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tender-rosiey · 5 months ago

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I can’t get thisss out of my head and I wish I didn’t have adhd and could sit and write it correctly but oldest daughter y/n having to marry the brute lord Sukuna (arranged marriage type beat) and the only reason why she agrees is Becuase if she doesn’t marry him one of her sisters will have to and she just cannot bring herself to put her sisters threw that 😣😣😣

a garden among thorns — ryomen sukuna x f!reader

a/n: this is longer than most of my works, but i needed to do this idea as much justice as I can

your father’s face is pale as he kneels before the messenger, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on his shoulders.

his hands tremble in his lap, and his posture slumps, as if the air has been sucked from the room. the messenger stands tall and unyielding.

“lord sukuna requires one of your daughters to marry him,” the messenger states, his tone sharp and businesslike. “to refuse is…inadvisable.”

your mother gasps, clutching the edge of her robe, and your sisters exchange wide-eyed, horrified looks. aya’s grip tightens on hina’s sleeve, and hina’s mouth trembles, unable to form words.

you remain silent.

sukuna’s name hangs in the air like a curse—the king of curses feared across the land. to be sent to him is to step willingly into the jaws of a predator.

your father stammers, his voice barely above a whisper. “p-please…surely, there must be another way…”

the messenger’s gaze hardens, his words sharp and final. “lord sukuna does not make requests twice. you have until the week’s end to decide. one of your daughters will be sent to his estate.”

the messenger leaves, and the room plunges into a suffocating silence. your father collapses forward, burying his face in his hands, his body trembling with despair.

your mother’s sobs start quietly but grow louder, echoing through the room. aya clings to hina, her face pale with fear.

“I won’t let you choose,” you say, your voice cutting through the heavy silence.

all eyes turn to you in shock. your father lifts his head slowly, his expression a mixture of disbelief and sorrow. aya’s small hands clutch your arm. “no, you can’t mean—”

“I do,” you interrupt firmly, despite the turmoil gnawing at your chest. you meet each of their gazes, the weight of the choice pressing down on you.

your mother rises, hands trembling as she reaches for you, her face etched with anguish. “no, y/n. you’re the eldest, yes, but that doesn’t mean this burden should fall on you.”

you step back gently, removing her hands from your face. “do you want it to fall on aya? or hina?” you gesture toward your sisters, who stiffen at your words. “do you think they’ll survive with a man like him?”

aya shakes her head, tears streaming down her face. “you’re just as important as we are! why does it have to be you? please, don’t do this.”

you stand in front of her, brushing the tears from her face. “aya, I don’t want to go either. but if we don’t do this, sukuna will come for us.

he’ll take what he wants, and we won’t be able to stop him. you don’t deserve this life. hina doesn’t deserve it. at least I can try to protect you this way.”

aya sobs harder, her small frame shaking. “I can’t lose you,” she cries, burying her face in your shoulder.

you hold her tight, feeling the pain of this decision settle heavily on your chest. hina steps forward, her face unreadable. “be safe,” she whispers, her voice barely audible.

“I will,” you promise, though the words feel hollow.

your mother sobs uncontrollably into your father’s chest, and he remains silent, broken. he doesn’t stop you—he can’t. you know he wouldn’t, not in the face of sukuna’s power.

you pull away slowly, aya’s small hands slipping from your arm. “I’ll write,” you murmur, turning toward the door. “I’ll write as often as I can. you’ll be okay. just…take care of each other.”

they nod silently, but the fear in their eyes won’t fade.

your mother’s voice breaks through the quiet. “you’re so brave,” she whispers. “but I wish you didn’t have to be.”

you take a last look at your family, standing together in the doorway. their figures grow smaller as the cart takes you away, the weight of their sorrow heavy in your heart.

the world outside seems darker, colder as you leave them behind. the home you’re leaving is more than just a place; it is everything you know.

and with every step, you feel a piece of yourself slipping away.

the journey to sukuna’s estate feels endless, each passing mile colder than the last. the wind bites at your skin, and the clouds above seem to mirror the heaviness in your heart.

the long ride in the cart gives you ample time to think, but there is no solace to be found.

your family, the warmth of your home, and the lives you knew are fading into the distance, replaced by the looming unknown of sukuna’s estate.

your stomach churns with unease as you approach the gates. they are massive, imposing iron structures that seem to swallow the light, and as the carriage slows to a stop before them, the oppressive silence only amplifies the dread in your chest.

the heavy gates groan open with a reluctance that seems to mirror your own, revealing the vast grounds of sukuna’s estate.

everything about this place screams power—an estate built to intimidate, to assert dominance over all who enter.

the stone paths are harsh and cold beneath your feet as you step out of the carriage. the servants who meet you are stiff, their eyes avoiding yours as they take your belongings.

you are no more than a stranger in their world, a burden that they carry, and you feel the sting of that isolation.

as you make your way inside the grand hall, your footsteps echo in the silence. it’s all so stark, so cold. the air feels thick with tension, and as you round the corner into the heart of the estate, you are met with the full weight of his presence.

sukuna sits at the head of a long table in a massive hall, his eyes fixed on you as you enter. the sight of him is enough to take your breath away—his posture relaxed, yet every inch of him exudes power.

his dark crimson robes shift slightly as he stands, towering over you with an unsettling ease. his gaze is sharp.

“so,” he says, “you’re the one they sent.”

you stand tall, refusing to let the weight of his gaze break you. beneath the surface, your heart races, but you force yourself to keep it steady.

“I came of my own choice,” you reply, your voice firm but betraying a hint of the turmoil churning inside.

his lips curl into a smirk, an expression laced with amusement and something darker. “did you, now? brave. or foolish.”

the words sting, but you bite back the retort that rises to your lips. there’s no point in showing him weakness. “I’m not foolish,” you say, your voice colder than you intended, but it’s enough to get his attention.

he chuckles, a sound rich with disdain and amusement. “well, little wife, you’ll learn soon enough what your choice means.”

his eyes glint with a dangerous promise, and despite your resolve, something tightens in your chest.

after that meeting, his presence lingers, an almost tangible force, but he keeps his distance. it’s not until later that night, when you’re left alone in your new room, that the weight of your decision truly hits.

the walls feel too close, and the silence is suffocating.

life at sukuna’s estate is harsh, far colder than you anticipated. the mansion itself is sprawling and filled with echoing corridors, but it never feels warm.

the servants, though polite, are distant, as if afraid to make eye contact. your days are spent in isolation, wandering the gardens or sitting alone in your chambers, trying to make yourself useful without getting in the way.

you are nothing more than a visitor in this grand, empty place—a prize claimed by a man who has no use for you beyond the title you now bear.

at times, sukuna’s presence seems to vanish entirely, leaving you to grapple with the silence. but on other days, his sharp words cut through the air like blades, his moods as unpredictable as the wind.

he is a storm, sweeping through the halls when he deigns to speak, his eyes always sharp, always calculating.

one afternoon, you are working in the garden, your hands busy with the familiar task of pulling weeds, trying to occupy your mind.

the scent of earth and flowers is the only thing that feels real in this place. a soft breeze stirs the air, and for a fleeting moment, you almost feel like you’re back home.

but then, you hear his voice. it’s low and mocking, a drawl that sends a shiver down your spine.

“do you plan to sulk forever?” sukuna asks, his tone cutting through the air.

you glance up from your task, narrowing your eyes at him. he stands in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame, his robe flowing around him like an aura of danger.

“I’m not sulking,” you reply, your voice clipped, though you know it’s a lie. you are, in fact, sulking—trying to retreat into yourself because it’s the only way to survive this.

“could’ve fooled me,” he retorts, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips. “you’ve been quieter than a graveyard since you got here.”

you get ticked off by his words but force yourself to stay composed. “what would you have me do? laugh at your jokes?” you don’t know why you say it, but the challenge is there, raw and unfiltered.

he chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound that grates on your nerves. “I don’t tell jokes.”

you mutter under your breath, “clearly.”

to your surprise, he doesn’t take offense. instead, he raises an eyebrow, his eyes narrowing slightly as he steps into the garden.

his presence fills the space, as if he owns it. he leans against the stone wall, watching you with a mixture of curiosity and something more.

you feel his hand hold the top of your head for a moment, and he hums, “at least you’ve got a spine. I’d hate to have a wife who folds like paper.”

you don’t know what to make of the compliment—or if it’s even meant as one. but his words, though gruff, are the first acknowledgment he’s given you that isn’t full of disdain or indifference.

“I don’t fold,” you reply, try to shake his hand off. you find yourself meeting his gaze, a silent challenge passing between the two of you.

for a long moment, sukuna doesn’t say anything. the tension hangs in the air, thick and unspoken. then, finally, his lips curl into something that might be the start of a smile, though it’s fleeting.

“good,” he says, his voice almost too soft for you to catch. “you’ll need that fire, wife.”

you don’t respond, but as the days pass, his words linger in your mind. slowly, something starts to shift. his unpredictable moods, his sharp words, his occasional moments of unexpected gentleness—they all begin to add up.

it’s not love, not yet, but something else.

you’re not sure if you want to like him, but the more time you spend in his presence, the more you begin to understand him. in return, he seems to start observing you more closely, his interest piqued.

whether you like it or not, you are now bound together in this cold, sprawling estate, and the strange, slow pull between you grows with each passing day.

the first real instance happens during dinner. the grand dining hall is silent, save for the soft clinking of silver against porcelain.

sukuna sits at the head of the table, a looming figure of power, draped in his usual white and black.

his gaze flicks to you once, but he doesn’t speak. it’s a familiar pattern by now—he speaks only when he has something to say, and even then, his words are sparse, deliberate.

but tonight, as you reach for the pitcher of wine, your hand knocks over the glass beside it. the sound of the glass tipping and shattering against the floor startles everyone in the room.

a sharp, echoing crack. the servants freeze, eyes flicking nervously from the broken shards to sukuna.

you stand frozen, the glass at your feet, heart racing. the tension in the room thickens, but no one moves. you glance up at sukuna, half-expecting the usual cold indifference or a sharp rebuke.

but tonight, his dark eyes flicker to the broken glass before meeting yours. there’s something in his gaze—a spark of amusement—before he leans back in his chair, arms crossed, his posture lazy but commanding.

“careful, little wife,” he drawls, his voice low and slightly mocking, but there’s no malice in it. “I wouldn’t want to see you spill any more of my wine.”

you nod, instinctively bending down to pick up the shards, but before your fingers even touch the glass, sukuna’s voice cuts through the air.

“stop,” he commands, his tone sharp and unwavering.

you freeze mid-motion, looking up to find his gaze already fixed on you.

“clean this up,” sukuna commands, glancing at the servants, his voice a deep rumble that makes the servants rush to obey without a word.

as they quickly gather the shards, sukuna’s attention returns to you, though his eyes linger a moment longer than necessary.

“you seem eager to be useful,” he observes, his voice tinged with a hint of something almost approving. “but I’d rather not have my wife make herself filthy for something as trivial as this.”

you open your mouth but stop, unsure if you want to argue with him or remain silent.

a week later, you find yourself in the garden again, absentmindedly tending to the flowers that line the stone walls.

the peace of the garden is a brief escape from the heaviness inside the mansion, and you’ve come to cherish the quiet moments there.

this time, however, you hear footsteps approaching behind you. you don’t need to turn around to know it’s him. the weight of his presence is unmistakable.

“I see you’ve found your little sanctuary,” sukuna’s voice comes.

you don’t answer at first, focused on trimming the overgrown vines. his footsteps stop, and for a moment, there’s just the sound of the wind rustling the leaves and the faint scent of flowers in the air.

“are you going to ignore me every time I approach?” he asks, a hint of curiosity and a bit of annoyance lacing his words. “you don’t seem like the type to hide from confrontation.”

you glance over your shoulder, meeting his gaze for a brief moment. his eyes are narrowed, but there’s no hostility in them. it’s a rare look for him—almost like he’s testing you, waiting for your response.

“I’m not hiding,” you reply, your voice steady, though there’s an edge to it. “I just prefer peace.”

sukuna steps closer, a slight smirk tugging at his lips as he watches you work. “peace? in my estate?” his laugh is low and dark, more of a scoff than an actual laugh. “you won’t find that here, little wife.”

you focus on the flowers in front of you, resisting the urge to let his words unsettle you. but for some reason, you can’t quite brush off the way he’s watching you.

“I didn’t expect to,” you reply, your voice quieter now, softer.

there’s a beat of silence, and then, to your surprise, sukuna crouches beside you. his presence looms close, his eyes scanning the flowers you’re tending to. “they’re not bad,” he says.

you glance up at him, meeting his gaze. for a moment, the weight of the estate, the pressure of being in his presence, fades away.

it’s just the two of you, sitting in this strange, delicate quiet.

“well, they’re not as high-maintenance as you are,” you mutter under your breath, a playful jab that you can’t quite hold back.

he chuckles—a low sound that vibrates through the space between you. it’s the first time you’ve heard him laugh like that—without mockery, without an edge. it’s almost human.

“high-maintenance, huh?” he muses, his tone teasing, but there’s a shift in the air now. “maybe you’ll find that out the hard way.”

the words are playful. you’re not sure what to make of it, but it stirs something in you, something that’s both unsettling and... intriguing.

over the next few weeks, these small moments become more frequent, threading together a fragile tapestry of connection. sukuna’s presence is still overwhelming, but it feels less suffocating now.

he no longer seems entirely distant, nor does he hover with the same oppressive force. instead, he’s there, always watching, always waiting for something unspoken to unfold.

one evening, as you sit alone in the garden again, this time reading a book your family had gifted you, you hear his footsteps before you see him. sukuna doesn’t announce his presence this time.

he simply stands there, watching you with his usual, inscrutable gaze. you feel his eyes on you, and for once, you don’t feel the need to pretend you don’t notice.

“I’m surprised you can read,” he says, his voice a low murmur. there’s no mockery in it, only a genuine comment. “thought you’d be too busy sulking.”

you glance up from your book, meeting his gaze. “I’m not sulking,” you reply, the words more matter-of-fact than before. there’s no need to explain yourself to him anymore.

he steps closer, his presence heavy as always, but this time it doesn’t make you want to shrink away. “what are you reading about?”

“it’s just a story,” you say, closing the book slowly. “something to pass the time.”

“hmm,” he murmurs, his eyes flicking down to the book. “must be a boring story if it’s keeping you this entertained.”

you chuckle lightly. “maybe I just need a distraction from you.”

he doesn’t respond immediately, but there’s a tension in the air, as if the words have just cracked open something between you.

the turning point comes one evening when you receive a letter from home. you’ve been sitting by the window, when you notice the familiar parchment.

aya’s neat handwriting graces the top, and as soon as you read her name, your heart stutters.

you eagerly unfold it, fingers trembling slightly as you begin to read.

her words spill across the page with such love and longing that they cut deep, each line filled with updates about their daily lives, the little things that no longer seem so insignificant to you.

she tells you about hina’s recent antics and how their mother insists on planting a garden in the courtyard, even though the soil remains stubbornly unyielding.

she writes about how your father has been more quiet than usual, always looking out toward the horizon, waiting for the day when his daughters are reunited.

but more than anything, the letter is a reminder of how deeply you are missed, how the absence of your presence has created a space no one can fill.

you can feel the tears welling in your eyes before you realize it. they sting hotly as you read on. the weight of being apart from them—your sisters, your parents—becomes almost unbearable.

you can’t suppress the sobs that rise in your chest, so you quickly wipe them away, desperate to regain some composure.

but you’re too late. the door opens with a soft creak, and you don’t need to turn to know who’s standing there. sukuna’s presence fills the room as it always does.

he pauses, his sharp eyes narrowing in on you. his gaze flicks over your tear-streaked face then down at your hands.

“what’s that?” he asks, his tone surprisingly less abrasive than usual. it’s subtle, but there’s a shift in the way he speaks.

“a letter,” you reply quietly, your voice thick, the emotion still lingering. “from my sisters.”

his eyes linger on you for a moment longer, studying you with an intensity that seems to reach beyond your tears, deeper into the vulnerability you’ve been trying to keep hidden.

he steps forward, closing the distance between you, and before you can react, he takes the parchment from your hands, his fingers brushing yours just slightly as he does so.

you watch him scan the letter, his expression unreadable, as though the words don’t mean anything to him.

but you notice the slight twitch in his brow when he reads aya’s mention of hina’s mischievous behavior and the mention of your father’s quiet gaze.

he hands the letter back after a moment, his face still impassive, but something lingers in his gaze as he meets your eyes.

“they miss you,” he says simply, though his voice is quieter than usual, less detached.

you swallow hard, trying to steady yourself. you nod, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak. “I miss them too.”

for a long moment, neither of you speaks. the room is thick with the weight of unspoken words, the quiet intimacy of the exchange hanging in the air between you.

you wonder if he understands what it means to miss family—what it means to be torn from them, to feel so distant from the people who raised you, loved you.

you wonder if there’s a part of him that understands loneliness, even though he wears it like a badge of honor.

his expression remains unreadable, and for a moment, you think he’s about to leave, to retreat back into the distance that has characterized most of your interactions.

but then, to your surprise, he speaks again, his words low and deliberate.

“you may go visit them,” he says.

your breath catches in your throat, and you stare at him, eyes wide with disbelief. the words don't seem to register at first, not fully, and you find yourself unable to respond immediately. “what?”

his gaze remains steady, unwavering. “you heard me,” he repeats, a touch of impatience creeping into his tone. “you may visit them. if it’s that important to you.”

the shock slowly fades, replaced by confusion and a strange warmth that spreads in your chest.

you’ve always thought of him as a cold, imposing figure—a man who ruled through fear, who demanded respect through power.

but now, in this moment, you realize that he’s offering you something more than you ever expected. something human.

“I... thank you,” you finally manage to say, your voice barely a whisper.

“don’t make me regret it,” he warns, his voice returning to its usual gravelly tone. “I’m not doing this out of kindness. I simply don’t want you moping around here for the next week.”

you nod, the weight of the gesture sinking in, even as his words remain curt.

you don’t know if sukuna truly cares for you, or if this is just another act of power—his way of testing your limits or asserting control over your emotions.

but for now, you can’t help but feel a flicker of something more, a warmth that feels entirely out of place.

“thank you,” you repeat, your voice firmer now, despite the uncertainty that still lingers in your chest.

he grunts in response, turning to leave, but there’s a moment where his eyes meet yours again. and for the first time since you’ve arrived, you don’t see just the ruthless lord in those dark depths.

the journey back to your family’s home is a blur of emotion. the reunion with aya and hina is everything you imagined and more—warmth, laughter, and the comfort of familiar faces.

for the first time in months, you feel like yourself again, surrounded by the people who’ve always known you.

but even as you relish the joy of your visit, something lingers in the back of your mind. sukuna’s words, his unexpected offer to let you go, echo in your thoughts.

the days with your family fly by too quickly, and you can’t help but feel the ache of leaving them again.

aya hugs you tightly before you leave, her words of encouragement like a balm for the unease building in your chest. “you’ll be okay,” she whispers, her arms tightening around you.

when you return to the estate, everything feels oddly unchanged, yet different. the servants carry on as if your absence was nothing more than a passing breeze, and the cold, vast halls are just as you left them.

but sukuna is nowhere to be found—until you’re alone in the courtyard, unloading your things from the carriage.

the familiar sound of footsteps reaches your ears. the air shifts, heavy with his presence before you even see him. then, his shadow falls over you. you don’t need to look up to know it’s him, but you do anyway.

his gaze fixes on you, unreadable, but his lips are curled in that signature smirk. “back already?” he asks, his voice low.

you stand still, setting down the basket you were holding.

his eyes are sharp, studying you, but there’s an underlying softness you weren’t expecting. you nod, keeping your expression neutral. “I couldn’t stay away forever.”

sukuna doesn’t respond immediately, instead stepping closer. his feet crunch against the gravel.

you can’t help but notice how his gaze lingers on you, assessing, like he’s trying to understand something about you that he hadn’t before.

