise; but soon remember that Uryu can be more than impulsive when he desires something. And right now, he is desperate for you. 

You take little steps back without separating from him. Your arms have already surrounded his neck, your body begs for more. 

His tongue, disrespectful, dances with yours; lustfully, unstoppable, like fire burning. Soft little whimpers scape in between the little gaps of your mouths; his nails carve like claws on your waist, and then, down until your ass. 

“Do-door- close- mnh- it” you mutter, muffled by his imprudent, freed love.

“Let them watch” Uryu murmurs, perhaps jokingly… perhaps not. 

You are out of breath, unable to escape his arms, watching everything happen through black strands of hair and the metallic little side of his glasses carving on your face. 

Uryu chuckles sexily, kicking the door close with the back of his heel. As if he wanted you to notice, he allows you to look while he takes his glasses off. 

“Sorry, not used to” he comments, showing you his modern eye glasses on his hands.

“Uh- It’s – UH-“ you are simply out of words; is this man really not “used to” kissing this way?

Though it doesn’t matter if you can’t think of what to say, because his lips are immediately back all over yours. 

Your back hits the wall behind you; feeling even more trapped underneath Dr. Ishida, your legs tremble in excitement, perhaps eager to be split open already. 

The taste of his kisses is by far delicious; like biting a fistful of juicy raspberries, like chocolate dripping down your tongue. 

Oh, but for him, no ambrosia is enough if he hasn’t still tasted the whole extents of your flesh; And after trapping your lower lip in between his teeth, pulling ever so softly and yet so deadly, his butterfly kisses land down your chin and into your neck. 

You throw your head back, lips semi open, allowing sweet moaning to reach Uryu’s ears. It makes the man shiver, to attack the skin closer to your collar bones, harder. He seems to be inhaling your perfume, the scent of your flesh, letting his right cheek rest on your chest for a couple of minutes when the lust for your body gets even too much for him. 

“I’m sorry” he huffs, closing his beautiful blue eyes for a second, still with his cheek pressed against your breasts.

“I don’t want to hear more “sorrys”, you know that belongs in the past…” you whisper, caressing his head, playing with his straight, soft hair. 

“No, I’m being desperate…” he confesses, ashamed of the need, of the lust he experiences when it comes to your body.  

“I’m as desperate as you...” you reply, this time not ashamed, almost in pain because you want a lot more.

Uryu looks up at you, like earlier today, though his eyes don’t show regret… this time, they show love. Love and madness. Sex, desire. 

He stands up, turning you around, allowing you to face your kitchen. His hands surround your waist from behind, his nose buries on the small of your neck. 

“Where’s bed?” he asks, with his lips against your nape. His presence behind, his chest against your back, his hardness against your ass cheeks... lord. 

“Follow me…” you whisper back, turning around sexily as you grab his hand to guide him. As sexily you walk towards your bedroom, like the snake incited Adam and Eve to sin, you do. 

Uryu is pleased your apartment is small, should he wait a little longer he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from fucking you on your kitchen table.

“Looks like your old room” he jokes, before pushing you softly against your bed. 

“Despite all, it’s still me…” you purr, grabbing him by the belt, pulling him closer. 

“You are right, you are still you…” he replies, letting his white jacket slide down his shoulders and fall into the ground. 

He doesn’t even think of taking any more clothes but yours, that’s why immediately after, Uryu crawls in between your legs. 

The longest part of his bangs tickles your cheek, while the tip of his nose grazes yours. You both look into each other’s eyes, with a pure expression of longing and need. For how long has this been due? 

Dr. Ishida slides his right hand until your thigh, while his lips become closer to yours. No matter how desperate he might be, he needs to clearly state what he wants the most right now. 

“Now I need you to be mine…”

You nod, biting your lower lip before he could kidnap your mouth for a violent deep kisses torture. It makes you shiver; how mature he can be at certain times; those six years have passed for the both of you. 

Uryu lifts your leg, allowing his core to reach yours. Even underneath his jeans, the erection makes its presence more than clear, perhaps even being painful for him to bear, to tolerate.

You buck up your hips, just to let him know how much your sex desires him, his intrusion. Your hands work to unbutton his shirt; it is hard to do, but they come undone one by one. 

“I still wonder how you got this” you whisper, in between kisses, while tracing the inked Quincy star on his chest with the tip of your fingers. 

“The price I had to pay to regain my powers…” Uryu replies, now standing up just a little to undress you. It’s been enough waiting; he needs you completely naked now. 

His skilful hands take no time to rip your polyester coverings; inpatient, he wants instead, to see fine lace against soft skin… but even though Uryu enjoys the look of it, nothing can match the beauty of naked anatomy. Of your naked anatomy.   

Again, fighting desperation, he pounces back at your chest. The scar on it, still makes his whole being hurt, but the need to bite your erect nipples grows stronger, almost inevitably, on him. And so, he indulges on them, trapping a hard button in between wet lips.

Uryu sucks, Uryu bites, Uryu nibbles. You moan, you grunt, you whine…

Ah, delicious, he knows exactly what to do to turn your skin all bumpy, to make your brain a mess. 

And despite your wish to touch, to give that man at least a little bit of pleasure in return, he won’t allow you to do so. Not now, not yet. Uryu slaps your arms softly away, making them bounce back and behind your head. 

He just wants you to focus on one single thing: your own pleasure. 

Dr. Ishida’s hand slides down as he kneels in between your spread legs. A swift motion allows him to lower your pants, taking the panties with them too. 

A shivering grunt abandons his lips when your femininity flashes before his cerulean eyes; you can tell his erection has grown a little bigger, a little harder because of it. 

Uryu can’t stop himself from touching your warmth, burying his index in between your folds, getting them soaked with the honey he’s been dying to try. He wishes he could go slower, but there is much he could do. Nothing can stop a crave like this. 

When the fingertip of the young doctor encounters the little bump of pleasure, you react curling your back. The simple touch, the simple graze on your clit triggers your body like with no other man. Ah, the power of love, the power of lust. 

“You like it like this?” he dares to ask, maybe even enjoying this with naughty intent. You can tell, because it is all over his face, with a smirk you’ve rarely seen on his pale façade. 

“More…” you whimper, as he begins to trace circles and ups and downs. 

Uryu smirks grows even bigger; 

“More?” he murmurs, going faster, dragging your juices up and down and then back inside your entrance. 

You nod, with lips trembling, sloppy eyelids and little spasms here and there. 

Uryu then, lured by the carnality of your gestures, snakes down your core until his face reaches your heat. 

You try to lift yourself from the bed, but he won't allow you to do so. What must be lifted, are your legs, that soon are made to rest on each of his shoulders while his lips seal your intimacy. A furtive tongue slips in between your slit, getting full of unholy syrup. 

The doctor slurps, almost disgustingly but definitely deadly deliciously, everything your body produces. And the more he does, the more your core engulfs his pretty face… you have clenched your fist on his hair, moving his head up and down, and against. 