“do you miss them now?” he asks, his tone surprisingly casual.

you hesitate for a moment, feeling the vulnerability of the question. “of course,” you admit, your voice softer than you intended. “but I missed you, too.”

there’s a brief silence, the words hanging in the air between you. you can see the flicker of surprise in his eyes, something momentarily caught off guard by your honesty.

it’s rare that sukuna is disarmed, but somehow, your admission does just that. his lips quirk, but it’s not the mocking smile you’re used to. this one is different, almost amused in a way that doesn’t feel as patronizing.

“did you now?” he murmurs, taking another step toward you. his hand reaches up, and he places a finger under your chin, lifting your face to meet his gaze.

the touch is intimate, but there’s an unspoken weight to it, like it’s a silent acknowledgment of something neither of you are quite ready to voice. his thumb brushes lightly against your skin, the gesture soft but somehow grounding.

“I didn’t think you’d miss me,” he says quietly, his voice a low rumble, softer than usual.

you’re suddenly acutely aware of the space between you, of the way your heart seems to beat a little faster in your chest, of how his presence pulls you in like gravity.

the tension, always so thick and unyielding before, now feels different—softer, but just as real.

your breath catches. “you’re not as bad as they said you are,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

sukuna’s eyes narrow slightly, and he takes another small step forward, the tension rising again, only this time it feels like a slow burn.

his fingers curl gently under your chin, his thumb stroking your skin as he leans closer, his breath mingling with yours.

“and you,” he murmurs, voice hushed, “are much more than I gave you credit for.”

before you can respond, something shifts between you. the air crackles with an intensity that neither of you can ignore. his lips are so close now, and you don’t think.

you lean in, your mouth brushing against his, tentative at first, like testing the waters of something new, something dangerous.

but then, without warning, sukuna’s hand grips your waist, pulling you into him. the kiss deepens, slow and steady, as though he’s savoring it, taking his time.

his touch is commanding, yet there’s a tenderness to it that surprises you, a carefulness you didn’t expect from someone like him.

when you finally break apart, your breath mingling in the space between you, there’s a quiet understanding in his eyes.

he doesn’t speak immediately. instead, he holds you close, his hand still resting on your back, steady and sure.

“you’re fully mine now, wife.”

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yandere-daydreams · 5 months ago

Text

Screening: Halloween (1978).

Pairing: Yandere!Gojo x Reader (JJK).

Word Count: 3.1k.

TW: No Curses!AU, Serial Killer AU, Non/Con, Fem!Reader, Character Death, Oral Sex, Unprotected Sex, Reader is Pregnant, Blood, Age Gap (Reader is 32, Gojo is 18), and No Actual Incest, But The Vibes Are There. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

There was a man in your kitchen.

Which, to be fair, you’d already known. You’d only woken up because you heard something clattering on that side of your house, only gotten out of bed because the noise had gotten too loud to ignore. You figured your husband (as lovable as he was clumsy, unfortunately) had dropped something during a late-night water run and managed to hurt himself while cleaning it up, and knowing him, your pristine house would be in ruins if he tried to handle it himself. You didn’t particularly care about the mess. It could wait until tomorrow – tonight, all you needed him to worry about was keeping your bed warm.

Exhausted and bleary-eyed, you didn’t think to go back to bed when the noises stopped, didn’t notice how eerily silent your home had grown in the absence of your husband’s rustling. No possibility worse than a little broken glass ever crossed your mind, not until you reached the doorway, until your fickle attention caught on the dots of blood splattered across the perfectly white tiles of your floor; not very many and not very big, but still, more than you thought there’d be. Your eyes followed them left until they grew into a trail, then a puddle, and then finally, your husband – lying on his side, crumpled against the nearest cabinet. You couldn’t see where he was hurt. You couldn’t see is he was breathing.

Blankly, you slumped against the doorframe, suddenly feeling both infinitely more awake and infinitely more dazed than you had the second prior. Almost involuntarily, you called out to him, only aware of the sound of your voice after it’d left your mouth. “…Hiromi? Baby?”

“Not quite.” Your eyes shot up and through the unlit space. It seemed unthinkable that there’d be someone else in the room, that there’d be someone responsible for this, and yet, there he was, standing over what used to be your husband – dark stains painted across the material of his black hoodie, a knife still clutched in his right hand. The knife was set delicately onto the nearest countertop, his foot knocking into your husband’s shoulder with a hollow, fleshy sound he stepped over him, and then, the murderer was in front of you, eyes too bright to be completely human prying into you through the darkness. “But, you remember my name too, right?”

You didn’t, but it came to you quickly. His stark white hair should’ve been the first give-away, and yet, it took another second of staring into those horrible blue eyes to fully believe what you were looking at.

“Satoru?”

It couldn’t have been. You knew it couldn’t have been. It’d been a decade since you last saw him – or, rather, since you last saw the starry-eyed eight-year-old who’d cling to your waist and make you promise to teach him how to braid flower frowns after he was done with his daily lessons. This wasn’t your Satoru. This was a grown man, covered in your husband’s blood and holding his hands up in a show of faux-innocence as he approached you, a startlingly familiar smile already contorting his otherwise blank expression. You tried to take a step back, to retreat without turning away from him, but your heel caught on something wet and too terrible to name and you fell, landing with your back against the corridor wall. Your hands shot to your stomach instinctually, but Satoru didn’t seem to notice, dropping to one knee in front of you. “Oh no, did you hurt yourself?” And then, without ever letting his grin falter. “I’m sorry I made such a mess. I was just so happy to see you, and then someone else came to greet me, and I think I might’ve lost my temper. It used to happen a lot after you’d leave, too—”

“Please don’t hurt me,” you cut in, breathless from the very first word. That, at least, got him to stop smiling.

“Hurt you? Why would I…” He spared a glance over his shoulder, then let out a bark of a laugh. “Oh. No, no, I’d never do that to you. It’s just—He was telling me to leave, and I knew you’d be so happy to see me, and I already apologized for the mess. You used to let me off the hook all the time, if I seemed sorry enough.”

He was right, you had. You’d been young and optimistic, and his offenses had been limited to childish temper-tantrums and a few unkind comments made towards his more discipline-focused household staff. But, notably, he’d also been eight, and you’d been fired in less than a year, and he’d never killed anyone in front of you. God, this was bad. This was so, so, so bad. Hiromi was dead, and you were going to die next, and your baby was—

You couldn’t let yourself think about that. It was all you could do to stop yourself from hyperventilating, to drag yourself out of an oncoming panic attack and back to the very real, very present threat in front of you. Satoru had already hurt someone. He could hurt you, too, even if he wasn’t holding a weapon. You needed to call someone. Better yet, you needed to get away from him.

It took everything you had not to let your voice shake, to force your tongue to cooperate. You tried to remember what it’d been like to be an overconfident twenty-something taking care of a kid just a little too eager to soak in your praise, but abandoned the effort before you could make this any worse for yourself. “Does… Does your family know where you are, ‘toru?”

And, just like that, his smile was back in full force. Almost gleefully, he shook his head. “I don’t think they’ve known for a while now, ma’am.”

Fuck. That was right. You hadn’t been fired – there’d been a fire, or an accident, you couldn’t remember the details. You’d heard, months later, that Satoru had been the lone survivor, but you weren’t sure what happened to him after that.

“I’m sorry, Satoru.” It was hard to feign sympathy when the love of your life’s body was still warm, but you managed. “But, you still did something very, very wrong tonight, and I think we should call someone to help.”

“Well, we can’t do that. They’d just take you away from me again.” You bit into the inside of your cheek. So he wasn’t completely delusional, after all. “That’s what my clan wanted to do. They said you were distracting me, and that you’d have to leave. I told them I didn’t want you to, but…” He paused, laughed. “I guess that doesn’t matter, anymore.”

You opened your mouth, but Satoru didn’t give you a chance to speak. Without warning, he surged forward, cupping your face in his hands, his smile taking on a manic lull. “I waited.” He sounded so proud of himself, like he expected you to congratulate him. “I could’ve come to you right away, but I was good, I waited. I knew I had to be a little older. I knew you’d always take care of me, but I had to be able to take care of you, too.”

Something heavy and sharp turned over in the pit of your stomach. “…I really don’t need you to take care of anything, ‘toru.”

“I know.” Impossibly, his eyes seemed to grow even brighter. “I want to, though. Because it’s what you did for me.”

And then, almost breathlessly, “Because I love you.”

You were going to be sick.

You didn’t know what to say. Even if you had, you wouldn’t have been able to spit it out, not with your teeth grit and your throat filled with cotton. Pathetically, you tried to push him away, to stand up, but Satoru only cooed and took your attempts at resistance as a sign to move on, to move forward. You felt his arms snake around your waist only half a second before you felt him straighten against you – pushing himself to his feet and pulling you into a sort-of bridal carry, not unlike something your husband would’ve done when he was feeling sappily romantic, which he almost always was.

Satoru’s embrace was too unwelcome to be romantic, though, too stiff to be comfortable, and worst of all, too tight to fight against as he made his way through your now-barren home. He didn’t ask you for directions or try any doors. Rather, almost too confidently, he found his way to the master bedroom, the door still ajar from when you’d stumbled through it minutes prior. Unceremoniously, eagerly, you were dropped onto the center of your bed and before you had time to get away, Satoru was on top of you; a knee by your hip, a hand by your head, his mouth on yours. His teeth scrapped across your lips and clashed against yours, his tongue forcing its way down your throat as he let out a wavering, pitchy moan against your mouth. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you thought that Satoru wasn’t a very good kisser, then felt repulsed at yourself. That wasn’t something you were supposed to know. Not about Satoru.

He really had been such a sweet kid. It’d been years since the last time you thought about him, but it would’ve been hard to forget how he’d pouted when you told him homework came before sweets, how his eyes lit up the first time whenever you managed to convince his caretakers that he’d earned a fieldtrip, even if you’d never taken him anywhere more exciting than the local aquarium. You’d never planned to spend the rest of your life filling-in for his perpetually absent parents, but your heart had broken just a little when one of the family’s maids let you know that she’d overheard future plans to let you go. He’d gotten too attached, she’d said. He’s been calling you ‘mom’.

…

Maybe you shouldn’t have been so surprised. It wasn’t like this was ever going to end well for either of you.

When Satoru broke away, it was only to pull his hoodie and shirt over his head with all the grace and all the care of an overeager teenager, too desperate to get back to the act at-hand to think about impressing you. He moved to kiss you, again, but you managed to catch him by the shoulders, to hold him off just long enough to find your voice. “Wait, Satoru.” He didn’t, but he dropped lower, his mouth falling to your neck, then your collarbone. You felt his hand graze over your thigh, and were suddenly aware that you’d gone to bed in an oversized shirt and nothing else. “You don’t really want to do this, you’re just confused. You should take a second to catch your breath, and—” You cut yourself off with a pained hiss as his teeth dug into the upper curve of your breast. You couldn’t bring yourself to wonder whether or not it’d leave a mark. “And— Stop.”

This time, you were forceful enough for him to glance towards your face, his eyes just barely visibly through his disheveled hair. Talking felt like choking down gravel, but you managed. “We can’t,” you said, offering your best attempt at a sympathetic frown. “I’m pregnant, ‘toru.”

It was true, as little as you wanted Satoru to be the first person you told. You weren’t far enough along to be showing, but his gaze immediately fell to your stomach. You counted the seconds as he stared at you, the gears turning in his head. Finally, he pulled away, his expression taking on a dream-like quality.

“You’re so perfect,” he sighed, suddenly dazed. “My mama’s gonna be a real mommy.”

“Mhm.” You didn’t try to smile back. If you pushed your limits any further, the strain may’ve gotten to you before Satoru did. “So, you understand why you have to leave, don’t you?”

“Can’t do that, pretty girl.” He ducked lower, his hands shifting to your waist. You tried to sit up, and he let you, too preoccupied settling into the space between your open legs. “Someone’s gotta be there to watch you extra close, now.”

And yet, watching didn’t seem to be what he had in mind.

The heat of it struck you first; damp and smothering, like steam or humidity or the feeling of water in your lungs, drowning you from the inside out. He ate you out as messily as he’d kissed you; never content to be lapping at your entrance or suckling on your clit when he could be attempting to do both. His broad tongue drew aimless patterns over your cunt, fucking into your pussy with every other stroke while the bridge of his nose ground into your clit, leaving no part of you untainted, unscathed. You tried to ignore him and, when that failed, to pretend that it was Hiromi between your legs, but you couldn’t spin straw into gold. Your husband had always been lovingly playful in bed, prone to pressing open-mouthed kisses into the inside of your thighs, to drawing out the letters of his name into your clit as his long, talented fingers split you open. Satoru’s fingers were too busy groping at your hips to be good for anything else, and he couldn’t seem to pull himself away from pussy for much of anything, let alone something as unimportant as ‘care’ or ‘tenderness’. You could feel his teeth ghost over your skin, his saliva pooling at the apex of your thighs, and worst of all, you could feel yourself growing warmer, your core growing tighter, your self-control waning as you fought against the urge to buck into his mouth.

Your hands balled at the sheets underneath you, your eyes soon clenched shut in an effort to convince yourself that this wasn’t happening, that you weren’t here, that this wouldn’t end with you cumming into the mouth of the man who’d killed your husband, of the overgrown child who you’d once considered yourself responsible for. Tears burnt at the corners of your eyes, but if Satoru noticed your distress, he was determined to play obvious to the bitter end; only whining into your cunt as you clenched around his tongue. It was the reverberation that ultimately sealed your fate; as unintentional on his part as it was unwilling on yours. That was where your commonalities ended, though. While you sobbed and thrashed through your orgasm, Satoru basked in it, curling his tongue against the convulsing walls of your cunt, drinking down every moment of your agony.

By the time he pulled away, you were too spent to be relieved – cold exhaustion flooding into the gaps that reprieve should’ve filled. Even that was stripped away from you, eventually, with only the effort it took him to straighten his back, to spread your legs around his waist, to free his leaking cock from his jeans – a visibly damp spot now staining the dark material. You tried to scramble back, to roll over, but Satoru caught you by the hip with one hand while the other pressed the head of his cock to your entrance, the ghost of contact alone hot enough to burn. “W-Wait,” you tried, before things got as bad as they possibly could. “Satoru, the baby—”

“I know,” he cut in, flashing you a reassuring smile. “I’ll be careful. I promise, nothing’s gonna hurt you or my little brother ever again.”

You wanted to scream. You might’ve, if he hadn’t chosen that moment to push into you, only stopping when his hips pressed into yours and he couldn’t possibly make this any worse.

The physical sensation might’ve been bearable, on its own. You already knew you were never going to recover mentally, but Hiromi was thicker with a more pronounced curve, even if Satoru probably beat him for length by an inch or so. If it’d just been the physicality, the dizziness heat, the nauseating stretch from your cunt to your core, but you might’ve been able to deal with it, but Satoru was so damn loud – disassociating would’ve been too difficult to warrant the effort, if not out-right impossible. He whined as he rutted into you, slotting his just chest against yours and burying his face in your neck, his tongue running mindless over the side of your throat. “I—I thought about practicing,” he muttered, forcing himself to speak between raspy groans and hitched whimpers. “I tried to, because I knew you’d be s—so good at this, but I couldn’t do it, not if it wasn’t for you, or—” You felt him twitch inside of you, and everything seemed to turn to static. When you came back to yourself, he was still ranting, still rambling senseless into your jugular vein. “—I love you. You were always so pretty, and nice, and I love you. I love you. I love you.”

He repeated that same senseless mantra until the words began to slur and crack. You didn’t want to touch him, but his pelvic bone scraped over your clit and you lashed out on instinct – your fingers soon tangled in his hair, your nails biting into his scalp. Satoru’s whimpers were immediately replaced by full-bodied moans only slightly stifled by your skin. Numbly, you were aware that similar (albeit, much more pained) noises were falling past your own lips, that your pussy was soaking in the stimulation your conscious mind rejected, but you could only bring yourself to acknowledge what that meant as your second orgasm crested, as you let what you could only distantly acknowledge as pleasure wash over you. Satoru followed in-suit a few seconds later, making no attempt to pull out as something searing and thick and awful flooded into.

You supposed you should’ve been thankful that he couldn’t get you pregnant. Maybe you’d find the energy for gratitude, later on.

Satoru never really pulled away. He only drew back, allowing for enough distance been you and him to smile, to kiss your forehead – the same way you’d kissed his, when he shared his never-ending supply of candy or scraped his knee. He lingered there, nuzzling against you, one of his hands drifting to your stomach and settling there.

“I missed you,” he muttered, with a shallow sigh. And then, for the hundredth time, “I love you.”

Had you not been able to feel every last inch of his wide, fanged grin biting into you, you might’ve actually believed it was true.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen imagines #yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere jjk #jjk x reader #jjk imagines #yandere gojo satoru #gojo satou x reader

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kunareads · 2 months ago

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heavy angst not a lot of comfort!! + wc: 0.7k

masterlist

choso hasn’t breathed right in months.

he tries sometimes. draws in a deep breath, holds it, waits for his ribs to expand the way they used to when you were curled up beside him, murmuring something soft in your sleep.

but every inhale is shallow, every exhale unfinished. he can’t get enough air in his lungs without you.

he thinks about the phone call often. shoko’s trembling voice on the other end. the way his blood turned to ice when she said they found a body.

they never let him see it. too much damage, they said. better to remember you as you were. so he had nothing to hold, nothing to bury. just a handful of ashes and the suffocating knowledge that you were gone.

he never got rid of your things. your shoes are still by the door. your toothbrush still sits next to his. your clothes still take up too much space in the closet. your blanket—your favorite, the one you used to throw over him when you thought he looked cold—still rests on the couch, untouched. he picked it up once, buried his face in it to see if it still smelled like you. it didn’t. it just smelled like dust.

and now—

now you’re standing in front of him.

but it can’t be you.

his body locks up, frozen in place, because this can’t be real. it’s another cruel trick of his exhausted mind, another dream that will end the moment he dares to reach for you.

he should know. he’s had so many of those dreams, where you’re warm in his arms again, where he gets to say all the things he never did. sometimes, you forget your keys at home and come back for them. sometimes, you whisper his name from the other side of the bed, voice so soft he almost believes it. sometimes, you just look at him, silent and hollow-eyed, before fading into nothing. he wakes up gasping every time, drenched in sweat, grief choking him like a curse he can’t break.

this is just another dream. another hallucination.

but you take a step forward, and he sees the way you move—slow, hesitant, your hands shaking. there’s an old cut on your cheek, bruises along your jaw, faint lines on your wrists like you were bound. your clothes are torn, dirt and dried blood staining the fabric. your lips are cracked, your eyes hollowed by exhaustion.

you look like you fought your way back to him.

“…choso.” your voice is hoarse. he barely hears you, but it devastates him.

he doesn’t realize he’s moving until his legs give out beneath him. his knees hit the floor hard, but he barely feels it. his breath stutters out in a sharp, broken sound, and it’s only then that he realizes he’s crying.

you walk forward, kneeling in front of him, hands ghosting over his shoulders, his face, his hair. “i’m here,” you whisper. “i—i tried—“ your voice cracks, and something snaps.

“where the fuck were you?”

it rips out of him, raw and jagged. his hands clutch at your arms, desperate, terrified, fingers digging in like he’s afraid you’ll slip through them again.

“do you have any idea—“ his voice breaks, and his grip moves to cup your face like he needs proof. “i scattered your ashes. i mourned you. i—i—“ his breath falters, his forehead pressing against yours, a sob rattling through his chest. “i thought i lost you.”

your hands slide up to cradle his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “i know,” you whisper. “i know, i—“

a short inhale, your fingers curling against his skin. “i thought i was gonna die there.”

choso swallows hard, his throat thick with grief and relief and something darker, something furious. his fingers hover, barely grazing your bruises, as he presses his palm to your ribs to physically confirm you’re real.

who did this to you?

the question burns in his mind, but he can’t bring himself to ask you that yet. not when you’re here, not when he’s barely holding himself together.

he pulls you in, arms locking so tightly around you that you gasp. but you don’t pull away. you clutch at his back, holding him just as desperately, needing this just as much.

his breaths are uneven, shaky, but for the first time in months, he actually breathes.

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artficlly · 2 months ago

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smog & spirits: eye for an eye (series)

Marvel 1920s Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU

mob!bucky x witch!reader

Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and he needs a witch to help him break it.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, fem reader, smut, p n v, unprotected sex, table sex, light fingering, hair pulling, begging, past wounds, physical violence, angst, wound description, threats, some fluff, protective bucky, bucky barnes had issues, criminals & crime, 1920s street gangs, witchcraft, vaguely british setting??, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 5.8k

A/N: hi!! i spent all of jan doing my 50k word challenge on the daughter of rotsál first draft, but i thought i'd take these first few days of feb to update this fic! i also released a smutty/fluffy oneshot called sweatpea you should check out! my birthday and uni is coming up soon so i'm gonna try squeeze in some more work on the daughter of rotsál draft before that and maybe one more update / another one-shot but i'll see how i go! anyway, enjoy this is a spicy one! sorry for any typos - not proof read.

taglist: @nash-dara @sebastians-love permanent taglist: @globetrotter28

main masterlist | series masterlist

The shipment warehouse was a vast, hollowed-out space. Shadows stretched long beneath the dim, hanging bulbs. The scent of aged wood, alcohol, and rust lingered in the air, the faint remnants of the whiskey that passed through here on its way to buyers. Though mostly empty, clusters of wooden crates were stacked against the far walls, some sealed, others pried open to reveal their glass cargo, bottles of dark amber liquid reflecting the weak light. Scattered metal production tables dotted the floor, their surfaces scratched and stained from years of work. These were the stations where workers packed the shipments, but now, the tables sat abandoned, save for one.

At the centre of the warehouse, in front of one of the tables, three men sat bound to chairs. Rope bit into their flesh, tight enough that their fingers were already turning an ugly shade of blue. The table before them had been repurposed for something far crueller than packaging liquor. A collection of weapons lay across its surface—blades, hammers, pliers, each one arranged with careful deliberation.

By the main entrance, Steve and Sam stood guard, their figures solid and unmoving, you eyed them cautiously as you passed through the threshold. They didn’t quite meet your eye, and you wondered if they could hear the deafening pulse that roared in your ears. The cold night air filtered in through the open doors behind them, a scattering of ash decorating the stone floor.

Bucky entered beside you, his steps slow and deliberate. But you could feel the unspoken tension rolling off him in waves. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, his shoulders squared rigidly, his jaw tight. The walk over from the Sootline had been silent, even if you could practically feel the heat of rage radiating off him. He didn’t seem eager to talk to you, even if his gaze would occasionally flicker to you to make sure you still followed along behind him. Maybe he feared he would find judgment in your eyes because he never held them for long.

“Bucky—” You called out softly, but the gangster shied away from your touch, the fabric of his sleeve slipping through your fingers.

He strode forward, each step heavy, his boots striking against the stone with a slow, deliberate rhythm that sent a shiver down your spine. The sound echoed through the warehouse, filling it like a countdown ticking. You knew him. You had to remind yourself of that. You knew this man—the sharp edges of his cruelty, the weight of his fury, the way violence coiled beneath his skin like a second nature. You knew him intimately; you had felt the warmth of his breath, the roughness of his hands, and the steel of his will.

And yet, in this moment, he felt distant. Unreachable.

Even if he was angry, even if he had been cold and dismissive, his rage was not aimed at you. This was because of you. Because of what happened. The thought should have been comforting, a reassurance that you were not in his path and that his wrath had a different target. And yet, the knowledge did little to ease the weight pressing against your bruised ribs; it didn’t stop the breath from hitching in your throat as you took in the scene before you.

You were safe. You knew that.

But safety did nothing to silence the unease creeping through your veins.

The Iron Rats reacted the moment Bucky neared them. Two of them shrank back, their chairs creaking as they futilely tried to recoil from him. Their eyes darted between Bucky and the weapons on the table, their breath coming in quick, ragged gasps. One of them had already begun to tremble, his lips forming silent prayers, his body betraying him as he shook against the restraints.

But the third man—the one at the end—was different. He didn’t cower, didn’t flinch. He simply stared ahead, eyes hollow, his expression unreadable. It was as if he had already accepted whatever was coming and made peace with the inevitable.

“Barnes.” You snapped louder this time, voice clipped. The gangster paused his movements, not even turning to look back as he raised his hand, silencing you with a raise of his index finger.

“I was considerin’ if the bird needed to see this.” He finally broke his silence, voice low with a dangerous edge. “But I think she needs’a understand, don’t ya think?”

His hand struck forward, grasping one of the cowering men’s chins, forcing his head to look in your direction. You could tell his grip was bruising, even from a distance, the skin around his thumb growing white at the pressure. “She needs’a understand what happens to dirty fuckin’ rats that come crawling into my territory.”

Bucky released the man with a sharp shove, and the Iron Rat nearly sobbed in relief, his chair rocking back violently from the force. His breath hitched, his chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. Bucky barely spared him a glance. Instead, he dragged his fingers down the front of his suit jacket in one broad stroke as if ridding himself of the filth he had just touched.

Then, without looking, he reached for the table, his fingers curling around the worn handle of a butcher’s knife. The blade was thick and heavy, meant to cleave through bone as quickly as meat. As he lifted it, it scraped against the metal tabletop, the sound sharp and grating—final.

Bucky turned to you, his fingers curling around the handle, weighing it in his grip like an executioner deliberating his next stroke. His gaze pinned you in place.

“Left or right, doll?”

The question landed like a punch to the gut.

“What?” You stammered back in response.

“Left or right?” His voice was eerily steady, too casual for the brutality hanging in the air. It was as if he were asking you to pick a wine for dinner, not deciding which limb would be lost. Your throat tightened. The Iron Rats were barely breathing, one whimpering, his chair creaking under his tremors.

You forced your voice to work. “Barnes, don’t you think we’ve caused enough damage?”

You knew you'd made a mistake the second the words left your lips.

Bucky’s head snapped towards you, his jaw ticking, something dark and dangerous flickering behind his eyes. The shift in him was immediate, electric. He abandoned the bound man without hesitation, closing the space between you in a few sharp strides. Your pulse stuttered.

He was on you in seconds, looming, his presence suffocating. You turned your head instinctively as his breath fanned hot across your cheek, but there was no escaping him.

“No.”

The single word was like a hammer shattering stone.

“We ‘aven’t caused nearly enough damage after what they did.” His voice, low and venomous, left no room for argument. His free hand clenched at his side, fingers twitching with barely contained rage. “You think I’m gonna let these filthy fuckin’ rats walk away after puttin’ their hands on you? Huh? After hurtin’ you right under my fuckin’ nose?”

Your breath caught, your ribs tightening under the weight of his fury. He leant in, close enough that his lips nearly brushed your ear. His words were a vow, a sentence carved in stone when he spoke next. “You’re under my protection. Mine. You’re mine. So fuckin’ choose, doll. Left or right?”

Your stomach twisted. The Iron Rats were silent, frozen, waiting for your answer as if it were their final prayer. You swallowed.

“…Right.”

The corner of Bucky’s mouth curled, but there was no warmth in it. It was a razor-sharp thing, all teeth and no kindness. His eyes gleamed with something feverish, something manic.

“Good girl,” he purred. The praise was smooth, almost sweet, but his grip on the knife tightened, knuckles whitening around the handle. And then he turned. The Iron Rat barely had time to process what was happening before Bucky moved.

The butcher’s knife came down in a single, brutal arc.

A sickening crack filled the warehouse as steel met flesh and bone, followed by a scream so raw, so agonised, it turned your stomach. The man convulsed against his restraints, his bound arms jerking wildly, but there was nowhere to go.

Blood splattered across the metal tabletop, dark and glistening. It pooled. Dripped and painted the concrete floor beneath him. His severed hand tumbled to the ground with a dull thud, fingers twitching uselessly in the growing puddle of red.

Bucky barely spared the carnage a glance. “You touched her,” he said coldly, voice devoid of sympathy.

“So I took your fuckin’ hand.” He tilted his head, considering the sobbing, writhing man before him. “Consider it generous that I ain’t takin’ both.”

The Iron Rat howled, his body convulsing. Tears streamed down his face, his cries dissolving into choked, incoherent pleas for mercy. Bucky wasn’t listening. He wiped the blade clean against his sleeve, smearing crimson across the dark fabric like a war trophy. Then, slowly, he turned to the second man, pointing the stained blade at him.

“Your turn.”

The second Iron Rat thrashed in his chair, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. His eyes, wild with terror, darted between Bucky and the ruined stump of the first man. Blood still poured from the wound, pooling beneath the chair, seeping into the cracks of the warehouse floor. The stench of it—sharp, metallic, raw—hung thick in the air.

“Please,” he sobbed. “Please, I—I didn’t even—”

Bucky slammed a heavy hand down on his shoulder, silencing him with a violent jolt. The Iron Rat flinched, chest heaving, tears streaming down his dirt-streaked face. Bucky turned to you again, the knife glinting under the dim warehouse lights.

“Left or right?”

Your fingers curled into your palms, nails digging deep enough to leave crescent moons in your skin, but the sting barely registered. Your mind screamed at you, an urgent, panicked voice clawing at the edges of your thoughts. Stop this. Say something. Tell him it’s enough.

But you didn’t.

Because you knew the truth now, Bucky wouldn’t listen. Any sense of cold calculation had snapped within him, as if his father himself had possessed his body. His blood was up, his fury ran red-hot and unchecked. Reason was a foreign concept to him in this moments, swallowed whole by vengeance and violence.

Your breath felt thin as you watched him, as you remembered what was left of Varlan Crey. The Rat King, so smug, so untouchable, had been brought to his knees. Felled not by magic or blades, but by the sheer, unrelenting wrath of Bucky Barnes. He had survived, maybe by the hand of a small mercy. Or maybe just dumb luck. Because you had seen it—the flicker of real, unguarded fear in Crey’s eyes. The raw understanding that, for the first time, he had stood at the very edge of death and only barely stepped back in time.

You swallowed, throat dry as dust. “Left.”

A shuddering breath left the Iron Rat, some final, pitiful sound before—

Bucky moved.

The blade came down hard.

The crack of severed bone and the wet, visceral tear of flesh split through the warehouse. The man’s scream ripped through the air, raw and broken, his body jerking violently against the chair. Blood sprayed across the table, warm and thick, dripping onto the floor. His severed hand landed with a sickening slap, fingers twitching before they went still.

Bucky tightened his grip on the man’s shoulders, keeping him from toppling the chair over as he convulsed in agony. He wiped the blade again, slow and deliberate, his gaze flicking to the last Iron Rat—the one who hadn’t made a sound.

The man met Bucky’s eyes with an eerie, empty calm.

No trembling. No pleading. Just quiet resignation.

A slight, bitter smile played at the edges of his lips as he tilted his head, gesturing to his left hand, which was secured against the arm of the chair. A soldier offering himself to the executioner.

Bucky exhaled sharply, amused. “Good choice.”

And then he brought the knife down.

The man grunted as the blade severed flesh and bone in one clean stroke, but he didn’t scream. His body twitched, stiffening against the pain, but he bit it down. His severed hand dropped onto the table this time, fingers curling inward, as if gripping something unseen. Blood seeped from the wound, a slow, steady stream.

Bucky studied him for a moment, almost impressed.

Then, satisfied, he tossed the knife onto the table with a dull clang. The first two Iron Rats were still crying, writhing, staring at their stumps like they could somehow undo what had been done. The third just slumped in his chair, pale and shaking, but silent.

“I think I should take an eye next, for even lookin’ at you. What’d you think, doll?” Exhaustion lay heavy in your bones as your eyes fluttered shut briefly. Bucky was upon you again, his gaze softer now, the fury still burning beneath the surface but tempered. He reached for you, his bloodied fingers grazing your arm in a touch that was meant to be comforting. “Eye for an eye, after all.”

“I don’t…” You stammered but leant into his touch by default. Steve and Sam had adverted their eyes, their expressions unreadable as they pressed their lips into a line.

“I’ll choose for ya, how’s that sound, doll?” He rubbed a bloodied thumb across your cheek. You looked up at him through your lashes, hoping something in your eyes could pull him away. But his eyes settled on the faded split in your lip, and his gaze hardened. “They have to pay.”

Bucky stalked off towards the array of weapons displayed along the table once more. The knife he chose gleamed under the dim light, and Bucky tested the edge against his thumb. A single bead of red welled up but he paid it no mind. His attention was elsewhere—on the trembling man before him, the one still staring at his bleeding stump, breath hitching in raw, animalistic terror.

“Please,” the Iron Rat sobbed, voice wet, desperate. “Please, Barnes, I can’t—I—”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders like the weight of their begging was nothing more than an inconvenience. His hand was steady, practiced, as he tapped the knife tip against the man’s chin, tilting his face up.

“Didn’t fuckin’ ask for pleas,” he murmured, voice eerily even. “Left or right?”

The man shuddered violently. He turned slightly, eyes flicking to you as though you could save him as if you had any say. You swallowed, your tongue thick and useless, pinned in place by the weight of Bucky’s presence and the inevitability of what came next.

When no answer came, Bucky clicked his tongue, shaking his head.

“Left it is.” The knife sank into the man’s left eye in a swift, brutal motion. A high and raw shriek tore through the room, sending a shudder through your bones.

You flinched, but only slightly. The movement barely registered.

You had seen Bucky covered in blood before, had seen him like this before—violent, efficient, merciless. Yet you had also seen him in moments far removed from this carnage.

You had watched him bleed and had pressed your hands to his wounds to keep him from slipping away. You had felt his warmth seeping between your fingers, his breath shallow but steady as he let you take care of him. He had trusted you then, let you see him vulnerable when he could have just as easily pushed you away.

He had defended you against the Rat King, standing between you and the man who had wanted to carve you apart. If it hadn’t been for him, would you have been at the mercy of the Iron Rats? Tied to a chair like the three men before you? There had been no hesitation in him then, just like there was none now. And it was all for you.

The thought made your stomach tighten, but not in fear. Not entirely.

Bucky wiped the knife clean on the Iron Rat’s pant leg, a simple, thoughtless movement, and turned to the last man. The final Iron Rat had been silent the entire time, watching the carnage with eerie detachment. Even now, as the scent of blood thickened the air and his fallen comrades moaned and sobbed, his expression barely shifted. He only blinked, slow and deliberate, as Bucky approached.

“Ya know what I’m gonna ask,” Bucky said, voice quieter this time.

A pause.

Then, a small sigh.

“Right,” the man murmured, resigned.

Something flickered in Bucky’s expression—curiosity, maybe. Approval. He didn’t make him wait. The blade sank deep, and though the Iron Rat tensed, his breath hitching sharply, he made no sound. Blood welled, thick and dark, spilling down his cheek, but he simply slumped against the restraints, his ruined eye weeping crimson.

Bucky lingered, staring at him, head tilted slightly. Considering. Perhaps even disappointed.

Bucky only clicked his tongue before turning back to you. The shift was subtle but immediate. The hardness in his expression softened, his eyes no longer carrying the cold fury he had wielded so effortlessly moments before. His hand, still warm despite the blood smeared across his fingers, reached for you, grazing your waist.

“See, doll?” he murmured. “Now they know.”

Your breath caught.

You should have felt horror. Revulsion. But instead, as you looked at him—his jaw speckled with blood, his chest rising and falling evenly, the fire still smouldering behind his eyes—you felt something else entirely. Something that made your fingers twitch, something that made your chest tighten.

Maybe, just maybe, this was more than just lust.

You weren’t sure whether that should’ve terrified you.

But at that moment, staring up at him, your heart still pounding, you weren’t sure you cared.

—

Bucky quickly issued his orders: everyone was to leave but you. Sam and Steve moved without hesitation, grabbing a bloodied, barely conscious Iron Rat by the scruff of their necks and dragging them towards the exit. The metallic scent of blood lingered in the cold warehouse air, thick and rich, settling into your lungs with each breath.

Bucky didn’t watch them leave.

He stood with his back turned, broad shoulders taut, tension coiling through his body like a predator still primed for the kill. His suit jacket lay discarded on the blood-splattered table. The sleeves of his crisp white shirt were rolled to his elbows, the fabric marred with streaks of red. His hands—still wet with it—hung at his sides, fingers twitching slightly as if the violence hadn’t yet left his system.

You hesitated before moving, carefully stepping past the grotesque remnants of severed hands littering the floor. You focused on him instead, on the way his body seemed stretched too tight like he was waiting for another enemy to appear from the shadows.

Slowly, cautiously, you reached out, smoothing a hand over his forearm. The muscles beneath your fingers were rigid but warm, his pulse steady despite the chaos he’d unleashed.

“You showed them your hand,” you murmured, your voice soft and testing. “What will you do now?”

Your fingers traced a slow path up his arm, featherlight over the muscle, following the curve of his shoulder. When he didn’t pull away, you grew bolder, stepping around him until you stood before him. His face was speckled with blood; the scarlet splattered across his jaw and streaked along the bridge of his nose. His blue eyes, cold and unreadable just moments ago, stirred—just barely—as they settled on you.

“They needed to be taught a lesson,” he said simply, his voice still edged with the lingering embers of rage. A repetition of the words he’d spoken before.

You sighed through your nose, your hands splaying across his chest. His shirt was warm beneath your touch, the steady rise and fall of his breath grounding you. You pressed yourself flush against him, seeking—what? Comfort? Reassurance? An answer you weren’t sure you wanted?

“Yes,” you conceded, your voice quieter now, steadier. “But you’ve shown ‘em your hand.”

Your fingers curled slightly into the fabric, gripping him, holding him there with you. “You’ve told ‘em another woman is close to you—other than your sister. One that commands enough of your attention for you to do this.”

His eyes flickered with amusement. “Ya scared, doll?”

“No.” The answer was immediate, instinctive—but the certainty of it wavered, even in your own mind. Was that really the truth? “I just want to understand why you’d expose a weakness like that.”

He snorted softly, his bloodstained hands coiling around your waist, holding you there. His grip was firm and possessive but not forceful. There was no threat in his touch, only something else, something deeper, something that made your stomach twist.

For a brief moment, you allowed yourself to hope. Maybe he would finally say something—something real. Something sweet. He always left you with vague declarations of ownership and lust.

Because he cared, he had to—right? No man would do what he had done tonight if he didn’t care. No man would make a spectacle of his violence, an open display of his wrath for the sake of a woman if she meant nothing? He had carved his rage into flesh and blood for you and left a message in the ruined bodies of those men. You mattered to him.

Didn’t you?

But when he finally spoke, his words weren’t what you wanted.

“You have your worth, spirit-raiser.”

A flicker of disappointment bloomed in your gut. You could have pulled away. Should have, maybe. But you didn’t because you needed something from him: reassurance, protection. Proof that he would stand between you and whatever enemies would inevitably come for you now that he had placed you in the centre of this war.

Perhaps tonight had been proof enough.

Conflict and confusion pressed heavily in your chest, warring with the heat between you.

Fuck Becca’s warnings.

There was something here, wasn’t there?

Your hand slid up, fingers ghosting over the rough stubble of his jaw. You cradled his face, pulling him closer. His breath was warm, tinged with the faint scent of whiskey and blood, and for a moment, you hesitated—just a moment—before pressing your lips to his.

Bucky responded instantly, like a man starved, his eager hands gripping your waist with a bruising intensity as if grounding himself in your presence. A sharp wince pricked at your ribs, but the hunger in his kiss quickly drowned it out. His lips moved against yours with fervour, rough and consuming, parting only to let his tongue sweep into your mouth, claiming and demanding. You melted into him, your body yielding beneath his, heat pooling low in your stomach as his touch ignited something primal in you.

He moved with purpose, guiding you backwards. His hands were restless, roaming up your spine, fingers slipping beneath the fabric of your blouse, searching, craving skin. The cool air kissed your exposed flesh as he fumbled with your buttons, the urgency in his touch making his movements clumsy. You gasped into his mouth, the sound swallowed by his kiss as your own hands wandered lower, gliding down the firm planes of his chest. The taut muscle beneath his white collared shirt flexed beneath your palms, solid and unyielding.