Uryu is sure his lips must have turned blue a long time ago, as oxygen became scarce, muffled by your folds… but he doesn’t care, in fact, he won’t tell as he feels lightheaded from pleasure. 

You contort and retort to a coming orgasm, carving your heel on his back, throwing your head back, waking your neighbors up with your loud moans. 

“Uryu… I- ugh… nghh!” all you can whine, all you can whimper.

“Come… come…” all he can murmur, or try to. 

When the explosive sensation takes over your whole body, and his chin and chest gets bathed by you, you let go of his hair. He doesn’t mind, in fact, while he recovers a little bit of air, Uryu already crawls back to kiss your lips. 

“I love you…” he lets you know before trapping your panting with his kisses. 

“I – lov..love you-“ you pant, bringing him to receive his mouth on yours. 

You can tell he wants you to rest, despite the pain on his crotch… those jeans must be a prison to his masculinity. So, you take action, no matter how tired or how much you still shiver due to climax. 

“Lay by my side, please…” you plead. 

Uryu lets his body flop to your right, trying to hug, to pull you closer to his chest. But that should wait, unless until you both decide to go to sleep. 

“Do these pants hurt? Why are they still on, Uryu?” you ask, smiling, leaving your tongue against your upper teeth. 

He scoffs tiredly, allowing you to work your way over his lap. While your naked core sits on his legs, you unbutton the jean prison, eager to discover his sex for the very first time. 

Exactly like you imagined, you can see it is perfectly trimmed, clean, pale with a hint of purple… your toes curl to the imagery, causing that man to blush at the feral look on your face. 

“(Name), I must warn you… should you do anything, I won’t be able to stop myself” Uryu claims, worried for your safety. 

“Are you telling me you won’t be able to control yourself once you are inside me, Uryu? Is that what you mean?” you answer back, already crawling on top of his lap, grabbing his shaft to guide it inside of you. 

You let your body fall, devouring his whole sex with your core. No protection, completely raw and risky, something you knew you shouldn’t do but did anyway. 

Uryu takes his hands to his face; he wasn’t lying when he said he won’t be able to stop… his hands then land on each side of your ass, locking you in place, unable to move away from his dick. His upper body stands up from the bed, moving a little to the side so he is able to move you easier. If you thought you were the one riding, you were wrong. 

You can feel the throb, the twitch of his warm rock surrounded by your walls. His lips reach yours; his gaze turns serious, almost demonic. 

“I told you I won’t be able to stop myself” he lets you know, with his lips grazing yours and his hips starting to drill into you. No humping nor jumping can surpass this man’s thrusts, as he fucks you mercilessly raw. 

Some minutes into it, Uryu feels he must need to change positions. “Turn around” he commands, helping you to lay on the bed. 

You do, allowing him to top you, surrounding his waist with your legs the moment he slides back inside. The hip work goes back at full speed, as his lips traps once again yours. 

Deep kisses, as deep as his ramming. The sound of skin slapping against skin, tinted with wet little splashes… the grunts and whines, the “fucks” and “love yous” mixed. 

“I’ve been dreaming of this…” Uryu lets it slide out of his thoughts.

“me… too… keep going… please” you beg, carving your nails on his back, feeling the muscles move underneath your fingertips. 

Uryu keeps going, just as you asked for, decides to turn his common sense off as much as he can. That includes allowing his body to do everything to make you full of his seed… 

“I told you… I won’t be able to stop… you understand?” he asks, or maybe simply informs you.

“Then don’t stop…” you bite your lower lip. “Don’t stop, and make me very, very full… Dr. Ishida” you whisper in his ear.

Uryu can’t help but laugh, almost like finally accepting you have become a deadly addiction for him. “You want it deep, babe?” he asks, feeling the spasming, milking motion of your climaxing walls.

“Very, very deep inside Uryu…”

Your sweaty bodies tangled into each other rest still attached, kissing sloppily each other’s shoulders. The time passes, letting you both know this night is about to end. Ah, to sleep on each other’s arms, to rest and perhaps start again a couple of times… 

Or so you thought until your doorbell rang, unexpectedly. 

“Did you order something?” Uryu asks, putting back his glasses on. 

“No…” you reply, confused. “I must take a look, though” you continue, kissing his forehead before you surround your body with your bathrobe. 

Your naked feet walk through the cold floor of your apartment, noticing a familiar silhouette through the frosted glass of your door standing outside. 

“(Name), it’s me. I’m sorry I came in this late, I wanted to talk with you for a moment” “What…?” 

Uryu, unaware, gets his pants on quickly. He still tries to button them as he walks semi naked to join you. He fixes his glasses when he sees the man standing right by the door, holding a very modest flower bouquet in his hands. 

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” “Son… I” 

[to be continued]

[sleepynoons]

kyoraku x afab!f!reader, sfw, not beta read

cw: manga spoilers

notes: ok, i lied. i am going to post another thing of writing even though i literally have to meet a hard project deadline for work. anyway, i read one (1) blurb on kyoraku by @/sirendancerx like two weeks ago, and my brain has just been thinking about this dude non-stop. this is a mini char study on kyoraku being vulnerable, so angst w/ comfort.

IT'S SUMMER in soul society. you’re sleeping soundly, back turned to him and naked shoulders reflecting the moonlight streaming into the room. somehow, the cherry blossom tree right outside is still blooming, and stray petals have managed to flit in, most likely because you’ve left the shoji wide open. very rarely do you leave the sliding door unclosed, always a little wary of potential danger and unwanted stares, but it seems he’s rubbing off on you as you’ve become more relaxed with each passing day.

you’re clutching onto one of his arms, both of your hands wrapped around his much larger one and holding it right over your heart. it’s adorable, really, how you curl in on yourself and grasp onto him. but he’s also aware that, even in your sleep, you’re worried that he’ll leave, disappear by the morning light and abandon the life the two of you’ve shared, as if it was all just a lucid, transient dream. you’ll make yourself so small so you don’t inconvenience him in any way, so there’s no reason for him to throw you away.

shunsui knows he’s a coward.

he can rationalize all he wants. how it’s absurd that you’re still scared when the two of you’ve been together for years, how there’s no need to be worried because soul society is entering an era of peace, how you’re both adults and should act like it.

but then he’d be a total hypocrite, wouldn’t he?

because he’s the one not acting his age. all these years, and he hasn’t grown up.

in truth, he’d do anything to quell your fears. he’d marry you, retire, devote his entire life to ensuring your happiness. but he can’t bring himself to because there’s always the slightest chance that you’d wind up unhappy with him.

realistically, he can’t relinquish his title and responsibility as the commander of the gotei 13. if there’s anything he’s learned from these long years of battling, it’s that the divisions were too complacent and missed several opportunities to address danger early on. but that means he’d still have to fight, and he wouldn’t want to leave you a widow if he were to die.

but that’s not exactly it. really, his most deep-seated fear is the possibility that you’d fall out of love with him.

how ironic.

you’ve given him so much love, kindness, and care – but you’re no giving tree. and he won’t allow himself to forget that.

if anything, he pities himself. he’s checkmated himself, deadlocked between his own fear of abandonment and his unwillingness to do something about it. at his core, he’s no different from his younger, irresponsible self.

but something nanao told him during their battle against lille barro jolts him out of his wallowing.

is that truly for my sake? she had said to him after he confessed he had withheld her zanpakuto to prevent her from falling victim to the ise household’s curse.

as with you… is it truly for your sake?

he sighs, one of relief, determination, and fondness. he’ll have to treat his niece to a good meal.

he places a chaste kiss on your temple, and you stir.