His breath hitched slightly as you dragged your nails over the crisp fabric, feeling the faint thrum of his heartbeat beneath. You felt the shudder in his body as your fingers found the buttons of his vest, slipping them free with deliberate ease. Bucky’s hands found your breasts, moulding the soft flesh through your brassiere with a rough, needy grip, his thumbs sweeping over the peaks in slow, teasing circles. Your head tipped back, a breathy sigh escaping your lips as heat coursed through you.

The vest was discarded in a swift motion, tossed aside without care, and before you could fully react, Bucky’s strong hands lifted you effortlessly, hoisting you onto the cold metal of the production table. The chill of it sent a shiver through your body. Still, the heat between you and him was overwhelming, obliterating any thought. His body pressed between your legs, the hard line of him nestling against you through the fabric of your skirts.

His mouth devoured yours again, possessive and unrelenting, his teeth catching your bottom lip in a sharp, fleeting bite before his tongue soothed the sting. You whimpered quietly into his mouth. Clinging to him, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging just enough to earn a low groan from deep within his chest. His thumb grazed over your nipple, teasing through the lace, and your breath hitched.

The world beyond this moment ceased to exist. There was only Bucky—his touch, his breath, his desire pressed into your skin like a brand. And you welcomed it. Welcomed him.

You could already feel the hard length of him, pressing insistently against your inner thigh through the layers of fabric. His heat was unmistakable, searing even through the barrier of clothing, and a shiver rolled through you. The anticipation was unbearable. You reached for his belt, fingers nimble and eager—

But Bucky chuckled, low and deep, knocking your hands away with an easy flick of his wrist. His pupils were blown wide, dark pools of hunger that drank you in as you leant back on your elbows, your body sprawled out before him. His lips were swollen, slick with the mingled taste of you both, his breath warm against your skin. Your chest heaved, one breast exposed where he had tugged it free from your brassiere, the cool air sending a shiver through you.

“Greedy, ain’t ya?” he murmured, voice thick with amusement, but his touch was anything but teasing. His hand slid beneath the heavy fabric of your skirt, fingers dragging up the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You barely had time to process the sensation before he grabbed the delicate waistband of your tap pants and tore them down your legs, the lace rasping against your skin as he wrenched them past your ankles and boots.

The discarded scrap of fabric landed somewhere on the warehouse floor, forgotten. His hands were already on you again, possessive, insatiable. You let out a low groan, head falling back as he trailed a digit through your wet slit, humming in delight as he found you already dripping with desire. “Don’t need an arousal potion for this, do we?”

You ignored his quip, instead wrapping your legs around his waist. He chuckled at you, rewarding your eagerness by pressing one of his digits into your cunt. You clenched around him with a whimper, hips rocking as you internally begged for more friction.

“Let me hear your noises, doll.” Bucky commanded, his spare hand trailing up your thigh. You whined softly, bucking your hips once more in a silent plea. The gangster smirked down at you, pressing a second digit into you as you squirmed beneath him.

“Please, Bucky.” You mewled, pulling him closer with the legs hooked around his back. He obliged, slowly pumping his fingers in and out. You could hear the squelching of your wetness, your body shuddering with impatience at the leisurely pace.

“You want more?” He purred, teasing you with a quick flick of your clit with his thumb. You clenched around him involuntarily, a breathy gasp leaving your mouth as pleasure rocked up your spine, a new wave of electricity flooding your gut.

You pushed yourself up, hands grasping his broad shoulders, fingers digging into the firm muscle beneath his shirt as you pulled your bodies flush. The heat of him seeped into you, intoxicating, overwhelming. Your mouth found the column of his throat, breath hitching as you pressed open-mouthed kisses to his exposed skin. His pulse thrummed beneath your lips, quick and heavy, and you traced it with your tongue, savouring the salt of his skin.

Bucky let out a sharp exhale as you dragged your mouth along his adam’s apple, teeth grazing over the sensitive flesh before sucking a bruise into his neck. His grip on your thigh tightened, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks, but you didn’t care. You wanted them. You wanted him to brand himself into your skin the way he had branded himself into your mind.

“Please,” you breathed against his ear, voice hushed, desperate. Your tongue flicked along the shell, teasing, before you nipped at his earlobe, letting your teeth catch just enough to make him groan. “I need you inside me.”

The words sent a shudder through him, a growl vibrating deep in his chest. “Turn around, bend over the table. Now.”

Your head tilted, temple resting against the firm plane of his shoulder as you gazed up at him, your breath uneven. His fingers twitched inside you, a steady rhythm still building, each pump igniting a slow, unbearable heat in your core. A sharp gasp left your lips as pleasure twisted through you, your body tensing in response.

“My ribs—” you managed to gasp, wincing as the dull ache reminded you of your bruises.

Bucky stilled for a moment, a flicker of something soft crossing his face, a rare moment of tenderness blooming between the two of you. His breath was warm against your cheek as he considered your words, his free hand smoothing over your hip as though grounding you.

“You’ll be fine,” he murmured, low and reassuring, though the husk of his voice betrayed his restraint. “I’ll try to be gentle.”

Gentle. A rare promise from a man like him.

Then, just as quickly as he had stilled, he withdrew. A wet heat lingered in the absence of his fingers, and you shuddered, your walls clenching around nothing. A soft whimper escaped before you could stop it, your body betraying the ache of emptiness. You unhooked your legs from around his waist, knees wobbling as you moved, turning yourself around atop the table.

The cold metal kissed your stomach as you laid your front flat against it, one breast still bare from where he had pulled the fabric away. A shuddering breath left you, anticipation thick in your veins as you braced yourself against the surface, your hips lining up with the edge.

Behind you, you heard the sharp metallic clink of his belt buckle, followed by the slow rasp of leather sliding free. The head of his cock pressed against your slick opening, teasing but not quite entering. You whined into the table as his large hands stroked up the back of your thighs, gripping the flesh.

“So wet,” he muttered. His voice was thick with hunger as he pushed your skirts up, bunching the fabric around your waist, leaving you utterly exposed to him. His hands trailed down, calloused palms smoothing over the curve of your ass before he spread you open, admiring the slick evidence of your need. “So good for me, huh, doll?”

A desperate whimper left you, your body shivering under his touch. You pressed your folded forearms beneath your chest, arching your back in an attempt to save your bruised ribs from the unforgiving metal table.

Then, at last, he pressed into you.

A gasp tore from your throat, your body instinctively tensing as he stretched you open. The intrusion was thick and slow, overwhelming at first, your cunt clenching down against the pressure of him. Your teeth sank into the flesh of your thumb, muffling the choked moan that threatened to spill free. Bucky cursed under his breath, withdrawing just enough before easing back in, working you open with slow, deliberate strokes.

“Ya like this, don’t ya?” His voice was low and strained, his grip tightening on your hips as he pinned you in place. The firm drag of him inside you sent sparks of heat flooding through your veins. “Like me claimin’ you? Like knowin’ I’d fuckin’ tear through them bastards just to keep ya safe?”

A broken moan left you, your body trembling against the metal. Your fingers curled into fists, nails biting into your palms as he set a steady rhythm, each thrust pressing you further against the table. The slick, filthy sounds of your bodies moving together filled the empty warehouse, the echo of skin meeting skin mixing with your ragged breaths.

Bucky groaned, his hands wrapping around your hips as he rocked into you harder, deeper, pulling you back onto him with every thrust. Your mind swam, the bruising grip of his fingers the only thing tethering you to reality.

“Tell me, doll.” His voice was rough, a demand wrapped in silk and sin. His hips snapped forward, driving into you so deep it left you gasping. “Tell me how much you want this.”

“Please—” The word came out in a small, needy sob, your voice trembling as pleasure coiled tight in your belly.

Bucky growled, a deep, guttural sound. One of his hands abandoned your waist, sliding up the length of your back before tangling in your hair. His fingers twisted into the strands, yanking your head back with a sharp tug. A strangled moan burst from your lips, your back arching instinctively. Your nails scraped against the metal table, searching for purchase as he fucked into you harder, faster.

The steady, brutal rhythm of his hips grew relentless. Each thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure up your spine. A filthy symphony of desperate moans, ragged breathing, and the wet, obscene sounds of him driving into you echoed. Bucky groaned, the sound low and primal as he chased his release. His grip on your hip was vice-like, anchoring you in place as he pounded into you without mercy. You could only hope Sam and Steve weren’t lingering nearby to hear the sinful chorus of your pleasure.

A sharp cry tore from your throat as your body tensed, pleasure spiking hot and fast through your veins. Your legs trembled beneath you, knees nearly buckling as your orgasm coiled, threatening to snap.

Then he tugged your hair again, the sting mingling with the pleasure in a dizzying rush, and you came undone.

Your cunt clenched around his cock, a strangled moan ripping from your lips as your body spasmed beneath him. Stars burst behind your eyelids, pleasure flooding through you in rolling waves. Wetness dripped down your inner thighs, evidence of your release slicking his length as he fucked you through the aftershocks.

Bucky let out a deep, shuddering moan, his hips stuttering as he followed you into bliss. His grip on you tightened, his cock pulsing as he spilt inside you, filling you with hot, thick ropes of cum. He kept thrusting, his movements growing erratic, chasing the last remnants of pleasure as he wrung out every drop of ecstasy.

His fingers slowly uncurled from your hair, his grip loosening as the tension drained from his body. You collapsed against the table, breathless and spent. You lay motionless beneath him, allowing him to use you as he rode out the final waves of his release, his heavy breaths mingling with yours.

Gods, you were going to need to take an anti-pregnancy potion after this.

PART EIGHT

297 notes · View notes

theodorenmyth · 7 days ago

Note

They have to end together🥹🥺🥹 but not without Theo literally begging for Reader's forgiveness and Reader being super mean to him 🥹🥺🥹

A Sky without You

Pairings ; Theodore Nott x M!reader

Summary ; You’re no longer the sweet, shining boy everyone knew. You shut down—silent, cold, and distant. The entire Gryffindor house and even professors worry as you isolate yourself, always disappearing to the Astronomy Tower with no light left in your eyes. Meanwhile, Theodore falls apart. He can’t sleep, can’t eat, and can’t pretend anymore. After a Transfiguration exam, he snaps—confronting his so-called friends for the cruel bet and finally admitting he loved you. To his shock, they feel the guilt too. All of them apologize, deeply, knowing they’ve broken something they can never fully fix.

A/N ; this is OFFICIALLY my longest fic yet.. ENJOY THOUGH :3 (if this flops I'm going back to writing 200 word fics.) I'll upload the continuation of this fic tomorrow because I'm actually so burnt out.

Warnings ; Emotional distress, guilt, lingering heartbreak, depression, isolation, emotional breakdowns, emotional confrontation, unresolved tension, lingering trauma, grief, guilt

Word count ; 7.3k+

It’s been weeks.

And not a single day passes where your name isn’t whispered like a fading ghost through the halls of Hogwarts. Once the boy everyone turned to—bright-eyed, always smiling, the sun in a red and gold tie—you’ve become a haunting. A memory people are too afraid to speak of too loudly.

You were the kind of person who remembered birthdays, even when others forgot their own. The kind who carried extra quills because “someone might need one,” who stayed up helping classmates study, who sat with crying first-years during meals and listened to them like their little fears mattered. You offered kindness like it cost you nothing. Because to you, it didn’t.

Now you walk the same corridors, but it’s like your footsteps don’t make a sound anymore.

You show up. You sit down. You leave.

That’s it.

No greeting.

No grin.

No helping hand when someone drops a quill or trips in the hallway.

You, who once walked slower just to keep a first-year company.

You, who once stayed behind after class to help erase the board for a tired professor.

You, who once twirled around in the snow just to see how many snowflakes you could catch on your lashes.

The portraits have stopped trying to greet you. The ones that used to cheer when you passed now fall quiet as you go by, like even they feel the weight pressing against your shoulders. The ghosts don't float near you anymore—not even the friendly ones. You don’t light up when you see friends. You don’t wave from across the library. You don’t laugh at Neville’s clumsy spills or Ginny’s sarcastic jokes.

You’re a shell. A hollow echo of the boy you used to be.

The castle feels colder.

Students murmur behind their hands, not with gossip but worry. “He hasn’t eaten in days,” someone whispers. “I saw him in the common room at four in the morning—just staring at the fire.”

Your name is now spoken with a frown. With hesitation.

“He used to help me with Herbology every Tuesday...”

“He gave me chocolate frogs once because I was homesick."

“He called the stars his best friends, remember that?”

“He hasn’t even looked at the sky.”

And it’s true. You haven’t.

You don’t go to the Astronomy Tower anymore. You don’t look up when the night sky reveals itself. You draw your curtains early and press your face into the pillow until it stops hurting—until it starts again the next morning.

Every smile you wore was carefully crafted, stitched from sincerity and softness. And it shattered so completely, no one even remembers what it looked like now.

You don’t cry. That’s the part that scares them the most. You don’t scream, don’t lash out, don’t even flinch.

You just exist.

Barely.

And the whole school feels the absence of your warmth like a cold draft no one can shut out.

You showed up to class, yes. Sat in your usual seat. Gave the right answers. Nodded at professors. But there was no life behind your eyes.

No spark.

No joy.

You didn’t greet anyone in the halls.

You didn’t smile.

You didn’t wave.

You didn’t exist—not in the way you used to.

Even Peeves, who used to adore pranking you because of how dramatically you’d react, had stopped. He floated quietly past you now, expression unreadable.

Because whatever happened to you,

It silenced even him.

“Have you eaten?” Draco asked, sharp but quiet, sitting on the armrest of the common room sofa.

Theodore didn’t respond.

He sat slumped into the far end of the couch like he was trying to disappear into it. His cheek rested against the back cushion, eyes fixed on the fireplace but unfocused—glassy and hollow, as if he weren’t really there. The room flickered with golden firelight, shadows dancing across his pale face, but he didn’t even blink. His jumper was rumpled and too thin for the cold, sleeves stretched and chewed from anxious fingers. The collar sagged. His hair was a mess. He looked like a memory wearing itself thin.

Draco frowned. “Seriously, Theo, you look like hell.”

No answer.

Blaise groaned, walking behind the couch to toss a blanket over him. “You can’t mope around like this forever—”

“Yes, I can,” Theodore rasped.

That made them all stop.

Pansy looked up from her book. Astoria stilled mid-sip of her tea. Mattheo straightened where he sat by the window.

It was the first thing he’d said in days.

“You—what?” Lorenzo asked, like he hadn’t heard him right.

“Yes,” Theodore repeated, barely above a whisper, “I can.”

His voice cracked on the second word. Not with emotion, not yet—but with disuse. Like it had been tucked away somewhere dark and cold and forgotten.

“I can rot here,” he continued, sinking deeper into the couch. “And I will.”

“Theo,” Blaise said, quieter now, gentler, “this isn’t—come on, you need to eat something. Or sleep. You’re barely human right now—”

“I don’t care.”

“You’ve been missing classes.”

“I don’t care.”

“You’ve been skipping meals.”

“I don’t care, Blaise!” Theodore snapped suddenly, sitting upright.

The outburst startled them all.

Pansy jumped. Astoria’s cup clinked against its saucer. Mattheo looked alarmed.

“I don’t care if I’m failing, I don't care if I look like a goddamn zombie, I don’t care if I die in this fucking room,” Theodore snarled, breathing hard. “Because at least if I die here, it won’t be out there, where he can see me.”

His voice cracked for real this time.

The room was silent. No one moved. No one dared.

He dragged a hand down his face. “You don’t get it,” he whispered. “I can’t even walk past the Astronomy Tower anymore without wanting to scream. Every time I close my eyes, I see his face when I—when I said those words. That moment. That exact second he realized…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t have to.

“He trusted me,” he said instead, voice shaking, “and I broke him. And for what? Six hundred fucking galleons? A laugh?”

The guilt rolled off him in waves, suffocating and bitter. He curled forward like he couldn’t hold the weight anymore.

“I haven’t seen him smile in weeks,” he croaked. “Not once. Not a flicker. I took the brightest thing in this school and I dimmed it. I killed it.”

Pansy covered her mouth. Astoria looked close to tears. Mattheo dropped his gaze.

“You should’ve seen him,” Theodore whispered. “Before me. Before the bet. He was like—like something out of a fairytale. He helped everyone. He’d stay up until four in the morning studying just so he could help a first-year through a test the next day. He knew the names of every constellation, every planet. He’d talk about the universe like it was magic. Like it was alive. And I…”

He finally broke.

The first tear slipped down his cheek silently.

“I told him I loved him under a sky full of stars and I lied.”

No one spoke.

Not even Draco.

Not even Mattheo, who was usually the first to crack a joke when things got too heavy.

“I haven’t been able to sleep since,” Theodore whispered, tears streaming down his face now. “Not when I know he probably cries alone every night and I—I did that. With my words. My mouth. My heartless—”

His voice choked off, and he slammed a fist into the arm of the sofa.

“I wish I’d never taken that fucking bet.”

Mattheo shifted uncomfortably, guilt etched into every line of his face. “We didn’t think it would… go this far. We thought you’d laugh it off. That he’d figure it out.”

“He loved me,” Theodore said, voice flat. “He loved me more than I’ve ever been loved in my life. And I crushed him. For all of you.”

None of them had anything to say to that.

Because he was right.

And they were just starting to realize how much it cost.

Across the castle, in Gryffindor Tower, things were just as broken—if not more.

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting shadows that danced across the stone walls like memories refusing to fade. The chairs around the common room were half-occupied—students whispering quietly, watching you from the corners of their eyes but saying nothing. Not anymore.

You sat curled into your usual spot by the window, the one with the draft you used to complain about but secretly liked because it made the stars feel closer. You didn’t complain anymore. You didn’t speak. You barely moved. A blanket was draped around your shoulders, though you hadn’t pulled it there yourself. It was always there, every night—someone’s silent attempt to bring you comfort you couldn’t ask for.

“Please,” Hermione’s voice cracked. She knelt beside you, her hand hovering, not quite touching your knee. “Just one spoonful, love. Just one. You have to eat something. You haven’t even touched breakfast, and it’s nearly dinner.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t blink.

You hadn’t eaten more than a few bites of toast in days. And even those were forced down, dry and tasteless, with shaking hands and an empty stomach that didn’t growl anymore. It was as if even your body had stopped trying.

Ron sat on the floor behind Hermione, his brows drawn together, lips pressed in a tight line. “He’s not gonna answer, Hermione. He hasn’t said anything in days.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” she snapped, and then immediately softened, her gaze flickering back to you. “I just… I don’t know what to do.”

No one did.

Harry stood further back, near the stairs, his arms crossed tightly across his chest. He hadn’t said much since that day. He was angry—but not at you. Never at you. Just at the situation. At the pain carved into your face. At himself, maybe, for not stopping it. For not being able to fix it. For not noticing that you were falling in love with someone who had only ever meant to break you.

You didn’t look at them.

You couldn’t.

Because if you did, you’d see the way their eyes shimmered. You’d see the way they looked at you like you were something fragile, something precious and cracked, and it would all become too real again.

So you kept your gaze on the sky, even though you didn’t see it anymore. Not really.

The stars—once your solace, your home, your peace—now felt like strangers. Cold and distant and cruel. You used to sit here for hours, naming constellations, tracing galaxies with your fingertip on the glass, yapping on about black holes and nebulae and planetary alignments until someone dragged you away.

Now your fingers were still.

Your mouth silent.

Your soul, lost.

It wasn’t just the heartbreak. It wasn’t just the betrayal. It was the humiliation. The cruelty of it all. The laughter that had echoed through the Great Hall still haunted your ears. The way his voice, the same voice that once whispered “I love you” under starlit skies, had gone sharp, cold, hollow as he dumped you in front of everyone like you were some failed potion.

A joke.

A bet.

Just a name on a list.

And somehow, despite all of that, you still missed him.

You missed him.

Not the version that had laughed with Mattheo and Draco while you fell apart.

Not the version that walked away without even flinching.

But the version that had held you close under blankets in the Astronomy Tower. The one who whispered stories about the stars with you. The one who let you talk for hours and never told you to stop. The one who kissed you like he meant it.

You missed the Theodore who ran his fingers through your hair just to watch you fall asleep in his lap.