“shun…,” you mumble, tone drowsy and exhausted.

“it’s still early,” he coos. 

you whine, stretching a little, before turning over so your face is now buried in his chest. 

“why are you still awake?” you grumble. he already knows you’re falling back asleep, with the way you’re breathing deeply again, but he chuckles at your attempt to stay conscious regardless.

he simply runs his fingers over the back of your head, caressing and savoring the closeness of you to him.

one day, he’ll make you the happiest person in the world. and that day doesn’t seem too far off.

[harmonysanreads]

Hiiiii! I saw your reblog on my Yandere Phainon and reading the tags brought smile to my face, thank you and I’m happy my work hit the spot 💖

I just wanted to say, the idea of Phainon like this is just sooo… 😩 I feel like Phainon himself is not aware he’s that manipulative or cruel towards reader, that it’s more of an involuntary thing (though he’s not an idiot either and knows how to coerce reader into his request.) I had this idea he’d be so obsessed with reader he’d romanticise everything about them without realising that there’s more complexity to reader’s problems, and with that, the fact that his words of supposed acceptance and forced-facing-their insecurities would be painful and not uplifting…

As you say, some people would have taken his words as compliment since they’re more subtle, but someone as insecure as reader would always be sensitive to any word and end up having their spirit crushed just like Phainon has crushed theirs with treating their insecurities as something only acceptable, but not desirable…allegedly not on purpose.

I just cannot stop feeling like Phainon is such a creep-feeling character to me in the game, that yeah, he’s nice and chivalrous, but it’s as if he’s one stop away from losing it all and that he’d be love bombing type until you no longer want to be separated from him, so I had to write him this way. I don’t know the kevin lore but Phainon really feels psychotic to me, felt that way during the quest, as if he lost a big part of himself.

I’m glad this interpretation of him was well received! I’m really curious how is it you perceive him yourself, even just as a character in the game and off fanfic.

The fic mentioned is this one. Do check it out!

That's... interesting. I agree with everything you've said but the Phainon giving you the creeps part really surprised me. So, that made me wonder whether knowing Kevin's lore from HI3 really does make a difference or not because, I've never gotten that particular vibe from Phainon. There's a bit of a distinction here which I'll clarify shortly.

Phainon's turbulent inner world is something that we all can agree on by now, especially since both Aglaea and Tribbie have talked about his preference for shouldering way-more-than-he-should very clearly. I've also mentioned the matter of identity crises in particular in a previous post back when 3.0 was still fresh. In 3.1's story, he honestly gave very ‘smiling through the pain’ vibes throughout. So, I completely agree with the ‘one step away from losing it all’ and I keep it in mind myself for when I write for him.

Phainon has lost pretty much everything. Even though he gained a new identity after becoming a Chrysos Heir, it'd never compare to his peaceful life in Aedes Elysiae. And even then, he's slowly having to let go of his companions to the prophecy, he's becoming alone all over again. At the same time, he can't bring himself to burden others with his problem, isn't that the least he should be capable of as a ‘perfect vessel for divinity’? But deep down, maybe, he yearns for someone to understand without him having to speak up, without him having to convey.

To talk about Kevin without spoiling the story, I'll need to quote Welt from back during the Penacony arc — that man was never a failure. Even if the decisions he makes are questionable and shady, at his core his sense of duty is pure. Perhaps that is why, despite noticing all of these things about Phainon, I have trust in him. He's so familiar, in a way. Amphoreus's story is long and Phainon will no doubt go through many unpleasant things, but I have faith that his intentions will not stray. He is and will be a true hero. Which is why, even if I write for him in certain ways, I'll personally never see him as anything truly sinister.

I've read another one of your works for him and there I noticed a reflection of this observation of yours as well. I'm by no means criticizing or discouraging it by the way! Your interpretation is what makes your writing for him unique! I just find the distinction that's appeared as a result very interesting.

[lucilleambrose]

Poets Note :- So, I know i haven't been posting much and I'm sorry about that but I'm back again with a new poem with a very new rhyming scheme so really, I'm trying out something new here. I hope you all like it. It was inspired by this quote i stumbled across "the shortest poem was a name" and I wanted to show you all my own spin on that quote. ❤️ So without further ado, this one is called :-

The Shortest Poem

- An Original Composition By Lucille

The shortest poem is a name,

For me, it was yours. Chanted all the same.

Like a whisper on my lips it looped over and over again,

Almost as if your name was something the angels above themselves, had sang.

My shortest poem was once a name I couldn't forget,

Because in my mind, our story and future, in stone had been set.

But life has this funny way of leaving us all quite heartbroken and frankly very upset,

But I think it's time I put your name to rest.

My shortest poem was a name that no one uttered anymore,

They feared that if they did they'd hit a wound of mine, still somehow sore.

But I wanted, no, I needed to hear it just once more,

So that I could finally find closure and feel peace at my core.

My shortest poem is one I cannot remember now,

Over the years I've forgotten your name somehow.

But i know i remember it, somewhere deep down.

If i lived in a kingdom built up on your lies, then I promise you I'd wear that crown with a bitter smile.

Your shortest poem was her name not mine,

I think that's just how life goes and before you say it no, I'm not angry, I'm perfectly fine.

Because my warmest poem won't be about you, no, it'll be about someone who's truly mine.

But until then I hope you realise the prettiest poems are the ones that are much much longer than just one word and never are they fueled with lies.

© 2025 lucilleambrose | All rights reserved.

Reblogging is allowed only on this platform with full credit. No part of this content may be changed, copied, or shared on any other website or platform under any circumstances.

[lighting-and-shadow]

So I have this idea (no one asked for) of Sylus and MC dynamic and reasons why they might not work.

Disclaimer:

I love MC! I don’t tolerate any hate towards her. I just gravitate more towards non-MC fics because I love angst, I love to suffer, I love to guess on whether it will be happy ending or not and I’m very solo Sylus main. Most of Sylus non-MC fics are usually very Sylus focused. Also I rarely relate to MC personality wise. I still find her incredibly badass and strong!