You missed the feeling of his arms around you, strong and warm and protective in ways you didn’t know you needed. You missed the way his thumb brushed over your knuckles when you were anxious. The way he’d press his lips to your temple like a promise, so soft and lingering it felt like he was memorizing you.

You missed his touch.

But you never said it out loud.

Not even to yourself.

You couldn’t.

Because that would mean admitting you still wanted him.

That you still loved him.

And after everything, how could you?

You hated yourself for it. For the way your skin still itched with phantom memories. For the way your body leaned just slightly to the left sometimes, as if expecting him to be there. For the way you still dreamed about him, still woke up with his name on your lips and tears on your cheeks.

And yet, every night, without fail, you curled into that windowsill. You watched the sky. You waited for something—anything—to bring you peace.

But it never came.

Your dorm mates stopped asking if you were okay. Seamus had tried to make you laugh with one of his awful impressions of Snape, but when you didn’t even blink, he sat down and said nothing else. Dean left a chocolate frog on your bed one morning. You didn’t touch it.

Neville looked like he was going to cry every time you passed him.

Even Lavender, who usually only cared about gossip, had stopped talking about boys and started leaving little notes of encouragement near your books. You read them. You appreciated them. But they didn’t help.

Nothing did.

You moved through the castle like a ghost—quiet, present, but not alive.

The professors noticed too. McGonagall, strict as she was, gave you extra time on essays. Flitwick excused you from practicals. Even Snape, of all people, narrowed his eyes when you walked into Potions late one morning and just stared at you before silently returning to the board without his usual cruel remarks.

They all knew.

Because you weren’t you anymore.

You were the boy who used to light up when someone mentioned a meteor shower. The boy who believed in soulmates and kissed like love was the only thing keeping the world spinning. The boy who gave everything—and got nothing back.

Now you were the boy who sat in silence.

The boy who flinched when someone got too close.

The boy who hadn’t smiled in twenty-nine days.

The boy who whispered names of stars under his breath at night, not because he wanted to share them, but because he was afraid he’d forget.

Because the only time you still felt anything at all,

Was when you closed your eyes and pretended his hand was still wrapped in yours.

Professor McGonagall nearly lost her composure in the middle of the staff meeting.

“He’s failing Astronomy,” she whispered to Flitwick, her voice thin and frayed at the edges. “He adored that subject. He breathed it. He stayed after every class, even when he didn’t have to, just to help clean up the telescopes or talk about star formations no one else remembered. He used to smile so brightly when he pointed at the constellations—smile, Filius.”

Flitwick’s ears drooped slightly as he folded his hands in front of him. “I know,” he murmured. “He used to come to my classroom during breaks and ask questions about star-related charms. Said he wanted to see if stardust could be replicated magically. His curiosity was… infectious.”

Professor Sinistra, normally so composed, rubbed her arms and shook her head. “He was the only student who’d ask to stay after class just to keep looking at the sky. He told me once that the stars made him feel safe. That no matter what happened, the sky stayed the same, and that gave him hope.” Her voice broke slightly. “Now he doesn’t even look up.”

“I tried to give him an extension on the recent charting project,” she added, voice quieter. “He just left the parchment blank. When I asked if he needed help, he told me, ‘It doesn’t matter anymore.’ Then he walked out.”

McGonagall’s hands trembled on the table. “That boy has never—never—spoken to a professor like that before. Not even during his worst days. He apologized once for being late when he was ill. And now he’s failing?”

There was silence for a moment—thick, heavy silence.

Then Slughorn spoke, eyes sad behind his spectacles. “I had him in third year for Potions Club,” he said quietly. “Brilliant young man. Polite, thoughtful. He used to make these beautiful little memory vials with constellations etched into them—gave one to me after a particularly long week. Said it reminded him of his mother. Always thinking of others. And now…” His voice cracked. “He didn’t even show up for the last two club meetings.”

Snape sat across the table, arms crossed, face blank. But his eyes were hard and sharp. “He’s late to Defense Against the Dark Arts. Every day. I don’t deduct points anymore,” he said coolly, but the slightest furrow in his brow betrayed more than his tone. “He doesn’t talk. Doesn’t raise his hand. He simply exists.”

“You said he gave the correct counter-curse last week,” Flitwick offered gently, as if trying to find something good.

“Yes,” Snape replied slowly, “but he didn’t look at me once. Didn’t even react when the others applauded. It was like… it meant nothing.”

McGonagall leaned forward. “He doesn’t sit with anyone anymore. Not at meals, not in the common room. I found him asleep on a bench near the astronomy tower two nights ago. It was freezing. He’d been out there for hours.”

“That poor boy,” Professor Sprout murmured, dabbing her eyes. “He always helped my Hufflepuffs with Herbology, even when they didn’t ask. Always smiling, always kind.”

“I saw him in the corridor yesterday,” Hagrid added softly, his massive hands folded tightly on the table. “He didn’t even notice me. Just walked by like a ghost. I said his name—twice. Not even a flinch.”

Dumbledore had been silent this entire time, his hands steepled beneath his chin, expression unreadable.

Finally, he spoke, voice low but heavy with weight. “I spoke with Harry last evening. He’s tried everything. So has Miss Granger. So has Mr. Weasley. They said he doesn’t respond anymore. That he simply nods and walks away.”

There was a pause.

“Do you think… we should intervene more directly?” McGonagall asked, hesitant, as though even saying it was invasive.

Dumbledore’s gaze drifted toward the high window, where stars were just beginning to appear in the dusky sky. “There is a grief that burrows itself so deep into a person that no spell, no potion, and no lecture can reach it,” he said gently. “This is not just heartbreak. This is… loss of self.”

The staff exchanged solemn glances.

“Do we know what caused it?” Slughorn asked finally.

Snape’s jaw clenched. “Yes.”

Everyone turned to him.

“Theodore Nott,” he said plainly. “It was him.”

“He broke up with Y/N in the Great Hall,” McGonagall said bitterly. “In front of everyone.”

“And it was part of a bet,” Snape added coldly. “Made by him and the other Slytherins.”

The room erupted in quiet gasps and soft curses.

Hagrid’s face turned red with anger. “A bet?! That poor lad gave that boy his heart—he was over the moon for him!”

“I believe,” Dumbledore said gently, “he still is.”

That silence came again—heavier this time. More suffocating.

“I should speak with Mr. Nott,” McGonagall said finally, standing.

Dumbledore raised a hand.

“No,” he said, voice grave. “He already knows what he’s done. He’s suffering in his own way.”

“So we just wait?” Flitwick asked softly.

“We wait,” Dumbledore said, “and hope the stars he once trusted so deeply… guide him back.”

Theodore stood outside the Astronomy Tower again that night.

Just like every night since the day he broke your heart.

Same hour. Same silence. Same ache that never dulled. He didn’t go inside—not anymore. He stood just outside the archway, where the wind howled through the corridor and the shadows swallowed him whole. The tower didn’t feel like his place anymore. It never truly had.

It was yours.

Yours, with your star charts and wide eyes. Yours, with your laughter that echoed like music between stone walls. Yours, with the way you’d twirl in the moonlight, pointing at constellations like you were introducing him to friends. The tower had felt warm once, enchanted even. Now it felt hollow. Like a tomb.

And yet, he came back.

Every. Damn. Night.

Maybe it was punishment. Maybe it was hope. Maybe he was chasing ghosts.

Maybe he just wanted to be close to you, even if only in memory.

The chill wind bit at his skin as he pulled your old star chart from his pocket. It was frayed at the edges, creased from his constant unfolding, but it still smelled faintly of you—like ink, old parchment, and peppermint. He clutched it like it was sacred.

He unfolded it slowly, fingers trembling.

The little doodles you'd drawn along the corners still made his heart twist. Tiny constellations with smiley faces, a stick figure labeled “Y/N,” one beside it labeled “Theo,” both lying under a cartoon sky filled with glittery stars. Your annotations were messy in places, but charming.

Beside the comet sketch, you had written:

“We’ll see this one together next winter. Promise me you’ll be there.”

He hadn’t even remembered the comet until now. It was due to pass overhead in December.

He wasn’t sure if he’d live to see it.

Not like this.

Every night he stayed in this spot, cold and hollow, his thoughts looping back to the same image:

Your face in the Great Hall.

When he’d said it. When he’d laughed. When he told you it was all a joke.

He saw it in every nightmare now—

Your bright smile faltering.

Your eyes going glassy.

The color draining from your face.

The way you didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. Didn’t even argue.

You just… looked at him like he’d killed something inside you.

Because he had.

And the others? His so-called friends? Mattheo, Draco, Pansy, Blaise, Astoria, Lorenzo… They’d laughed like it was nothing. Tossed their galleons on the table. Cheered like it was a victory.

But even they had stopped laughing now.

Because it was affecting him, too.

He didn’t eat. He didn’t sleep. He didn’t joke. He didn’t flirt. He didn’t feel like himself.

He wasn’t.

He was just a shell—full of regret, sick with guilt, and haunted by the sound of your voice whispering star facts to him in the dark.

And even they were starting to see it.

Even Snape had given him a strange look in class, as if recognizing something deeper—something broken.

But Theodore didn’t care what they saw anymore.

He only cared about the one person who no longer looked at him at all.

He held the chart tighter to his chest, his breath shaky as he glanced up at the stars above the tower. They sparkled like they always had—but somehow felt dimmer. Distant. Cold.

You used to make them feel close. Like they could be touched.

Now, they were just reminders.

Of what he had.

And what he lost.

His lips parted as he whispered into the night, voice raw, shaking.

“I miss you.”

It cracked through the silence like thunder.

“I miss your voice… I miss how you talked about Mars like it was your best friend. I miss how you held my hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. I miss how you looked at me like I mattered. Like I was someone worth loving.”

He stared down at the parchment again, eyes burning.

“You loved me like I was the stars, Y/N. And I loved you too. I was just too much of a coward to say it.”

A beat.

The wind whistled through the corridor.

He closed his eyes and leaned back against the cold wall, letting his head fall against the stone.

“I ruined everything.”

His voice cracked.

“You gave me the universe… and I shattered it like it meant nothing.”

He paused—waiting. Hoping. Begging for a sign.

But there was nothing.

No sound.

No footsteps.

No familiar giggle from the stairway.

Just the cold, and the empty ache that he feared might never go away.

And the knowledge that he’d broken the only thing in his life that had ever truly been beautiful.

The Astronomy Tower stood the same, and that hurt more than anything.

Because everything else had changed.

You walked slowly, your hand brushing the familiar stone wall. You could feel the ghosts of what had once been—his hand clasping yours, your laughter echoing into the sky, the way the stars looked brighter just because he was beside you.

And now?

Now it felt like a tomb.

Your chest ached with every step. You hadn’t been back since that night. Since the night everything inside you died and turned to something quiet, cold, and bitter. It had taken every ounce of your remaining will to drag yourself up here again.

But something called to you.

Maybe it was foolish hope. Maybe it was grief.

Maybe it was the part of you that still whispered his name in the dark.

When you pushed open the heavy door, the wind hit you first—chilly, but familiar—and then the stars, blinking quietly, as if waiting for you to return.

You took a deep breath, stepping onto the balcony. The stone railing was cold under your fingertips, but grounding.

It was just you and the sky again.

You closed your eyes, lifting your face to the stars.

“Cassiopeia’s crooked again,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “You always hated that.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I told you the stars didn’t care about symmetry. You told me I talked too much. But you never stopped listening.”

Your voice cracked. “Why didn’t you stop listening when it mattered?”

Silence answered you.

At least for a moment.

Because then—footsteps.

Soft. Careful. Familiar.

Your heart sank, and you didn’t even need to turn to know who it was.

He always walked like that around you—like he was trying not to wake you from a dream.

You didn’t move. You barely breathed.

“…Y/N?”

His voice hadn’t changed.

But you had.

You turned, slowly.

Your eyes met his—and for a moment, the world stopped spinning.

He looked…

“God,” you whispered without meaning to, “you look…”

You couldn’t finish.

Because he looked awful.

Theodore Nott had always been pale, sharp, elegant—but now he looked fragile. Like a single gust of wind would knock him over. His cheekbones were sharper, his eyes rimmed red. There were dark circles under them, the kind that didn’t come from lack of sleep alone. His robes hung looser on him. His hands were shaking, even though he tried to hide it.

And his eyes—those haunting, sea-glass eyes you used to love so much—looked empty.

“I didn’t think you’d come back here,” he said, voice rough.

“I didn’t mean to,” you replied softly, still shocked. “But I couldn’t sleep.”

He took a step closer, cautious.

You didn’t move away—but you didn’t get closer, either.

You couldn’t.

“Why do you look like that?” you asked before you could stop yourself. “What happened to you?”

He swallowed, eyes flicking away. “You.”

You flinched.

“Don’t say that,” you said harshly.

But it was too late.

You both knew it was true.

“You haven’t been eating,” you murmured, eyeing him. “You haven’t been sleeping.”

He shook his head. “Not really.”

You stared at him for a long time. “Why?”

“Because I miss you,” he admitted, barely a whisper. “Because I hate myself. Because I keep hearing your voice in my head and it hurts more than anything else ever has.”

He took another step closer.

You let him. Barely.

The wind swirled around you both, tugging at your robes.

“I shouldn’t be here,” you whispered. “I shouldn’t be looking at you. I shouldn’t care.”

“But you do,” he said quietly.

And gods help you—you did.

“Why are you here, Theodore?” you asked, voice shaking. “Why now?”

He blinked slowly, as if every word he was about to say was a struggle.

“Because I’m sorry.”

Your hands curled into fists.

“Too late.”

“I know.”

“Then why bother?”

“Because I never got to say it before,” he whispered. “Not when it mattered. Not when you were breaking. Not when I should’ve thrown the bet away and fallen to my knees in front of you.”

You stared at him, lips trembling.

“You want to say sorry now?” you asked, voice brittle. “After you made me a joke? After you humiliated me in front of the whole school? After you laughed with them like I was a fucking—toy?”

“I didn’t laugh,” he said, voice cracking. “I never laughed.”

You scoffed. “You didn’t stop them.”

“I should have,” he admitted. “I should’ve grabbed your hand and told them all to go to hell.”

“Then why didn’t you?!”

“Because I was stupid. And scared. And weak. I cared more about what they thought of me than I did about how I was hurting you.”

You sucked in a breath, trying to steady yourself.

“I told you about my parents,” you said, voice soft. “I told you about being alone. I told you how scared I was of being someone’s pity project. And you—you used that against me.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“But you did.”

The silence between you grew sharp.

You took another step forward, now inches away.

“You killed something inside me, Theodore.”

He looked ready to break.

“And you know what’s worse?” you whispered. “I still love you. Even now. Even after everything. Even when I don’t want to.”

His lips parted, eyes wide.

You laughed bitterly. “Isn’t that pathetic?”

“No,” he said, voice urgent. “It’s not. It’s not pathetic, Y/N. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known. And I—I ruined you.”

“Yes,” you whispered. “You did.”

He reached for you—slowly.

But you stepped back.

“I can’t forgive you,” you said, choking on the words. “Not now. Maybe not ever.”

He froze.

“I need you to understand something, Theo,” you said, voice breaking. “I would have given you everything. I did. I would’ve walked through fire for you.”

You looked up, eyes glassy.

“But you set the fire yourself.”

Then, quietly, “And you watched me burn.”

His breath hitched.

You stepped past him.

He didn’t stop you.

But this time, he turned too. He watched you walk away.

And when you looked back—just once—you saw it.

Tears. Real ones.

He collapsed against the balcony the second you disappeared down the stairs, shoulders trembling.

The stars above both of you blinked down in sorrow.

And neither of you noticed that the brightest one flickered out.

Theodore Nott was a haunted boy now.

There were nights he couldn’t sleep, so he just laid on his back in the cold green haze of the Slytherin dorms, watching the shadows from the Black Lake dance along the stone ceiling. His hands trembled. His thoughts did not.

Because every single thought was you.

Your voice. Your laugh. The way your eyes shimmered when you looked up at the sky and started yapping about Sirius or Mars or that little cluster of stars that supposedly looked like a cat you always insisted that one existed.

He would’ve laughed at you once. Thought you were ridiculous. Too bright for your own good.

But then you had kissed him.

And suddenly, stars had felt real.

────────────────

You weren’t laughing anymore.

You weren’t talking about constellations.

You weren’t… you.

Everyone noticed.

Gryffindor tower had turned somber. The usual energy was gone. No more jokes. No more harmless explosions from Fred and George. No more friendly morning bickering with Ron, or walking with Hermione to breakfast, or teasing Harry for being the “chosen one” with a crooked grin that made people smile just watching it.

Now?

Now you barely left your bed.

You stopped eating unless someone forced you to.

You didn’t go to Astronomy class anymore—your favorite class. Professor Sinistra even visited McGonagall personally to let her feelings out of her chest.

And she wasn’t the only one worried.

Even Snape asked.

He called on you once during Potions, something he rarely did, and when you didn’t respond—just stared blankly at the board with bloodshot eyes—he paused for a moment.

His voice wasn’t sharp. Not like usual.

“Mr. Y/L/N,” he said, quieter. “You’re excused for today. Leave your things. Go back to your common room.”

You didn’t argue. You just left.

The whole class went silent.

Because everyone had heard the rumors by now.

The whole school knew what Theodore had done. The bet. The humiliation. The way your face had cracked in front of every house like a mirror shattering in slow motion. You hadn’t said a single word to Theodore since that day.

But he hadn’t stopped looking for you.

────────────────

“Where is he? I haven't seen him all fucking day.” Theodore snapped, slamming his hands on the table in the Slytherin common room.

The others flinched.

Blaise glanced up from his book. “Still being dramatic in Gryffindor tower, I imagine.”

“Don’t,” Theodore warned. His tone was darker than they’d heard in weeks. “Don’t you dare talk about him like that.”

Mattheo exchanged a glance with Draco. “Mate,” he said slowly, “we didn’t think—”

“Exactly,” Theodore snarled. “You didn’t think. None of us did.”

The common room went quiet again.

Theodore raked a hand through his hair, pacing.

“I—I thought he’d bounce back,” Lorenzo offered weakly. “He’s Gryffindor’s golden boy. Always so… cheerful.”

“He’s not,” Theodore said, voice hollow. “Not anymore.”

Astoria finally spoke, soft but sharp. “We did this.”

No one argued.

Because it was true.

And the worst part? It wasn’t just you that had changed.

Theodore was unraveling right alongside you.

He hadn’t slept properly in weeks. He skipped more classes than he attended. He carried your astronomy notebook around like a damn talisman, flipping through it every night like it would summon you back.

There were notes in the margins about him. Tiny doodles. Scribbled hearts. One page even had his name next to a constellation you made up—Theodon, the “prickly lion star.”

He had laughed when he saw that. Now it made his eyes burn.

He missed you so much it hurt to breathe.

────────────────

Back in Gryffindor tower, you sat curled in a blanket on the windowsill, journal unopened in your lap.

Harry watched you from across the room, arms folded.

“Talk to me,” he tried again. “Just a word. Anything.”

You blinked slowly, like you were underwater.

“Y/N,” Hermione whispered from behind you. “You’re scaring us.”

And you were.

Your hands didn’t tremble anymore.

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t scream.

You didn’t throw things.

You just… stared.

And that silence was worse.

Because you had never been silent.

You had always been the one to talk through your feelings, ramble about them. Even when things were hard, you lit up the room with useless facts about constellations or reminded people to breathe, smile, take care of themselves. You were light.

Now you were fading.

Hermione knelt beside your seat, placing a wrapped chocolate frog on your lap. “I saved this for you.”

You didn’t take it.

Ron shifted uncomfortably near the fireplace, staring at the floor. “He doesn’t deserve you, you know,” he mumbled. “Not after what he did.”

You flinched.

“He doesn’t,” Harry agreed.

“I know,” you finally whispered.

The three of them froze.

It was the first time you had spoken in two days.

You set the chocolate frog aside gently.

“Then why does it still hurt?” you asked, voice hollow. “Why does it feel like the stars stopped shining?”

Hermione’s eyes filled with tears.

Harry reached for your hand and squeezed. “Because you loved him.”