What I don’t like is “Sylus cheating on MC” plots. Because I think he is just not that kind of man. Unfortunately a lot of times it’s almost inevitable because MC is like his destined soulmate. So i thought of the solution! What if they (MC X Sylus) do try to be together, but it doesn’t work out.

HEAR ME OUT (spoilers for main story update)

MC and Sylus both grew up in a violent place like gladiator arena. However what sets them apart is that unlike Sylus, MC actually had years of peaceful life in Linkon. Even though we all collectively hate Josephine, she still gave MC years of peaceful and normal life, which MC really appreciates.

Sylus however was doing god knows what in space (robbing space lords, saving poor planets, serving time in time and space prison), then he decided to settle on earth. But he chose one of the most violent places on earth - N109 zone. He could have chosen Linkon? He could have pretended anyone else, like Raf who taught at MCs university. He could have become actual fruit vendor. But he didn’t. One might argue it’s because the lab was in n109 zone. But Dimitri kept the lab safe, Sylus wasn’t needed there 24/7. In my opinion it’s because he enjoys/is used to this kind of lifestyle, he feels the most free and comfortable in this kind of setting. N109 zone is also place full of forbidden desires, on which he feeds on and full of people who would not mind selling their soul.

So in the scenario where all is well, wanderers are gone, EVER is defeated, no enemies to fight, no danger to prevent.

I can actually see MC craving peace and stability (who can blame her, with such a traumatic life). Sylus is willing to give it to her.

MC and Sylus decide to settle together in Linkon. Everything is fine at first, but eventually Sylus gets bored. Even if intellectually he wants that peaceful life with MC, his soul craves chaos and danger. She would see that. She would see how unhappy this kind of life makes Sylus. That’s when they start clashing. Sylus would say they are the same, kindred spirits, twin flames etc, that deep down she is bored too. She is a fighter, just like him. To some extent he is right. She also has a hard time adjusting to this new lifestyle. But she is willing to change and adapt, because in her core she wants Linkon to be a peaceful place, she values this stability she fought for her whole life. She became a Hunter for a reason. So one day she admits to him she no longer likes this version of herself, the kind of person she becomes around him. That in her core she wants something different for herself. He encouraged a fighter in her, but she no longer needs to be one. Her goal is achieved. It breaks his heart but he understands her. They break up. Amicably, almost friendly, with deep respect for each other.

So now our underworld king is single, but absolutely not ready not mingle.

So this whole scenario in my head made me think - “what kind of person would be perfect for Sylus?”

At first I wanted to indulge myself and self insert.

So the girl would be calm, quiet with almost soothing presence. The kind of girl who can get him to sleep on her lap, so that he forgets whatever was on his mind. The one that alarmingly will make him let his guard down. The kind of girl who would make him stop and just breathe a little. Stable, nurturing, probably a healer. (It’s not exactly me, more like romanticized, hyperbolic, fictional version of me). Complete opposite of him.

I’m not sure it would work in reality? Who knows. Let the girl have her daydreams.

Or perhaps he needs someone who would be just a female version of him.

I honestly just wanna hear your version of Sylus’s perfect match and from your readers too. Since i noticed a lot of discourse in comments under your posts.

Also anyone can feel free to use this scenario in their non MC fics. If anything, I’m hoping someone would develop this idea.

Ok, so I have a lot of thoughts to unpack here:

First, I also love MC (as evidenced by Ikigai), but I just don't vibe with her sometimes. Sure, she's impulsive, but I have anxiety; I'm not brave, I'm not strong, and I'm not as flawlessly beautiful as her.

Second, I also hate the cheating stories. Because it's not in character for any of LADS men (maybe Caleb or Rafayel with the whole MC vs Not MC, but that's a story for another time), especially Sylus. I see myself in him: someone who's been betrayed by the world and wants to find someone he can fully trust and be himself with. He would never cheat.

Third, this whole scenario of them trying to be together and it not working is genius. And I can see it happening. Because, and this is part of why I write non MC for this man, MC of the current and the one he knows are practically different people.

Current MC is kind and bit naive (another reason I don't vibe with her; I'm a cynic to my absolute core and assume the worst all the time (fuck anxiety and trauma)). Current MC longs for peace. Current MC is lost and confused. Current MC simply isn't the same girl he survived the gladiator ring with.

Fourth, I see Sylus' ideal as a someone like him (much like my character from Ikigai), but with more softness. Like how you described: someone he can just lay his head down and let him forget his worries and struggles. Someone who's fiercely loyal and protective, but also kind.

I think someone who's a good balance of kind and realistic would suit him. Like they know the world is scary and painful and they could be hurt, but they choose not to spread it. They choose to be kind when they can.

But, he can also have fun with them. Laugh with them. Fight alongside with them.

Sylus' ideal is someone who loves him unconditonally. Someone who accepts all of him.

But that's just my thoughts on it. I'd love to hear more of what you think!

@mtcozylove

[wowstrawberrycow]

It's about time I list my headcanons for Adar!🖤🐾🐈‍⬛🐝

These are my headcanons for Adar🌈🖤 I see him as a very versatile sort of character with the capacity for deep compassion and love if given the chance to heal. His healing journey will be rough and he'll need lots of care but when that is given he would protect you with his life.

Here are more of my thoughts about him and how I view him as a person attempting to get through life. I write Adar this way on my other blog @adarssuggestionbox 🌈🖤

Note: I think all headcanons have merit regardless of how absurd, because most come from our hearts or a place of our own needs.

My headcanons for Adar 🖤🐾🐈‍⬛🐝

Suffers from severe PTSD (Post Traumatic Sauron Disorder ❤️‍🩹)

He lives his life in a constant state of depression. Centuries of despair will do that to a person.

He is a sexual assault and general trauma survivor.

I canon him to have gone through what only can be described as torture.

His ex is Sauron

He has violent episodic panic attacks when he is triggered. This is expressed in a variety of ways including but not limited to: physical violence, crippling fear, heavy emotional outbursts, mental/physical shut down via dissociation paralysis.

If allowed to exist in a peaceful nonthreatening environment he will be constantly on edge questioning himself. He is no longer used to peace so he finds this unnerving and is extremely awkward when interacting with polite company.

He will also be prone to keeping his distance from others and is regarded as quiet to an uncomfortable degree. He is jumpy, and unable to relax as he waits for something unkind to happen in every encounter. Violence and aggression are what he expects. When these do not come to pass it throws him off and makes him suspicious.

After spending his life being forced into a state of silence, as it was safer to stay quiet, it is hard to get him to speak. But when he does it is always meaningful and laced with melancholy sweetness. His love interests are some of the few outside of his children who can manage to get him to use his voice.

When he is put into an environment that doesn't require him to be violent or aggressive he can be VERY soft. In fact, I would describe him as docile as a kitten but only if he feels safe with you. He will crave copious amounts of the gentlest attention he can get. Then he will return it back in equally sweet ways. He is a very thoughtful lover.