You nodded slowly, swallowing thickly. “Yeah,” you rasped. “I really did.”

────────────────

That night, you returned to the Astronomy Tower for the first time in weeks.

You didn’t tell anyone. You just climbed the steps quietly, hands shaking, heart aching. The door creaked open. The wind whispered like a ghost, cold and biting.

You stepped out into the night.

The stars greeted you like old friends.

You stood there for a long moment, just breathing, letting the wind whip through your robes. You remembered where you’d sat with him. Where he kissed you. Where he looked at you like you were the only thing he could see.

You knelt down and opened your journal.

Your quill trembled.

But you wrote.

You drew every star you could see. Every one you remembered. Every one he made you forget.

And for the first time in weeks…

You cried.

Not from heartbreak, but from relief.

You were still here.

The stars hadn’t gone anywhere.

And maybe—just maybe—you could find your way back to them.

────────────────

Far below, Theodore sat in the courtyard, your notebook pressed to his chest like a shield.

He stared up at the tower window, wondering if you were there. Wondering if the stars had taken you back.

Wondering if he’d ever be enough to stand beside you again.

And for the first time in his life, Theodore Nott felt like the loneliest boy in the universe.

The halls had grown quieter when you passed.

Not out of awkwardness. Out of worry.

Professors had stopped asking you questions directly. Neville tried to sit next to you in Herbology, but you barely acknowledged him. Even Lavender and Parvati, who once couldn’t stop teasing you about “your moody Slytherin boyfriend,” had learned to keep their distance. You were polite. Distant. Untouchable.

But slowly, you were reclaiming little pieces of yourself.

You returned to Astronomy class regularly, always sitting near the back. You still never spoke, but you were there. Present. Listening.

And you were writing again.

A few Gryffindors had noticed. Hermione peeked at your parchment once and saw it—pages and pages of stars, sky maps, invented constellations. She cried about it later in the common room, but didn’t let you see.

Even Professor Sinistra took notice.

She left you small things after class. A note. A paper star folded from map pages. A diagram of lunar phases that included your birthday marked with a tiny, golden moon. Her way of saying, I see you. You’re still here.

────────────────

Theodore had grown pale.

He still walked the halls with that same cool expression, that perfect posture, that quiet air—but he was hollow now. Glass-eyed. Slower. The shadows under his eyes had turned permanent.

He avoided his friends, the Slytherin common room, the Quidditch pitch.

He was grieving, even if he couldn’t admit it at first.

But guilt was a loud, living thing.

And it clawed at him every day.

────────────────

It all happened after a Transfiguration exam.

Theodore was the last to leave the classroom, trailing behind with his hands buried in his pockets and his head low. He hadn’t slept. Again. He was lingering behind while others rushed out into the corridor, buzzing about how hard the written section was or how McGonagall’s stern gaze could petrify you harder than any spell.

His footsteps echoed down the stone corridor, the usual hum of students long since faded. But then he heard them. Laughter. Familiar voices that made his stomach twist with guilt.

Mattheo. Draco. Blaise. Pansy. Astoria. Lorenzo.

They were leaning casually against the wall near the staircase, like nothing had changed, like they hadn’t shattered something unfixable. The laughter stopped when they noticed him. Mattheo's grin faltered and pushed off the wall.

“Theodore,” he called, catching his sleeve. “Oi—what’s got you in a mood? We haven’t seen you in weeks. Did the Gryffindor go all dramatic on you again?”

Theodore yanked his arm away, eyes flashing with something colder than anger.

And for once, he didn’t walk away.

He turned on his heel, slow and deliberate.

His voice was razor-sharp when it came. “What the fuck do you want?”

They stared at him.

Draco raised a brow, amused. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Theodore snapped. “Or has all that hair gel finally seeped into your ears?”

Mattheo laughed again, but it sounded forced this time. “Holy shit, what’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me?” Theodore took a step forward, his voice a bitter cocktail of fury and heartbreak. “You’re all what’s wrong with me. You, this stupid bet, and every single time I let you make fun of him.”

Pansy blinked. “It was just a joke—”

“No, it wasn’t.” His voice cracked. “It was him. It was someone who trusted me. Someone who smiled like sunlight and helped every person he met—including you. And I let you turn him into a fucking punchline.”

The silence was crushing.

He was shaking now—shoulders tense, jaw clenched, hands curled into trembling fists.

“I loved him,” Theodore whispered, barely holding himself together. “And I destroyed him because I was too much of a coward to say no. You think I’m upset because the bet ended? No. I’m upset because I wake up every night wishing I’d never taken it. Because now he won’t even look at me. And he shouldn’t.”

His voice dropped even lower. “Because I don’t deserve it.”

None of them spoke.

And for the first time since the bet started, Theodore saw it—guilt. Real guilt. The kind that sinks into bone and never lets go.

“I can’t sleep,” Theodore said hoarsely. “I can’t breathe in our dorm because I hear him laugh. I walk through this school, and I can’t go ten fucking feet without remembering him. And you think this is funny?”

Mattheo’s smirk wavered. His usual bravado slipped away, bit by bit, as Theodore’s words hung in the air like poison.

No one had ever seen him like this. Broken. Raw. Honest.

Draco shifted uncomfortably, looking down at his shoes. Blaise’s arms were crossed over his chest, but his expression had gone pale. Pansy’s lips parted, but she didn’t know what to say. Not yet.

Finally, Astoria stepped forward.

“Theodore…” Her voice was soft. Guilty. “We didn’t think it would end like this.”

He scoffed bitterly. “What? That I’d actually care? That I’d fall in love with him?”

“We thought it was a crush,” Blaise muttered. “A laugh. A way to get under the Gryffindors’ skin.”

“You used him.”

Silence again.

Pansy cleared her throat, voice shaking now. “He used to help me in Potions. Every week, even when he had his own homework. He brought me Pepper-Up Potion when I was sick last winter.”

Theodore’s jaw clenched. “And you still watched me break him.”

“We didn’t know,” Mattheo said, quieter than he’d ever spoken before. “We didn’t know you were serious.”

“I wasn’t at first!” Theodore shouted. “That’s the worst part. I wasn’t. I was just like you. Laughing. Lying. Pretending it meant nothing. But then… then he started showing me stars. Telling me about the universe like it was a love letter. And I—” His voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “I started seeing myself in the sky.”

No one spoke.

Until Pansy stepped forward, tears prickling at her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “We’re all sorry. We didn’t just hurt him. We hurt you. We made you into someone you're not.”

Lorenzo nodded, voice hoarse. “We were cruel. And we deserve whatever comes from it.”

Draco’s lips pressed together tightly. He gave a single, solemn nod. “We were wrong, Theodore.”

Theodore stared at them, throat tight, chest aching.

“You don’t deserve forgiveness,” he said coldly. “But you can start by never mocking his name again. Ever. And if you really want to make it right… start by remembering the kind of person he is. Not the one we turned him into.”

Mattheo ran a hand down his face and let out a shaky breath. “You’re right.”

“We’re sorry,” Astoria repeated, voice almost too soft to hear.

Theodore didn’t respond.

He didn’t need to.

Because the damage was already done.

But at least now, they knew it.

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hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall · 3 months ago

Text

For Rome - Chapter 1

Summary: A weary Roman General, Marcus Acasius, sets out to find the so-called "Angel" his soldiers speak of—a woman with a gentle touch and an even softer voice. What he discovers is far more extraordinary than he ever imagined.

Pairing: General Marcus Acasius x F!Reader

Warnings: a description of injuries (I'm not a doctor or do not have any medical education so apologies), nothing here yet. English isn't my first language so all mistakes are mine for which I apologise.

Words: 6K

The life of a soldier was never an easy one, but the life of a Roman soldier? It was a crucible of steel and blood. General Marcus Acasius knew this better than most. War had carved its lessons into his flesh and seared them into his soul. He had lived through campaigns that churned the earth with rivers of blood, watched comrades fall like broken reeds, and seen hope flicker and die in the eyes of too many men. This was not a life he would have wished upon his worst enemies—let alone himself.

And yet, here he was. Bound by duty, chained to Rome’s legacy, and crushed beneath the weight of serving not one, but two emperors whose names would forever leave a bitter taste on his tongue.

Two boys drowning in power they neither earned nor understood. They were spoiled by their station and cruel in their ignorance, wielding authority like a child might a blade—clumsy, reckless, and devastating. Marcus had long since lost count of the orders he had executed on their behalf, justifying them under the banner of Rome. Yet he knew the truth. He had not fought for Rome in years. He fought for their whims, their games. And the cost? Endless bloodshed. Endless grief.

The screams haunted him most—the keening wails of mothers clutching lifeless sons, the choking sobs of widows, the silent, hollow-eyed children whose futures he had stolen with the sweep of a sword. He had grown sick of it all. Sick of blood-soaked glory, of starving masses, of men reduced to mere tools in the grotesque machinery of imperial ambition.

Perhaps that was why he found himself here now, in the shadowed underground of the subcity. The stench of rot and despair clung to the narrow alleys, and the skeletal frames of the impoverished haunted every corner. It was a place forgotten by the sun and abandoned by Rome, yet it thrummed with whispers.

Whispers of you.

An “angel,” his soldiers had called you. At first, he had dismissed their reverent tones as the drunken ramblings of battle-weary men. What could an angel possibly look like in a place like this? But the way they spoke of you lingered in his mind, drawing him down into this forsaken part of the city.

It was not the talk of your beauty that intrigued him. He had seen beauty before—false and true, fleeting and eternal. What struck him was the way his men, hardened and stoic, described your hands, your voice, your presence. They spoke of the way your touch could ease pain, how your smile softened the sharp edges of their suffering, and how your words, simple and kind, could light the darkest of days. They described you with an almost childlike awe, as though you were something beyond their comprehension, something Rome itself could not tarnish.

Marcus wanted to scoff at their adoration, but the weight in their voices told him otherwise. Could someone like you truly exist in this ruined city? A city bloated with greed, corroded by power, and built on the bones of the desperate? He needed to see for himself.

You were said to help those Rome had cast aside—the soldiers, the beggars, the orphans, and the broken. While the wealthy insulated themselves from the rot, you faced it head-on. Even Lady Lucilla, a shrewd and guarded aristocrat, spoke of you with an uncharacteristic fondness. “A stubborn creature,” she had called you with a rare smile. “She takes only what she needs, no more, even when I insist. She’s maddeningly selfless, like a fool chasing the wind.”

It was those words that lingered as he descended into the subcity. They painted an image of someone unyielding, someone who refused to be swallowed by the darkness around her. Someone who, perhaps, could remind him of what it meant to fight for something greater than power.

The streets grew narrower, the air thicker. His boots crunched against the broken cobblestones as he approached the small gathering place where you were said to tend to the sick and weary. His heart, hardened by years of war, beat faster, not with fear but with something he couldn’t quite name.

The room was not what he expected.

Makeshift beds lined both sides of the narrow space, occupied by men, women, and children in various states of weariness and healing. Yet, unlike the countless barracks and field hospitals Marcus Acasius had seen in his lifetime, this place radiated an unusual serenity. The faces of the sleeping bore no trace of the gnawing fear he had come to associate with suffering. It was as if some invisible spell had been cast here, lulling their troubled souls into a rare and precious peace.

He inhaled deeply, preparing for the sharp sting of blood and rot so common in places of injury and despair. Instead, the air was clean—remarkably so. It smelled faintly of herbs, maybe lavender, and something subtler, something soothing. It reminded him of the private quarters back at his villa, of the rare nights when he could sleep without the shadows of war pressing against his chest. A ridiculous thought, he chastised himself.

And then, he saw you.

You stood with your back to him, entirely focused on the child sitting on the small, battered chair in front of you. Marcus had made no attempt to move quietly—he was a soldier, not a thief—but you hadn’t turned at the sound of his boots on the stone floor. It wasn’t fearlessness; it was trust, an unshakable calm that marked every movement of your hands as you adjusted the sling cradling the boy’s injured arm.

The child couldn’t have been older than eight. His tear-streaked face glistened under the dim light, and yet his lips curved into a smile—soft, hesitant, but undeniably genuine. A smile on the face of an injured child. Marcus stared at the sight, unmoored. He had never seen such a thing before. In the chaos of war, even when children were treated, their screams and sobs were met with indifference, their pain an afterthought. But here, this boy laughed—a pure, light sound that bounced off the walls like a small rebellion against misery.

“General.”

Marcus turned to his right, startled from his reverie. One of his men lay in a bed nearby, his head wrapped in clean bandages, his arm in a sling not unlike the boy’s. He bore the marks of battle but looked far better than Marcus had expected. There was color in his cheeks, and his voice, though tired, carried a note of gratitude. “I didn’t expect to see you here, sir.”

With a quick wave of his hand, Marcus silenced the man’s attempt to rise and salute. Before he could reply, a burst of laughter drew his attention back to you.

The boy was laughing again, his small body shaking with mirth. From where Marcus stood, it seemed you were scolding him, your finger jabbing lightly into his tiny chest. But the smirk tugging at the corners of your lips betrayed you. Whatever you were saying, it was no reprimand. It was a game, a tease, an effort to pull the child out of his fear and into the safety of his own joy.

You lifted the boy off the chair with ease, steadying him as his bare feet touched the floor. His brows knit together as you handed him a small cloth bag, but his frown vanished the moment he peeked inside. His wide, shining eyes spoke volumes. To him, whatever lay within was a treasure.

“Food,” the soldier beside Marcus murmured, his voice low as if sharing a secret. “She always sends them off with something to eat and a few bandages, in case they need more later.”

Marcus turned to him, his expression unreadable.

“We soldiers don’t take the bags,” the man added, his lips curving into a faint smile. “It’s our way of helping her, in a sense.”

Marcus’s gaze shifted back to you, just as the boy flung his arms around your waist. The child’s face pressed into the fabric of your tunic, and for a moment, Marcus expected you to flinch, to recoil from the dirt and grime clinging to him. But you didn’t. Instead, you wrapped your arms around him, holding him as though his small embrace was a gift you treasured.

The light in your eyes was unguarded, pure, as though you had managed to unearth something sacred in this forsaken world. And in that instant, Marcus understood. It wasn’t just the calm you brought to the room or the kindness in your actions. It was the way you saw them—not as burdens, not as broken things to be fixed, but as people.

His gaze landed on you then. You had paused in your work, looking at him with a flicker of curiosity. For a moment, your eyes studied him, piecing together who he might be. Then came the realization, settling over your face like a shadow. Marcus braced himself, expecting anger, distrust, or even fear. He was, after all, the embodiment of the Rome that so many here had suffered under—a man of war, destruction, and discipline.

But no such emotion crossed your features. What he saw instead was recognition and something that startled him even more: worry.

You moved toward him with a grace so natural it seemed deliberate, your steps soft and careful, as though you were wary of waking the injured souls around you. Not that the child’s laughter hadn’t already done so—it rang through the space like a bell, impossible to ignore. Yet your gentle tread felt like a habit born not of necessity but of respect.

“General Marcus Acasius,” you greeted him, your voice low but warm, your lips curling into a soft smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. The worry lingered there, quiet but unmistakable. “Whatever brings you here? I hope you’re not injured?”

Your voice was something else entirely. It carried a tenderness he had not heard in years. It reminded him of a mother soothing her child after a nightmare. No wonder his men had spoken of you the way they had; he could see now how easily they must have fallen under your spell.

“Nothing to worry about,” he replied, surprised at the gravel in his voice. “Just a few bruises—annoying more than painful.” He didn’t know why he admitted it out loud. Perhaps it was the way your eyes held his, unwavering and full of quiet concern, or the way your tone invited truth without demanding it.

“I can take a look at them, if you’ll let me.”

You stepped closer then, as if reaching out to touch him, but your hand hesitated mid-air before falling back to your side. It was almost imperceptible, that moment of pause, but Marcus saw it. It wasn’t fear. It was something else—an acknowledgment, perhaps, of who he was and what he carried. You were cautious, yes, but not timid.

Your attention shifted to the soldier in the nearby bed, and the smile on your face broadened into something softer, brighter. “Emascus,” you murmured, moving to his side. Your hand brushed gently against his forehead as you checked his temperature, your touch featherlight. “You’re not running so hot anymore. That’s a relief.”

The soldier nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Marcus watched the exchange, a strange mixture of emotions stirring in his chest. Gratitude was chief among them—gratitude that someone cared for his men in a way he no longer could. Your hands, your voice, your presence—it was a balm for these battle-weary souls. But beneath that gratitude was a deep sadness. It pained him that such care could only be found here, in the forgotten corners of Rome, among those cast aside by the empire he had given his life to defend.

Your voice drew him from his thoughts.

“Would you be so kind as to wait for me in that room there?” you asked, gesturing toward a door at the end of the corridor.

For a moment, Marcus didn’t register that you were speaking to him. When he did, his brows lifted in surprise. There was an unexpected firmness in your tone—not commanding, exactly, but resolute. Though your words were phrased as a request, there was no mistaking that you fully expected him to comply.

“I like my patients to have an ounce of privacy while I take care of them,” you continued, your smile returning, this time with a hint of mischief. “If you allow it, my lord.”

Something in your tone almost made him laugh. He hadn’t been spoken to like this in years—not with such quiet authority, not by someone who seemed utterly unshaken by his presence. You didn’t seem to see the weight of his title, only the bruised man standing before you.

His lips twitched, amusement threatening to break his stern facade, but he merely nodded and turned toward the door. He left the soldier in your care and entered the room you had indicated.

The space was small but neat, with a wooden bench against one wall and a table holding an assortment of salves and bandages. It smelled faintly of herbs, the scent even stronger here than in the main room. As he sat, Marcus felt a strange sense of anticipation, as though crossing the threshold of this room had marked the beginning of something he couldn’t yet name.

He leaned back, his gaze drifting to the door as he waited. For the first time in years, he wasn’t thinking of battles or emperors. Instead, his mind was filled with you—your quiet confidence, your steady hands, and the unexpected strength in your voice.

He hadn’t even noticed when his eyes closed. The stillness of the room wrapped around him, lulling him into an unfamiliar calm. It was unlike him to let his guard down. Years of war had taught him to remain vigilant, always aware of his surroundings. Yet here he was, letting his defenses crumble in the quiet warmth of this strange place.

The great General Marcus Acasius, lulled into a fleeting peace by a mere slip of a woman. He almost chuckled at the absurdity of it. Somewhere in the heavens, the gods were surely laughing.

When he woke, the room was darker than he remembered. The soft glow of a single candle now lit the space, casting flickering shadows across the walls. He blinked, his eyes adjusting, and realized the other candles had been extinguished. The lone flame illuminated a desk cluttered with papers, small jars, and bundles of herbs.

You sat there, leaning over a parchment, your brow furrowed in concentration. The light caught the curve of your cheek and the faint smudge of ink on your fingers. There was an endearing focus to the way you worked, your nose scrunching slightly as if deep thought required such a gesture.

A strange thought crossed his mind—you looked almost...adorable.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

His voice was rougher than he intended, and he regretted it when you jumped, startled by the unexpected sound. Your hand flew to your chest, but the alarm faded quickly, replaced by that familiar, calming smile.

“You seemed like you needed the rest, my lord,” you replied, standing to light the other candles. The room grew warmer, brighter, the flickering light chasing away the shadows and revealing more of the space. You moved with practiced ease, each motion deliberate yet unhurried.

Moments later, you handed him a cup of wine. “It may not be as fine as what you’re accustomed to, but my father always said it’s good manners to greet a guest of high rank with wine rather than water.”

There was a playful lilt to your voice, a teasing cheerfulness that felt out of place yet oddly welcome. It caught him off guard—not just the tone, but the fact that you spoke to him as if he were merely a man, not a general burdened by the weight of Rome’s empire. There was respect in your words, yes, but also a grounding quality that made him feel human, rather than the untouchable figure most people treated him as.

He took a cautious sip of the wine, raising a brow in surprise. It wasn’t the finest vintage he’d ever tasted, but it was far from the worst. Given your introduction, he’d expected something barely drinkable.

His surprise deepened when he noticed you pouring yourself a cup of water.