At his core he is a submissive. He craves incredibly soft love due to his excessive exposure to Sauron's abuse and cruelty. Because he essentially was tortured by the dark Lord he has internalized fear of expressing that side of himself in any setting. Dom's will have to work hard to expose that soft side.

Before he underwent the uruk transformation, Adar was an elf that was famous for his extraordinary bee keeping. He still has all of his bee keeping skills and the ability to get his bees to produce honey/other byproducts with near magical properties. People would travel far and wide for a taste of his honey in his previous life as an elf.

Adar is polyamorous, and when he was an elf I headcannon him to have been married to a skilled baker and gardener. Both men shared a business with their husband Adar. while Adar would work the bee fields collecting products and tending to them, his husbands tended the bakery where bread and honey were sold and a flower/herb shop on the other side of the bakery. His husband who gardened made sure that the bees had plenty of flowers to keep them happy.

Because of their jointed business they were wealthy.

Adar and his husbands always wanted children but never had the chance to adopt any. Just as they were gearing up to prepare their home for a baby or a couple of small children his home was attacked in the night as they slept. His husband's were slaughtered before his eyes. Then he was captured and taken away in chains to the nameless mountain for the transformation/experimentation.

He met Sauron at that same peak, several years after his transformation.

He eventually became an addition to Sauron's haram. Unspeakable things happened in those "entertainment" chambers. unfortunately Adar quickly became Sauron's favorite among his "toys". Though this had its advantages because he was able to do things others could not within reason. one such thing was learning sword arts.

Sauron from the start made adar believe that he loved him via manipulation, abusive behavior, and cruelty. This was a very stockholm syndrome situation. He had Adar convinced he wouldn't find anyone who would love him in his current state. He even granted Adar's dearest wish to have children to care for as a way to manipulate him for kicks.

Adar is extremely skilled at understanding and carrying out child care methods of all varieties, because he was primarily in charge of the nursery that held uruk young. Officers under Morgoth saw it as a lowly job not worth their time.

After tending to that nursery for ages he earned his current name, Adar. Children are truly a joy to him.

As his children grew up, they learned to tend to each other's young. They developed a communal style of living in order to survive with Adar's guidance.

Adar still remembers his elvish name and keeps that a sacred secret.

He enjoys soft and simple moments.

He has a soft-spoken down to earth quality about him. Only those who are close to him get to see his tooth achingly sweet center. All others are met with a cold stare.

He cannot emote very well anymore. Given that fact he meets everyone with an intimidating stone expression. But those who know him will see his emotions expressed via intensity and glassiness of his eyes or soft redness of his cheeks.

He values kindness when on his redemption journey

He also has always loved entomology. Insects and small critters slowly scurrying about or relaxing are a simple pleasure. He enjoys watching them peacefully live their lives. He is envious of their bliss.

He is 100% a soft submissive with a kitten space and in some AUs I canon him to have a masc-dollification space.

He may be a goth man, but he is highly emotional in private and desperately wants nothing more to be loved by someone. Anyone who will treat him with a delicate hand.

A lover who he is deeply attached to can easily move him to tears with genuine kindness and gentle care.

His heart is also captivated by Elrond and Celebrimbor's vast kindness. In some AUs I canon him to have eyes for High King Gil Galad.

He has stray kitten energy; cute, sad, in desperate need of gentle love but at the same time is ferociously feral ready to chew off your arm.

The only way to tame him is via soft words, feathery touches, and pure kindness. Once you have proven your weight in kindness there isn't a thing you could ask him that he will not do. He will be obedient to you without question.

Others will not receive the privileges above. He might attack one who gets his temper flared up. However, over the years this has gotten better.

He has infinite patience for his children.

When he is not in a state where he feels he has to be violent out of necessity he has infinite patience for all children.

He cannot function well without a soft dom. He needs a constant gentle touch to help him feel safe in the world around him. Nearly everything feels like a threat and the need to be on constant guard is an issue for him. He needs to be in a soft BDSM lifestyle.

He is a bi guy leaning primarily towards being gay. I think it is rare that women get his attention.

I canon him to have done terribly cruel things in his past out of brutal conditioning. He was conditioned to believe he had to kill or be killed to survive. But all of his behavior regardless of how cruel and inhumane was done in order to give his children a chance to live better lives.

In his redemption arc he would have realized his error and did his best to teach his children how to be compassionate towards others. Even he regrets all of his past wrongs and wants desperately to reverse the damage. That's why I write him that way on @adarssuggestionbox .

Regret haunts him daily

In conclusion, to me this is the face of a soul who wants softness and to be soft every day but can't. This is the face of a broken stray kitten who needs love.⬇️

[fr0stf4ll]

Forge of Starlight - Part 9 

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the heart of Velaris, a skilled blacksmith's quiet life is turned upside down when unexpected bonds begin to form with the enigmatic Spymaster of the Night Court. As she navigates the challenges of her craft and the complexities of newfound relationships, she discovers that love and loyalty may be the strongest forces of all in a world where darkness often lingers just beyond the light.

word count ; 4k

warning; fight, mention of death, mention of blood, death.

notes; at the end ;)

here is the link for part 8 or part 10

---

The rest by the fire had been brief, a stolen moment of peace in the midst of a storm. With the morning light just beginning to filter through the trees, you and Azriel resumed your search, the urgency of the mission driving you forward. The forest was quiet, too quiet, and the weight of the unknown pressed down on you like a suffocating shroud.

Azriel’s shadows swirled around him, more active than usual, their whispers almost audible as they communicated with him. He walked beside you, his posture tense, every sense on high alert. You could feel it too—the growing sense of unease, the feeling that something was horribly wrong.

Azriel suddenly stopped, his hand gripping your arm as his shadows seemed to surge around him, coiling tightly as if in warning. “My shadows are picking up movement ahead. A group of people. We’re getting close.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, fear and determination battling within you. You nodded, your grip tightening on your swords. “We need to be careful, Az. This feels… off.”

He looked at you, his expression dark and serious. “It does. Stay close to me. Whatever happens, we face it together.”

You nodded, but even as you said the words, a strange feeling began to creep over you—something deep inside, a cold dread that had nothing to do with the approaching danger. It was as if the very core of your being was reacting to what lay ahead, a warning from the power that you had kept hidden for so long.

As you moved forward, the trees began to thin, revealing a clearing ahead. The shadows darkened, and the air grew colder, the smell of damp earth and something else—something metallic—filling your senses.

And then you saw them.

A group of figures stood in the clearing, their faces hidden by dark hoods. But it was the man standing at the center who caught your attention—the same man who had come to your shop with the mysterious order, the man whose presence had set off a chain of events that now led you here.

He was waiting for you, his stance relaxed, almost casual, as if he had been expecting this moment all along. His gaze locked onto yours, a cold smile curving his lips.