“I prefer to keep my wits about me,” you said, catching his expression. “A clear head is important, especially if someone comes in need.”

But when he didn’t respond, still staring at you with mild bewilderment, you reached for his cup and took a small sip of the wine yourself. The casualness of the gesture startled him. You drank as if it were the most natural thing in the world, then placed the cup back in his hands with a smirk.

“See? I’d make a terrible healer if I poisoned my patients.”

“And since when am I your patient?” he asked, his tone caught between amusement and disbelief. Few dared to address him so directly, let alone with such nonchalance.

“Since you admitted your bruises,” you replied, settling onto the edge of your desk with an easy grace. You leaned forward slightly, your gaze locking with his. “Speaking of which, will you let me see them? I might be able to make them less...annoying.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, almost forming a smile. The way you quoted his own words back at him carried a lightness he hadn’t felt in years.

For a moment, he simply looked at you. In a world that demanded so much pretense, you were refreshingly unguarded, completely at ease in your skin. There was a peculiar strength in your openness, a quiet defiance of the world’s harshness that left him disarmed.

And against all odds, he found himself nodding.

“Let me help you with this,” you said softly, gesturing to his armor.

Your tone was steady but not commanding, leaving the choice entirely to him. Marcus hesitated for a moment before nodding, a small gesture that carried more weight than you realized. You hadn’t moved an inch until he gave his permission, a restraint he found rare and striking. You valued dignity, it seemed—not just your own but that of others—and in a world like his, where power often crushed such considerations, it felt like a delicacy.

Your hands, though small, moved with confidence. It wasn’t the first armor you had removed, that much was clear. Yet there was a care in the way you handled the clasps and buckles, as if you weren’t simply working with steel but touching him directly. That thought made Marcus uneasy, though not unpleasantly so. You were a mystery, a curious creature that didn’t fit into any category he knew.

When you finally peeled away the layers of armor and his tunic, leaving him in his undergarment, your sharp intake of breath didn’t escape him.

“Those look a bit more than just annoying bruises,” you chided, your voice carrying both concern and a quiet reprimand.

Marcus felt strangely exposed—not just physically but in some deeper, more vulnerable way. He had been treated by healers before, but those were men, soldiers like himself, who patched him up with brisk efficiency and little ceremony. This was different.

Your fingers brushed over his scars and bruises, light and careful, yet purposeful. Some of the older wounds bore the telltale signs of sloppy care: reddish bandages, poorly healed scars, and swelling around the stitches. Your grimace deepened as your gaze settled on two scars that had become infected.

He watched your face, noticing the way your lips pressed together in frustration, your brows knitting with disapproval. It wasn’t directed at him, though. That much was clear.

“You don’t look too happy,” he said, his voice laced with dry humor.

You sighed, your fingers continuing their examination. He winced when you pressed gently against one bruise, testing for deeper damage. But when your hand moved to the large bruise near his ribs, the pain was immediate and sharp. Marcus flinched, a curse slipping through his clenched teeth as his hand shot up to grab yours, stopping you from pressing further.

“Forgive me, General,” you said, your tone clipped, “but at least now I know you do feel pain. You’re just a complete moron for ignoring it.”

“Excuse me?” Marcus exclaimed, genuinely taken aback. For the first time in years, someone had spoken to him with such boldness, and he wasn’t sure whether to be offended or impressed. “Do you care who you’re speaking to?”

Your expression didn’t waver. In fact, you seemed entirely unbothered by his title or his irritation. “You can sentence me to death for my words if you wish, my lord,” you said, your voice firm but laced with a frustration he could only describe as maternal, “but it doesn’t change the fact that you have multiple broken ribs. And you’ve neglected them. Not to mention whoever last treated your wounds should be stripped of any right to practice medicine. Two of these scars are infected, and I’ll need to reopen, clean, and stitch them properly.”

You glanced up at him then, and his breath caught. The anger in your eyes wasn’t for him—it was for his neglect and whoever had failed to care for him properly. There was something about that look, fiery and determined, that melted something in him he hadn’t realized was frozen.

“So you can do whatever you wish with my head,” you continued, your tone softening slightly but still resolute, “but only after I’ve taken care of you, my lord.”

Marcus stared at you, speechless. No one had ever cared for him enough to risk their own well-being for his. You had to know the danger of speaking to him this way, yet here you stood, unwavering.

And, to his surprise, he didn’t mind. He found that when it came to you, he didn’t care about his status or authority.

“Where do you want me?” he asked at last, the faintest hint of amusement in his voice.

You blinked, caught off guard for the first time. Your reaction was subtle—just a few moments of hesitation—but it was enough to make him smirk. A small, childish triumph stirred in his chest, a victory that felt sweeter than any battle he’d won.

You were good. Really damn good. It didn’t take long for Marcus to understand why his men preferred you over the hardened healers in the camps. Your hands were smaller, gentler, moving with a precision that was both calming and mesmerizing. But it wasn’t just your touch—it was the way you talked him through each step, explaining what you were doing as though giving him a measure of control. It was a strange thing for him to find comfort in, but it steadied him in ways he didn’t expect.

When the time came to reopen his infected scars, you hesitated. Your expression faltered, guilt flashing across your features like a crack in the calm façade you wore. “Brace yourself,” you said softly, almost pleading. And when the scalpel touched his skin, you winced, as though the pain you inflicted was your own to bear.

It hurt, of course, but it was nothing Marcus hadn’t endured before. Yet the way you worked, with such care and purpose, made it impossible to look away. Your movements were swift but deliberate, your focus unwavering. You cleaned each wound with an attentiveness he had never experienced, as though the scars on his body were more than just marks of survival—they were something sacred.

“You’re better behaved than your men,” you teased as you began cleaning the second wound.

Marcus raised a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Oh?”

“I remember Euthris once proposing that a kiss would make him feel better,” you said, a grin tugging at your lips.

He chuckled, the sound surprising even himself. He had known women who would have slapped a man for such a comment without hesitation. And yet here you were, laughing about it.

“I do apologize for my men,” he said, his tone warm, amusement lacing his words. Truthfully, he understood the poor soldier’s sentiment. He surprised himself by realizing he wouldn’t mind a kiss from you either. But he was no longer as bold as he once had been—age and experience had tempered him. “I assume he left thoroughly disappointed?”

You shook your head, a playful glint in your eye. “I kissed his cheek to thank him for donating his food bag to someone else.”

Marcus blinked, taken aback by your words. His expression softened as he processed them. Perhaps his men were flirtatious, even bold, but they were also honorable.

“They’re good men,” you continued, your voice quieter now. “I’ve noticed the way they leave their bags behind, or how they slip coins into places they think I won’t see. They could spend those coins on something for themselves, but instead, they choose to help. You should be proud of them, my lord.”

“I don’t believe I’ve had much to do with their actions…” Marcus began, but his words faltered as you began stitching the reopened scar.

Your apologies came soft and quick, almost teary, as the needle pierced his skin. He wanted to tell you it was fine, to reach out and brush the concern from your face, but he remained still, letting you work.

“I didn’t know about your existence,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter now. “I came here because I overheard my men talking about you during one of their drunken nights.”

You flushed at that, your laughter turning awkward and small.

“They spoke of an ‘Angel,’” he continued, his eyes fixed on your face. “And I had to see for myself.”

“You must be disappointed then, my lord,” you whispered with a hint of humor, turning to the next wound. Again, you apologized softly when the needle broke through his skin.

“I never had an image in mind of what an angel might look like,” he said. His voice dipped, becoming almost reverent as he reached up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The movement was instinctive, unplanned, and when your body froze beneath his touch, he hesitated. Had he crossed a line?

“But if someone were to ask me now,” he continued, his hand retreating slowly, “I would give them your description.”

Your breath hitched, and your wide eyes lifted to meet his. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the air between you thick with something unspoken.

You had heard of General Marcus Acasius. His name carried weight, whispered among soldiers and citizens alike. He was a formidable force, a man whose strength and cunning had turned the tide of many battles. But more than that, he was spoken of as a good man—merciless in war but fair, unwavering in his duty.

When he had walked into your space earlier that day, the first thing you noticed was how unfairly handsome he was. You had wondered, fleetingly, how a man like him could ever be sent to a battlefield. But now, as you stitched the last wound and felt the weight of his words sink in, you realized he was more than his reputation. He cared for his men, even as he neglected himself. He spoke without arrogance, treated you with respect, and carried a depth that made you want to know more.

“Forgive me, my lady. It seems I’m as ill-behaved as my men,” Marcus chuckled, the sound warm yet apologetic. His gaze dropped to your hands, which had frozen mid-motion after his words and touch. You swallowed hard, regaining your composure, and quickly returned to stitching the last wound.

When you finished, your voice was soft, almost hesitant as you asked him to remain lying down. If the room hadn’t been so quiet, he might have missed it entirely. Without waiting for a response, you turned to your table, busying yourself with a small bottle and herbs.

The smell that wafted from your work was unlike the harsh medicinal odors he’d grown accustomed to—sharp, biting scents that clung to battlefields and camps. This was different, a subtle and soothing aroma that seemed to fill the space with peace. He found himself breathing it in deeply, drawn to its unfamiliar comfort.

“You have nothing to apologize for, my lord,” you said after a moment, your voice steadier now. When you turned back to him with a medium-sized bottle and a piece of gauze, he noticed the faint flush on your cheeks. His lips curved into a small, unbidden smile, his ego growing slightly at the sight.

“Rather than ill-mannered,” you added, a shy smile tugging at your lips, “it was quite charming, I must admit.”

Marcus chuckled again, his gaze resting on you as though you were some kind of art—something rare and unexpected in his world of violence and chaos.

“But I am no lady,” you continued, meeting his eyes briefly before glancing away. “I’m just a girl from the lower classes, trying to carve out a place for herself in this cruel world.”

“You are the reason my soldiers are still standing,” he replied, his voice steady and sincere. “If anyone is worthy of the title, it’s you.”

His words took you off guard. There was a weight to them, a charm so effortless it almost felt unintentional. “Not to mention,” he added with a faint smirk, “you still haven’t told me your name.”

Your reaction was almost comical—your hands paused mid-action, and your mouth opened as if to reply, only for you to close it again, too embarrassed to speak. Marcus couldn’t hold back the laugh that burst from him. It was deep, genuine, and so free of burden that it surprised even himself. He hadn’t laughed like that in years, and you, caught in the sound of it, found yourself smiling despite your flustered state.

Finally, you managed to stammer out your name. The way he repeated it, soft and deliberate, made your heart skip a beat.

“I…” You cleared your throat, willing the warmth in your cheeks to fade. “I’ll apply this oil to the bruises on your ribs, then wrap them with bandages. I assume you won’t accept the bandages from me.”

When he nodded, the smirk on his face grew, earning a roll of your eyes.

“Fine,” you said with mock exasperation. “But I insist you take the oil and use it before bed each night.”

He hesitated for only a moment before accepting the bottle. He knew well enough he couldn’t find anything like it elsewhere. But as you began to pull your hand away, his fingers closed gently over yours, stopping you.

From beneath the folds of his armor, Marcus retrieved a small leather bag. Without hesitation, he placed it in your hand. The weight of the coins surprised you, and you immediately began to shake your head.

“I cannot accept this,” you said firmly. “I won’t—”

“You can,” he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument, “and you will, my dear.” His smirk softened into something warmer, his voice quieter as he added, “You’re doing an incredible job—not just for my men but for everyone who comes to you. If not for yourself, then take it to help them.”

You looked down at the bag, then back at him, your throat tightening as the emotions you had kept at bay finally broke through. Tears welled in your eyes, spilling over before you could stop them.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “From the bottom of my heart.”

Marcus, sensing your discomfort at showing such vulnerability, simply nodded and looked away, giving you a moment to collect yourself.

Steeling yourself, you poured some of the oil onto the gauze and began to gently apply it to his bruises. Your touch was soft but deliberate, your movements careful as you worked. The warmth of the oil seeped into his skin, its soothing scent filling the space between you.

As you finished and prepared the bandages, Marcus watched you with quiet fascination. He hadn’t expected to find someone like you in a place like this—someone who treated others with such care and dignity, no matter their station. He couldn’t help but admire you. There was a quiet strength in everything you did, a resilience that didn’t demand attention but couldn’t be ignored. Yet, alongside that strength, you carried a gentleness that was rare in a world like his—a softness that didn’t falter, even under the weight of the pain and chaos you confronted daily.

“I want this oil to be gone in three days,” you said at last, your voice steadier now, though the lingering care in your eyes hadn’t wavered since he first saw you. “Every night, it should be applied.”

You looked at him then, something sterner flickering behind your gaze, and for a moment, he saw the fierce determination that lay beneath your calm exterior. “And please,” you continued, the words firm but kind, “do not overwork yourself. Those ribs need time to heal, and they won’t get it if you keep pushing yourself.”

He smiled at that, a quiet acknowledgment of your concern, and nodded. His eyes never left you as you worked, wrapping his torso with bandages. Despite the size of your hands, your touch was confident, and your movements were precise. To his surprise, when you finished, he found himself able to breathe a little easier.

“The dressing of broken ribs is crucial for your health,” you explained, as though anticipating the thoughts running through his mind. “Even if it hurts a little, it needs to be done tightly enough to provide support.”

You glanced up at him, your smile gentle but teasing. “My biggest concern was that one of the ribs might puncture your lung. And, well, no one wants that.”

He chuckled at the light humor, his chest rising and falling more easily than it had in days.

“I won’t waste your hard work on me,” he said sincerely, his voice warm with gratitude. There was something in his gaze—a softness, an intensity—that made your breath catch for just a moment.

You nodded, stepping back and surveying your work with a satisfied expression.

“Do you need help dressing?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

Marcus moved his arms tentatively, testing the bandages’ hold. To his relief, the sharp pain had dulled significantly. “No, I think I’ve got it,” he replied, shaking his head with a small smile.

“Good,” you said, turning back to tidy your workspace. “I want to see you again in three days for an inspection.”

He pulled his tunic over his head, watching you as you worked, your movements fluid and purposeful. He couldn’t help but notice the care in even the smallest gestures—the way you arranged the jars, the precise manner in which you cleaned your tools. His gaze lingered, and a soft smile touched his lips when he realized how intently he was observing you.

You continued speaking without looking at him. “Of course, if you decide not to take my head before then.”

At that, Marcus frowned. But when you turned to him with a playful smirk, his confusion gave way to quiet laughter.

“And who would take care of my soldiers the way you do?” he replied, his tone gentle but sincere.

Your expression softened at his words, and you rolled your eyes in mock exasperation. “Three days, General,” you murmured, turning to leave.

As you disappeared into the hallway to check on your other patients, Marcus remained where he was, his mind lingering on the sound of your voice and the way you had looked at him—not as a general, but as a man. He was already counting the hours until he’d have an excuse to see you again.

#marcus acacius #marcus acacias x reader #marcus acacius smut #marcus acacius gladiator II #marcus acacius x you #gladiator 2 fic #gladiator #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #marcus acacius fanfiction #marcus acacius fic #general marcus acacius #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal characters #pedrohub #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal x reader

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amyzworldds · 11 days ago

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hello!! Can i request for a 14th member svt au (each member reactions if possible!) where the 14th member (u) got so much hate point she left the group and became a solo artist, she won her award and did a speech and then she saw each svt’s members reactions!

Title: Thirteen Cheers for Fourteen

Masterlist | Part 2

In a whirlwind of hate and heartbreak, Y/N, the lone female maknae of Seventeen, faces relentless backlash from fans, pushing her to leave the group and vanish abroad. After a year of silence, she returns to Korea, forging a solo path with a powerful comeback, while the thirteen boys grapple with her absence. Pairing: Seventeen x 14th member Genre: Fluff, Heavy angst

The apartment was suffocatingly silent, save for the faint drip of a leaking faucet in the kitchen. Y/N sat on the cold hardwood floor, her back pressed against the wall, knees drawn up to her chest. Her eyes were swollen, the skin around them raw from weeks—maybe months—of crying. She couldn’t tell anymore. Time had blurred into an endless haze of pain. A half-empty water bottle sat beside her, untouched for hours. She hadn’t eaten today. Or yesterday. She didn’t care.

The hate had been there since the beginning. Nine years ago, when Seventeen debuted with her as the only girl, the Korean fans had erupted. “She’s a disgrace.” “A spoiled princess who bought her way in.” “Seventeen doesn’t need her.” She’d been fourteen then, a wide-eyed maknae with dreams bigger than the world. She’d fought tooth and nail to prove herself—begged her father, PLEDIS’s founder, to judge her fairly, trained until her body gave out, poured her soul into every performance. But none of it mattered. To them, she was nothing but a stain.

Now, at twenty-three, the hate had metastasized. Flower wreaths piled up outside HYBE, their ribbons screaming, “Leave Seventeen, Y/N. You’re a curse.” Online, the threats were worse—boycotts, petitions, vile words she couldn’t unsee. They called her names that cut deeper than knives, accused her of things that made her stomach churn. The company had forced her into a hiatus, a “break” to “think things over.” But all it did was leave her alone with her thoughts—and they were merciless.

The boys had tried. God, they’d tried. Seungcheol had held her when she’d broken down after a concert, whispering, “You’re enough, Y/N. You’ve always been enough.” Vernon had sat with her in silence, his presence a quiet anchor. Dino, her fellow maknae, had sobbed into her shoulder, begging, “Don’t let them win, Y/N. Please.” But she’d pushed them away. “I’m fine,” she’d lied, her voice hollow. “I just need space.” They’d stopped coming after she’d screamed at Minghao to leave her alone, her words a jagged sob: “Stop pretending I’m worth saving!”

She wasn’t. Not anymore.

Her phone buzzed on the floor, its screen lighting up with a new message. She didn’t look. It was probably Joshua again, or maybe Wonwoo—soft words she didn’t deserve. She’d shut them all out, locked the door, turned off the lights. Her family had called too, her mother’s voice trembling through the line: “Come home, Y/N. Let us help you.” But she’d hung up, muttering, “I’m okay,” before curling into herself and crying until her throat burned.

She wasn’t okay. She was drowning.

The silence pressed in, heavy and unbearable. Her eyes drifted to a framed photo on the shelf—Seventeen’s first win, all fourteen of them beaming, her tiny figure squeezed between Jun and Hoshi. She’d been so happy then, so naive. Now, that memory felt like a lie. A sob clawed its way up her chest, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to stifle it. But it broke free, loud and ragged, echoing in the empty room.

“Why me?” she whispered to no one, her voice cracking. “I gave everything… everything… and it’s still not enough.”

Her gaze fell to her phone again. Against her better judgment, she reached for it, hands trembling. The lock screen showed a flood of unread messages—“Y/N, please talk to us.” “We miss you.” “You’re our maknae, don’t forget that.” She swiped them away, her breath hitching. She didn’t want their kindness. She didn’t deserve it.

Instead, she opened Twitter. Her name was trending again, a festering wound laid bare for the world to see. She scrolled, each comment a fresh stab to her heart.

“Y/N’s the reason Seventeen’s losing fans. She’s a talentless leech.”

“Imagine training for years just to be a slut who rides her daddy’s coattails. Leave already.”

“Those wreaths aren’t enough. She should just disappear for good.”

“Seventeen was perfect without her. She’s a parasite ruining thirteen good men.”

“No one wants you, Y/N. Do us all a favor and quit.”

Her vision blurred as tears streamed down her face, hot and unrelenting. She clutched the phone tighter, her knuckles white, her sobs growing louder. “I tried,” she choked out, her voice barely audible. “I tried so hard… why do you hate me?”

Another comment loaded: “She’s probably crying right now, playing the victim. Pathetic.”

The phone slipped from her hands, clattering to the floor. She buried her face in her knees, her body shaking with the force of her cries. “I’m not pathetic,” she whimpered, but the words felt empty. Maybe they were right. Maybe she was nothing—a burden, a mistake, a girl who’d dared to dream and paid the price.

She didn’t hear the rain anymore, didn’t feel the cold seeping into her bones. All she felt was the weight of their words, crushing her until there was nothing left. She’d fought for years, but now… now she was tired. So tired.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered into the darkness, to the boys, to herself, to the dream she’d once held so tight. “I can’t do this anymore.”