“Welcome, Y/N,” he said, his voice smooth and unhurried. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

Azriel moved closer, his hand hovering protectively near his blade, his shadows swirling with anticipation. “What is this?” he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

The man tilted his head slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. “This, shadow singer, is the culmination of a plan that has been in motion for a very long time. You see, Y/N, this was always about you. The weapon… it was meant for you.”

Your breath caught in your throat, your mind racing as you tried to make sense of his words. “What are you talking about?”

The man’s smile widened, a cruel edge to it now. “The power inside you, Y/N. The flames that you’ve kept hidden, the power that you’ve tried to suppress, the phoenix—it’s not meant for you alone. It was never meant to be kept by one person.”

Azriel’s grip on his blade tightened, his gaze narrowing. “You want to take her power?”

The man’s eyes gleamed with something dark, something hungry. “Yes. The weapon I requested was to extract it, to take that power and use it as it was intended—to control it, to harness it.”

The words hit you like a blow, the truth of them resonating deep within you. You had always known that your power was different, that it was something more than just a gift of healing. But you had never understood the full extent of what it was—or what it could become in the wrong hands.

“You can’t have it,” you said, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and fury. “I won’t let you take it.”

The man’s smile turned mocking, his gaze flicking to the others around him. “You don’t have a choice, Y/N. You were never meant to have this power in the first place. It’s time to set things right.”

And with that, the fight began.

The attackers moved swiftly, their weapons drawn as they closed in on you and Azriel. But this time, you didn’t hold back. The fear, the anger, the desperation—they all surged within you, fueling the flames that burned deep in your core.

With a fierce cry, you unleashed your power, the blue flames roaring to life around you. They danced along your skin, leaping from your hands like living fire, consuming everything in their path. The attackers recoiled in shock, their weapons faltering as they were met with the full force of your power.

Azriel fought beside you, his blades cutting through the air with lethal precision, but even he seemed momentarily taken aback by the sheer intensity of the flames. You were a force of nature, your power a blazing inferno that threatened to consume everything in its wake.

The man at the center watched with a dark satisfaction, his eyes gleaming as if this was exactly what he had hoped for. “Yes… that’s it, Y/N. Embrace it. Feel its power.”

But you didn’t care about his words. All you cared about was ending this, about saving Alex and stopping these monsters from taking what was yours.

The fight was brutal, the clearing filled with the sounds of clashing steel and the roar of your flames. The attackers were skilled, but they were no match for you and Azriel. One by one, they fell, their bodies consumed by the fire that raged from your very soul.

But even as you fought, you could feel the strain of your power, the way it threatened to overwhelm you. The flames were wild, untamed, and with each passing moment, it became harder to control them.

Azriel noticed your struggle, his eyes flicking to you with concern even as he parried another strike. “Y/N, you need to be careful!”

But there was no time to be careful. The flames were a part of you, and they demanded to be unleashed.

With a final, desperate surge, you directed the flames toward the man who had started it all. He stood his ground, his eyes locked on yours, a twisted smile on his lips as the fire engulfed him.

But instead of being consumed, the flames seemed to pass through him, as if he were made of smoke and shadow. His laughter echoed through the clearing, cold and cruel.

“You can’t destroy me, Y/N. I’m a part of you, just as that power is. This isn’t over.”

And then, as quickly as he had appeared, he was gone, vanishing into the shadows like a wisp of smoke.

The clearing fell silent, the last of the attackers lying motionless on the ground. You stood there, your breath coming in ragged gasps, the flames slowly dying down as the reality of what had just happened began to sink in.

Azriel was at your side in an instant, his hands steady as he reached out to you. “Are you okay?”

You nodded, but the truth was, you didn’t know. Everything you had just learned, everything you had just felt—it was too much, too overwhelming.

“He was trying to take my power,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “He… he said it wasn’t meant for me. That it was supposed to be for something else.”

Azriel’s grip on you tightened, his eyes fierce. “Whatever he’s after, we’ll stop him. But right now, we need to find Alex.”

You nodded, the urgency of the situation crashing back over you. There was no time to dwell on the darkness that had been revealed. Alex was still out there, and he needed you.

Together, you and Azriel began to move through the clearing, your steps determined as you pushed forward, deeper into the forest, toward whatever lay ahead.

But in the back of your mind, the man’s words echoed, a chilling reminder of the power that burned within you, and the shadowy forces that sought to claim it.

The clearing where you had fought was eerily silent now, the only sound the crackling of dying flames as they consumed the last remnants of your enemies. The bodies of those who had attacked you lay scattered across the ground, their lifeless forms a stark reminder of the danger that still loomed over you. But there was no time to linger, no time to dwell on the bloodshed. Alex was still out there, somewhere in the darkness, and every second that passed felt like an eternity.

Azriel’s shadows, which had been so fiercely active during the battle, now swirled around him with a newfound urgency, their tendrils reaching out as if searching for something—someone. His face was set in grim determination, his eyes scanning the area as the two of you moved deeper into the forest.

“We need to keep moving,” Azriel said, his voice tight with controlled emotion. “There’s a chance they’ve taken him further into the woods, or they could have hidden him somewhere nearby.”

You nodded, gripping the hilts of your swords tightly as you followed him, every muscle in your body tense and ready for another fight. The forest was dense, the trees towering above you like silent sentinels, their branches intertwining to form a dark, shadowy canopy that blocked out much of the light.

As you pushed forward, you couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that had settled in your chest. The man’s words echoed in your mind, his cruel smile etched into your memory. He had known you would come, had been expecting you—and that realization gnawed at you like a persistent, unwelcome thought.

Your power, the blue flames that had always been a part of you, had never felt so dangerous, so out of control. The way they had surged during the fight, the way they had nearly overwhelmed you—it was as if they were responding to something deep within you, something that was tied to the very essence of who you were.

But there was no time to think about that now. Alex needed you, and you couldn’t afford to lose focus.

“Anything?” you asked, your voice strained as you glanced at Azriel.

He shook his head, frustration flickering in his eyes. “Nothing yet. But my shadows are restless. They’re picking up traces of something… I just can’t tell what it is.”

You pressed your lips together, trying to push back the rising tide of fear that threatened to consume you. The forest was vast, and the shadows seemed to stretch on forever, offering no clues, no signs of where Alex might be.

You moved silently through the underbrush, your steps light and careful as you searched for any trace of the boy who had become so dear to you. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant call of a nightbird.

But then, as you rounded a bend in the forest, you felt it—a faint pulse, like a whisper in the back of your mind. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there, tugging at the edges of your consciousness.

You stopped in your tracks, your breath catching as the feeling grew stronger, more insistent. It was the same sensation you had felt before, during the battle, when your power had surged uncontrollably. But now it was different—focused, directed.

“Azriel,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I think… I think I can sense something.”

He turned to you, his expression sharpening as he caught the change in your demeanor. “What is it?”

You closed your eyes, focusing on the sensation, letting it guide you. It was like a thread, thin and fragile, leading you deeper into the forest. “This way,” you said, your voice steadier now as you began to move in the direction the feeling was pulling you.

Azriel fell into step beside you, his shadows flaring around him as if they, too, could sense what you were feeling. The air grew colder as you pushed forward, the trees growing thicker, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers.

And then you saw it—a faint glow, just ahead, barely visible through the dense foliage. It was faint, but unmistakable—a soft, bluish light that pulsed gently, like the heartbeat of the forest itself.

You exchanged a glance with Azriel, your heart pounding in your chest as you both moved closer. The glow grew brighter as you approached, and soon you found yourself standing at the edge of a small, hidden glade, the light emanating from a cluster of stones arranged in a rough circle.

But there was no sign of Alex.

Your heart sank, disappointment and fear washing over you in equal measure. The glow, while mysterious, offered no immediate answers, no indication of where he might be.

But you couldn’t give up, not now. Not when you were so close.

Azriel’s hand rested on your shoulder, his touch grounding you as he spoke. “This might be connected to your power. We need to figure out what this is—what it means.”

You nodded, swallowing hard as you stepped into the glade, the soft light bathing you in its eerie glow. The stones were ancient, their surfaces worn smooth by time, but the air around them buzzed with a faint energy, as if they were alive with the power they had absorbed over the centuries.

The feeling inside you grew stronger, more insistent, and as you reached out to touch one of the stones, the blue flames flickered to life along your fingertips, responding to the energy that pulsed within the earth.

And in that moment, you understood.

This place, this glade—it was a focal point, a convergence of power, tied to the very essence of the land. The energy here was connected to you, to the flames that had always been a part of you. It was as if the earth itself was calling to you, resonating with the power you carried within.

But there was more—something hidden, something buried deep within the stones, within the earth itself.

You closed your eyes, letting the flames guide you as you reached deeper, past the physical, into the very fabric of the world. And then, like a sudden flash of lightning, you saw it—a vision, fleeting but clear.

Alex, bound and unconscious, his small form huddled at the base of one of the stones. He was alive, but barely. The man from the clearing stood over him, his smile cruel as he whispered words of power, words that resonated with the energy of the glade.

And then the vision was gone, leaving you gasping, your hands trembling as you pulled back from the stone.

“Y/N,” Azriel’s voice was urgent, filled with concern as he knelt beside you. “What did you see?”

You met his gaze, your voice shaking as you spoke. “They’re using this place… to drain him, to take what’s left of his life. We have to find him. We’re running out of time.”

Azriel’s expression hardened, his shadows flaring with a newfound intensity. “Then we’ll tear this forest apart if we have to. We won’t leave without him.”

With renewed determination, the two of you pressed on, the urgency of the situation propelling you forward. You knew now that this was all connected to the power within you, the power that the man had spoken of—the power that they sought to claim.

But you wouldn’t let them. You couldn’t.

And as the light of the glade faded behind you, you knew that the final confrontation was drawing near. The stakes had never been higher, and the cost of failure would be more than you could bear.

But you were ready to face it, ready to fight with everything you had.

For Alex.

For the power that was yours.

For the future that still lay ahead.

The forest seemed to close in around you as you and Azriel followed the trail of energy that pulsed through the earth, guiding you deeper into the shadows. Every step felt like a lifetime, the weight of the urgency pressing down on you with an unbearable intensity. The vision of Alex, bound and helpless, was burned into your mind, driving you forward with a desperation that bordered on madness.

You could feel the power growing stronger, the pulse of the glade’s energy resonating within you as you neared your destination. The trees thinned, the darkness deepening until it felt like the night itself was pressing against your skin. And then, through the tangled branches and dense underbrush, you saw it—a faint, flickering light, barely visible through the gloom.

Azriel’s shadows surged around him as he moved ahead, his blades drawn, ready for whatever awaited. You followed, your heart pounding in your chest as you pushed through the last of the trees and into a small, hidden clearing.

There, in the center of the clearing, was Alexander.

He was bound to one of the ancient stones, his small body slumped forward, his head hanging low as if he were unconscious. The soft, blue glow of the glade’s energy pulsed around him, a cruel mockery of the life that was slipping away from him with every passing second.

The man from the clearing stood over him, his cruel smile gone, replaced by a look of cold satisfaction. He didn’t even flinch as you and Azriel burst into the clearing, his eyes locking onto yours with a chilling certainty.

“You’re too late,” he said, his voice calm, almost indifferent. “The ritual is nearly complete. The boy’s life force will feed the power that should have been yours.”

Rage unlike anything you had ever felt surged through you, the flames roaring to life around your hands, brighter and more intense than ever before. “Get away from him!” you screamed, the flames flaring outward, sending a wave of heat crashing through the clearing.

Azriel moved to attack, his shadows lashing out with deadly precision, but the man was ready. With a wave of his hand, a barrier of dark energy sprang up, deflecting the shadows and pushing you both back.

“No!” you cried, your voice breaking as you tried to push forward, tried to reach Alex. But the barrier held firm, the dark energy crackling with malevolent power.

The man’s smile returned, a twisted, mocking grin. “This power was never meant for you, Y/N. It’s too dangerous, too wild. But with the boy’s life force, it can be controlled, harnessed. And you will be free of it.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, panic and desperation clawing at you as you tried to break through the barrier. The flames danced around you, wild and uncontrollable, but the barrier remained unyielding.

And then, in a moment of pure, blinding rage, you unleashed everything.

The flames surged, a torrent of blue fire that crashed against the barrier with a force that shook the earth. The energy crackled, the barrier faltering for a moment under the sheer intensity of your power.

But it was too late.

The ritual was complete.

The dark energy surrounding the stone flared, a final burst of power that shot through Alex’s small form like a bolt of lightning. His body jerked, a strangled gasp escaping his lips as his eyes fluttered open, just for a moment.

Azriel had been fighting beside you, the darkness of the forest closing in around him as the battle raged. His blades had sung through the air, his shadows twisting and writhing like living entities, seeking out the enemies that surrounded you both. He had been prepared for anything—anything but this.

The moment he saw the clearing, his heart had dropped. The man who had haunted your recent days stood over Alex’s frail, bound form, and every instinct in Azriel screamed to rush forward, to tear the man apart and rescue the boy. But the barrier of dark energy that crackled to life between you and your enemies held him back, keeping him from reaching you.

Azriel’s shadows lashed out, trying to find a way through, but the barrier deflected them, pushing him back as if mocking his efforts. The anger, the helplessness, all swirled inside him, a storm of emotions that he could barely control. He could see you, your face twisted in fear and fury as you tried to break through the barrier with your flames, the blue fire roaring around you like a living force.

But it wasn’t enough.

He watched, heart pounding, as the ritual continued, the dark energy pulsing through Alex’s small body. Azriel could see the life force being drained from him, could see the way his fragile form shuddered under the weight of the power that was being ripped from him.

And then, with a final surge, you broke through. The barrier shattered under the force of your flames, and you were beside Alex in an instant, cradling his small body in your arms. Azriel moved to follow, but something in the air—something in the very essence of the forest—stopped him cold.

He stood there, on the edge of the clearing, his shadows swirling around him in agitation as he watched you hold Alex close. He could see the desperation in your eyes, the way your hands trembled as you tried to summon the flames that had always been there for you, the flames that had always healed.

But they wouldn’t come.

Azriel’s heart twisted painfully as he realized what was happening. The ritual, whatever it was, had drained the power from the glade, from the very earth itself. The flames that had always been a part of you were gone, leaving you defenceless, helpless, as you held the boy you had sworn to protect.

“Y/N…” Azriel whispered, but his voice was lost in the wind, carried away by the darkness that surrounded you both.

And then Alex spoke, his voice weak, barely more than a whisper. “I’m sorry… I won’t be there… for your wedding… with Azriel.”

The words hit Azriel like a physical blow, the weight of them crashing over him as he stood frozen, unable to move, unable to breathe. He could see the pain in your eyes, the way your tears fell onto Alex’s pale face as you tried to comfort him, tried to reassure him that he would be there, that everything would be alright.

But Azriel knew the truth.

The boy was dying.

And then it happened.

The bond snapped into place with a force that took Azriel’s breath away. It was like a thunderclap in his mind, a sudden, overwhelming rush of emotion and sensation that left him reeling. He felt it in every fiber of his being, a connection so deep, so profound, that it was as if the very fabric of his soul had been intertwined with yours.

The bond pulsed through him, raw and powerful, and with it came the crushing realisation that you were his mate. You were the one he was destined to be with, the one he had been searching for his entire life. And yet, in that moment, as he looked at you holding Alex’s lifeless body, he felt nothing but pain.

It was unbearable, the way the bond twisted inside him, demanding that he move, that he comfort you, that he do something—anything—to ease the agony he could see etched into every line of your face. But he couldn’t move. He was paralyzed, rooted to the spot by the shock of the bond, by the sight of you in your worst moment, a moment that he was powerless to stop.

He wanted to reach out, to take you into his arms, to tell you that it would be alright, that he was here, that he would always be here. But the words wouldn’t come. They were stuck in his throat, choked off by the crushing weight of the bond that had snapped into place far too late.

And you didn’t feel it. He could see that in the way your eyes were glazed with grief, in the way you held Alex close, as if by sheer will alone you could bring him back. The bond was there, burning through Azriel with a force that was almost unbearable, but you were too lost in your sorrow to recognize it, too overwhelmed by the loss of the boy you had loved like a brother, like a son.

Azriel could do nothing but watch, his heart breaking as he saw you in this state, the woman he was bound to, the woman who was his mate, cradling the dead body of a child who had been your world. It was as if the ground had been ripped out from under him, leaving him falling, spiraling into a darkness that he couldn’t escape.

He was supposed to protect you, supposed to be your partner, your equal, but in this moment, he felt like nothing more than a bystander, watching helplessly as the woman he loved was torn apart by grief.

The shadows around him flickered, faltered, as if reflecting the turmoil inside him. The bond pulsed again, demanding that he move, that he act, but he was frozen, unable to do anything but stand there, his heart shattering with every sob that wracked your body.

He wanted to scream, to tear the world apart, to bring Alexander back if only to see you smile again. But there was nothing he could do, nothing that would bring the light back into your eyes, nothing that could undo the damage that had been done.

And so he stood there, helpless, broken, as the bond that tied him to you pulsed through him with every beat of his heart—a cruel reminder of the love that had come too late.

---

notes: pretty hard chapter for me to write, but I feel like it was something that had to happen for the overall story. After writing the part 9, I was honestly heart broken... I still hope that you enjoy this part, we have 5 more (+ epilogue) to do until the end of the story. If you guys have any request don't hesitate ;) See you soon <3

tag list: @annamariereads16 @hanatsuki-hime @elsie-bells @shizukestar @rose-girls-world @brit-broskis-cole-fanfic @faridathefairy @elsie-bells @faridathefairy @wolfbc97 @rcarbo1 @kitsunetori @hufflepuff-pa55 @proclivity-for-fantasy-97 @sometimeseverythingsucks @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @angel-graces-world-of-chaos @lilah-asteria @fightmedraco

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[giggly-squiggily]

things are kinda very hard rn and the dabble made my day infinitely better so if you don't mind i'll send in another one - "Aren't you tired of fighting?" with uzusane pretty please, but only if you wanna ofc ♡♡

{Puffs are now CLOSED!}

*sends all the hugs* Oh Rey- I'm sorry things are hard right now. I hope they get better soon! This one got a weeeee bit angsty (I can't resist with a beautiful prompt like that) but I hope you like it all the same! (If you want something fluffy please feel free to send another prompt-what who said that?)

CW: Angst, Demon Slayer post-ending spoilers

“Aren’t you tired of fighting?” The comment came out of nowhere- rattling Sanemi down to his core. “Seriously- don’t you ever want to just sit down and breathe?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” His shock shaped into anger, hands trembling into knuckle-white fists as he turned to glare. “You have no idea-”

“You’re blaming yourself.” Tengen’s words cut deep, the tone casual as if he were ordering tea at the shop. “You’re thinking “If I were just stronger. If I got there a second sooner. If I just did things differently, none of this would happen.” You’re wearing yourself down to the bone cause you don’t think you deserve anything less than punishment.” Tengen’s hard glare softened some, a weak smile pulling on his lips. “Am I wrong?”

Sanemi’s anger scattered to the wind, the words like a mirror reflection shoved in his face. He had no defense. Muzan was dead. The demons were gone. And yet..

“I don’t know how.” His strength left with his words, his knees hitting the dirt path beneath him. Was he crying or sweating? His voice sounded thick. “How do you know when it’s finally over?”

A beat of silence. Then a warm hand was on his back, the smell of tea and flash bombs touching his nose and making his eyes water. “You live on. You live and you keep living until the day comes where you find yourself at peace. You live on so those who couldn’t will have something to hear about when you come home to them.” Tengen reached up, wiping at his tears gently. “You live for them. And you live for yourself too.”

Sanemi let out a shaky breath, nodding. He closed his eyes, feeling himself be pulled into Tengen’s chest as let all the things he said sink in. This wasn’t going to be an easy journey- this whole living thing.

“Of course- if you need help from me, you’re always welcome at the Uzui estate! I could use a fourth wife.” Tengen grinned, brightening when he heard Sanemi snort. “What? I think you’d fit right in! I’ll get you a matching outfit- wait, no. The girls might be jealous of your tits.”

“Oh fuhuhck off!” Sanemi laughed, shoving at him as the older man cackled. His chest felt lighter at least.

He was glad to have Tengen in his life.