The phone screen glowed beside her, still open to the endless stream of hate, each word a nail in the coffin of the girl she used to be.

--------------------------------------------------------------

The fluorescent lights of the PLEDIS office buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow on Y/N’s pale face. She sat across from her father, the man who’d built this empire, her hands trembling as she clutched a pen. The contract termination papers lay between them, a stark white wound on the polished desk. Her manager, Minseo, stood by the window, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

“I’m leaving,” Y/N said, her voice flat, drained of the fire it once held. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Her father’s jaw tightened, his eyes searching her face—those same eyes that had once sparkled with pride when she debuted. Now, they were clouded with something heavier: guilt, maybe, or regret. “Y/N, you don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do,” she cut him off, her tone sharp but brittle, like glass about to shatter. “I’m not just losing the boys, Dad. I’m losing me. Every day, I wake up and I don’t know who I am anymore. My name—it’s just… it’s just Seventeen’s punching bag. I can’t breathe.”

He leaned forward, hands clasped, voice low and pleading. “We can fight this. We’ll release a statement, hire more security, sue the worst of them—”

“No!” Her shout echoed in the small room, startling her father. Y/N’s chest heaved, tears brimming but refusing to fall. “It won’t stop. It’s been nine years, Dad. Nine years of wreaths, of threats, of people telling me I’m a parasite. I’m done dragging them down. I’m done doubting myself because of it.”

Her father stepped closer, her voice soft but firm. “Y/N, the boys—they’d want to know. They’d fight for you.”

Y/N shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. “That’s why you can’t tell them. They’d stop me. Seungcheol would lock me in a room until I changed my mind. Jeonghan would talk me to death. Seokmin—he’d cry until I couldn’t stand it. I know them too well.” She swallowed hard, her voice dropping to a whisper. “But I can’t hold on anymore. I’m choosing them… and I’m choosing me.”

Her father’s hands trembled as he slid the papers closer. “Where will you go?”

“Away,” she said simply, signing her name with a shaky hand. “Mom think abroad is best. I need… I need to disappear for a while. To think. To stop drowning.”

Her father’s eyes softened, but she nodded. “We’ll keep it quiet. No leaks to the members. But Y/N… are you sure?”

Y/N didn’t answer. She pushed the signed papers back, stood, and walked out without looking back. The door clicked shut behind her, a final, hollow sound.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Weeks later, Incheon International Airport was a blur of noise and motion, but Y/N moved through it like a ghost. Her hoodie was pulled low over her face, a baseball cap shielding her eyes. A single suitcase trailed behind her—everything she’d chosen to take from a life she was leaving behind. Her parents had arranged it all: a flight to somewhere far, somewhere quiet, somewhere she could vanish. They’d promised to handle the boys after the announcement, to soften the blow. But Y/N knew there’d be no softening this.

She hadn’t said goodbye. Her phone, now off and buried in her bag, had been silent for days—no replies to the boys’ texts, no answers to their calls. She’d stopped opening her door when they knocked, their voices muffled through the wood: “Y/N, please, just talk to us.” She’d sat against it once, listening to Mingyu beg, his voice cracking, until he gave up and left. It had broken her heart all over again, but she couldn’t face them. Not when she’d already decided.

The boarding call crackled over the speakers, and she handed her ticket to the agent with numb fingers. As she stepped onto the plane, the weight of it hit her—she was leaving them. Her brothers. Her family. The only people who’d ever truly seen her. A sob caught in her throat, but she swallowed it down, sinking into her seat by the window. The runway blurred outside as the plane taxied, and she pressed her forehead to the glass, whispering, “I’m sorry,” to no one but herself.

--------------------------------------------------------------

The Seventeen practice room was alive with its usual chaos—Hoshi sprawled on the floor, panting after a run-through; Vernon scrolling through his phone; Seungkwan bickering with DK over a water bottle. It was break time, a rare moment of calm amidst their grueling schedule. The mirrors reflected thirteen tired but familiar faces, a unit unbroken—until now.

Seungcheol’s phone buzzed on the bench, and he glanced at it, frowning. “What the hell…?” His voice trailed off, and the room stilled as his expression darkened.

“What’s up, hyung?” Dino asked, sitting up from where he’d been stretching.

Seungcheol didn’t answer. He held up his phone, the screen displaying a news alert from HYBE: “Official Statement: Y/N to Depart SEVENTEEN Effective Immediately.”

The air sucked out of the room. Vernon dropped his phone, the clatter deafening in the silence. “What?” he breathed, scrambling to his feet.

“No way,” Mingyu said, voice shaking as he grabbed Seungcheol’s phone. “This is fake. It’s gotta be fake.”

Jeonghan snatched it from him, his eyes scanning the words, growing wider with every line. “Due to personal reasons… mutual agreement… effective immediately…” His voice faltered, and he looked up, pale. “She’s gone.”

“Gone?” Hoshi shot up, his laugh disbelieving. “She can’t be gone. She’s on hiatus, not—she wouldn’t just leave us!”

Seungkwan’s hands shook as he pulled out his own phone, opening the statement. “It’s real,” he whispered, tears already welling up. “It’s on the official site. She… she left.”

The door burst open, and their manager, Joonho, stepped in, his face grim. The boys turned to him, a chorus of desperate voices erupting.

“Is it true?” Joshua demanded, his usual calm shattered. “Did she leave?”

Joonho nodded slowly, avoiding their eyes. “It’s true. She made the decision weeks ago. Signed the papers and everything.”

“Weeks?!” Wonwoo’s voice cracked, raw and furious. “And you didn’t tell us? She didn’t tell us?”

“She asked us not to,” Joonho said, his tone heavy. “She didn’t want you to know until it was done. Said you’d stop her.”

“Of course we’d stop her!” Seungcheol roared, slamming his fist against the wall. The sound reverberated, and the others flinched. “She’s our maknae! She’s family! You don’t just—how could you let her do this?”

“She was breaking, Cheol,” Joonho said quietly. “She didn’t want you to see her like that.”

DK sank to the floor, hands in his hair. “We could’ve helped her. We were helping her. Why didn’t she trust us?”

“She didn’t want to burden you,” Joonho replied, but the words only fueled their anguish.

“Burden us?” Mingyu’s voice broke into a sob. “She was never a burden! She was ours—our Y/N!”

Vernon paced, tears streaming down his face. “We should’ve known. We should’ve gone to her more, forced her to talk—”

“We tried!” Jun snapped, his voice hoarse. “She wouldn’t let us in! She kept saying she was fine, and now she’s just… gone?”

Seungkwan dialed her number, hands trembling. It didn’t ring—just dead silence. “Her phone’s off,” he choked out, dropping it. “She’s really gone.”

“Let’s go to her place,” Dino said suddenly, standing. “She’s gotta be there. She wouldn’t leave without saying anything.”

They piled into vans, a frantic, tear-streaked mess, ignoring Joonho’s protests. The drive to her apartment was suffocating, the silence broken only by muffled sobs and the occasional, “She wouldn’t do this.” But when they arrived, the door was locked, the lights off. Mingyu pounded on it anyway, shouting, “Y/N! Open the door! Please!”

No answer. A neighbor poked her head out, frowning. “She’s not there. Moved out days ago.”

“Days?” Jeonghan echoed, his voice hollow. “She’s been gone for days, and we didn’t know?”

They drove to her parents’ house next, a last desperate hope. Her mother answered, her face etched with sorrow. “She’s not here,” she said softly, tears in her eyes. “She left the country. She needed to get away.”

“Away?” Seungcheol’s voice was barely audible, broken. “She left us?”

“She didn’t want to hurt you,” her mother whispered. “She thought this was the only way. She’ll come back when she’s ready… when she’s okay.”

“When she’s okay?” Hoshi laughed, a bitter, broken sound. “She left us, and we didn’t even get to say goodbye! How are we supposed to be okay?”

Her mother flinched, but she had no answer. The boys stood there, thirteen shattered pieces of a whole that no longer existed.

“She didn’t even say goodbye,” Joshua murmured, staring at the ground as tears mixed with the rain on his face. “Nine years… and she’s just gone.”

Seungkwan sank to his knees on the wet pavement, sobbing. “We were supposed to be fourteen forever.”

But they weren’t. Y/N was gone, and the silence she left behind was louder than any hate she’d ever faced.

--------------------------------------------------------------

The air in London had been crisp and unfamiliar, a stark contrast to the humid chaos of Seoul. For nearly a year, Y/N had lived there, tucked away in a small flat with a view of the Thames. No one knew where she was except her parents—not the boys, not the company, not the fans who’d once hounded her every move. Her social media accounts sat dormant, frozen in time since that last post: a blurry photo of her hand holding a coffee cup, captioned “Taking a breath.” She hadn’t touched her phone for anything beyond calls to her family. The hate comments, the wreaths, the venom—they were a distant memory she refused to revisit.

She’d seen the boys once, though—on a grainy livestream of an award show, months after she’d left. Seventeen had won Album of the Year, and Seungcheol had taken the mic, his voice steady but thick with something unspoken. “We didn’t fall because of anyone,” he’d said, eyes glistening. “We’re still standing because of love—because of family. We miss… that chaos, you know? And we’re not mad. Never will be.” Jeonghan had added, softer, “We hope you’re smiling, wherever you are.” They hadn’t said her name, but she’d known. It was for her. Her chest had tightened, tears spilling silently down her cheeks as she’d turned off the screen. But she didn’t call. She didn’t text. She just sat there, alone, letting the silence swallow her.

Now, after eleven months abroad, she could breathe again. The weight that had crushed her in Korea had lifted, bit by bit. She could smile—not the forced grins of survival, but the real ones, the ones that crinkled her eyes like they used to. She’d called her father last week, her voice steady for the first time in years. “I’m ready to come back,” she’d said. “But not to Seventeen. To me. I want to try… solo.”

He’d paused, then sighed—a sound of relief, not disappointment. “Whatever you need, Y/N. We’ll make it happen.”

--------------------------------------------------------------

She’d been back in Korea for three months now, living in a quiet apartment on the outskirts of Seoul. The HYBE building hummed with activity, but she rarely crossed paths with anyone she knew. Seventeen was on their world tour, their schedules a whirlwind of planes and stages halfway across the globe. She’d heard their new album through the walls of a practice room once—Hoshi’s laughter in the background of a track, Mingyu’s warm vocals weaving through the melody. It had stopped her cold, her hand trembling on the doorknob. But she’d walked away.

Her days were full now. She spent hours in the recording booth, her voice finding its footing again—stronger, clearer, hers. The studio smelled of coffee and warm electronics, a sanctuary where she could be Y/N, not “the founder’s daughter” or “Seventeen’s mistake.” She practiced choreography until her legs shook, the mirrors reflecting a woman reclaiming herself. The music video shoot had been grueling—twelve hours under blinding lights, her hair streaked with silver dye, her eyes fierce in a way they hadn’t been before. The photoshoot proofs sat on her desk now: Y/N in a leather jacket, staring down the lens, unapologetic. She wasn’t just surviving anymore. She was building something new.

“I’m not here because of anyone else,” she’d told her producer, a steely edge to her voice as they reviewed tracks. “I’m here because I can do this. I will do this.”

He’d nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I believe you.”

--------------------------------------------------------------

The tour bus rumbled through a foreign city—Chicago, maybe, or Toronto; the boys had lost track. The air inside was thick with exhaustion, the kind that settled into your bones after months on the road. Seventeen sprawled across the seats, a tangle of limbs and quiet murmurs. A year ago, this bus would’ve been louder—Y/N’s voice cutting through the chaos, teasing DK about his snoring or roping Vernon into a prank on Woozi. Now, it was just thirteen.

Seungcheol stared out the window, his reflection pale against the night. “It’s almost a year,” he said suddenly, his voice low, almost lost in the hum of the engine.

The others looked up, the weight of his words sinking in. Mingyu rubbed his eyes, his usual brightness dimmed. “Yeah. Anniversary’s next month. Supposed to be ten years with her.”

“Ten years,” Jeonghan echoed, leaning his head back against the seat. His fingers toyed with a bracelet Y/N had made him once—beads spelling out “Hannie” in her messy handwriting. “Feels wrong without her.”

Hoshi shifted, pulling his knees up. “I keep thinking she’ll just… show up. Like, burst through the door with that stupid grin, saying, ‘Miss me?’” He laughed, but it broke into a shaky breath. “She doesn’t even know how much we miss her.”

“She knows,” Joshua said quietly, his voice steady but his eyes distant. “She saw that speech. She’s gotta know.”

“Then why hasn’t she called?” Dino asked, his voice small, almost childlike. He’d been the closest to her age, her partner in maknae mischief. “Not once. Not a text. Nothing.”

Minghao sighed, pushing his cap down over his eyes. “Because she’s healing. We can’t force her back.”

“But we’re her family,” Seungkwan said, his voice cracking. He clutched a photo on his phone—a blurry shot of Y/N laughing at him during a concert, her hair a mess. “She’s our only sister. Our maknae. Even if she’s not here, she always will be.”

Vernon nodded, his jaw tight. “I get why she left. I do. That hate… it was eating her alive. But it still hurts, you know? Like there’s this hole now.”

DK wiped at his eyes, trying to smile. “I miss her complaining. She’d whine about my singing being too loud, then hug me five seconds later. I’d take all her pranks again if it meant she’d just… talk to us.”

Seungcheol turned from the window, his expression hard but his eyes soft with unshed tears. “We can’t change it. It’s done. She’s gone, and we’ve gotta live with that. But if she ever comes back—solo, whatever—I’ll be the first in line to support her. Always.”

They all murmured agreement, a quiet pact forged in the ache of her absence. They’d accepted it, as much as they could—understood the hell she’d endured, the choice she’d made. But acceptance didn’t fill the void. They missed her chaos, her laugh, the way she’d flop onto the couch after practice and demand they order food. They missed her. And they didn’t know if they’d ever get her back.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Y/N stood in the recording booth, headphones snug over her ears, the mic a lifeline. The track played—a slow, haunting ballad she’d written herself, every note dripping with the pain she’d carried and the strength she’d found. She closed her eyes, letting her voice spill out, raw and unbroken.

Somewhere across the world, Seventeen took the stage, thirteen voices rising together, a harmony that still felt incomplete. They didn’t know she was back. She didn’t know they still left a space for her in their hearts. And for now, the silence between them stretched on—a fragile thread, waiting to snap or mend.

--------------------------------------------------------------

an: Hi! Sorry this was late, but I hope you like it, anon, and I hope I got what you requested, hehehe🫶

#⋆˚࿔ 14th member 𝜗𝜚˚⋆#seventeen 14th member #seventeen x reader #seventeen x oc #seventeen x y/n #seventeen imagines #seventeen x you #seventeen scenario #seventeen x carat #seventeen fluff #seventeen angst #seventeen scenarios #svt imagines #svt fluff #svt x reader #seventeen

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thewitchblue · 16 days ago

Text

You frowned as you rolled two live grenades under Joker's feet. You managed to sneak up on the bastard after finally locating him. He's as hard to catch as a flailing fish using your bare hands. Fortunately, Joker noticed too late.

You watched with a grimace as the two grenades exploded Joker into chunks of body parts before anybody could say anything or run away.

You wanted to kill Joker for Jason's death. Someone had to avenge the kid, and the psychopath should've died a long time ago. You don't think Jason would have wanted that, not the Jason you knew, anyway, but you felt like you had to do it. Robin and Batman were on the opposite side of Gotham on a wild goose chase through the city looking for the rogues that escaped Arkham tonight, and Nightwing was stuck in Bludhaven because one of his rogues escaped. It was the perfect time to kill him.

You kicked Joker's decapitated head with sorrow. You thought you'd feel better, but all you felt was hollow. You shook your head with a sigh. You have to move to the next rogue, but you look at the Joker smile and blinked back tears as you thought about Jason. He was your best friend. You should know that your sorrow wouldn't be erased when you killed Joker, but it felt like your heart was being ripped out of your chest all over again.

You couldn't stop your sobs. Jason wouldn't want this. Little Jason valued life and believed people could change for the better.

Your heart was shattered, and your body was shaking with grief. You looked at the grenade pins in your hands with tear-blurred eyes. This hurts. It kills you that you had to go so low to get closure. You never got to see Jason's body. They said he was too badly harmed, and it was a closed casket funeral.

You were a grenadier hero, but you normally use non-lethal grenades (think bombs that release various gases and smoke bombs). You had to make those two grenades specifically to kill Joker. They are the only lethal grenades you've ever made.

Grief hit you hard, and you weren't sure if you were sorry about your actions. You kneeled on the ground and fiddled with a grenade you have hooked on your utility belt. You didn't expect your revenge to hurt so much.

You don't know how long you were crying on the floor, but you eventually put on your helmet and moved on. The best part about having a helmet is that nobody can see your tears as you handled Clayface. Robin was taking on Harley, and Batman was focusing on Ivy. The two rogues tag teamed tonight.

You left the corpse quickly. There's no time for you to grieve when there are so many lives at risk. You'll have to cry more later.

You hunted down Clayface first. He might be the riskiest for the new Robin, so you need to take him out first. You eyed your target carefully. He was pretending to be a panicked civilian when he felt a pair of predatory eyes on him. One of the heroes was onto him, but it was too late as you used a glitter bomb to mark him. He can't blend his way out of this now. He'll be forced to fight.

You dropped silently from the rooftop while another grenade explodes. You had a special gas to turn him human again and neutralise his powers.

"There's nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, Clayface."

Your voice modifier turned your voice dark and intimidating. He can't see you in your shadows, and your voice echoed on the walls of the alley. He can't tell what direction the bombs are coming from.

You were his most hated opponents. You actually were hated by all the rogues, but Clayface had the misfortune of you showing up instead of Batman and Robin.

You were impossible to see and even more impossible to track. It was as if you cornered him in an alley that helped your evasion. He couldn't go anywhere with your predatory eyes tracking his every move.

He didn't notice he was surrounded by bombs until it was too late. He hissed in pain as shards of metal hit him from all sides. You somehow always pick the right bombs to disarm him, but he's not going down without a fight.

Your heart wasn't in the fight he was trying so hard in. Not really, anyway. You were focused on taking out Clayface as quickly as possible to move onto the missing rogues.

Clayface panicked as he looked around. Nothing. You were a ghost. He's not sure he's even fighting a physical being. He managed the kick the next bomb thrown at him. Unfortunately for him, it was a contact grenade and exploded on his foot.

He howled in pain and surrendered very quickly. He couldn't run with his foot the way it was. He couldn't hide, and he couldn't fight a ghost. You were a good fighter, but you shined on taking away hope when you fought a villain. What can they do? They can't see the bombs until it's too late. They can't see you. They can't even hear you. The winds don't whisper despite your cloak, and the moon doesn't illuminate your shadow.

"Boo."

You whispered in his ear as you tied him up. His face whipped around, but you were gone, and he was tied up with no means of escape. His powers were gone, and he was covered in glitter. He didn't know whether to thank you for the mercy or curse you.

You had already moved on by the time the police showed up to take Clayface away. You run across Two-Face first, but you found him already in the midst of being tied up by a man with a red helmet. You blinked in surprise.

The man was massive, 6'3 with muscles the size of your thighs, but his suit could use some work. He wore a simple leather jacket, cargo pants, and a black shirt. He was strapped with guns much like you were strapped with grenades, and you could bet that there were more hidden like yours.

Your voice echoed in the empty warehouse as you said,

"Did I show up late to the party?"

You leaned against a nearby wall. You didn't reveal yourself, but you could see the man tense. You quickly noticed his crowbar and frowned. You shrugged off the bleeding crowbar desite noticing the extent of the injuries.

"Something like that..."

He also had a voice modifier, but you could tell his voice is naturally deep, and his tone was dark, as if he, too, didn't like the events that transpired.

You eyed him warily. You could tell he was looking for you, but you weren't anywhere. Are you going to have to fight him? His hand gripped his gun as if it were his lifeline.

"Did you come out to play?"

He asked the air. He tried to sound cocky, but he sounded more nervous than anything. He knew you were dangerous, even to the Bat family. You work alone and often aid by chance more than by choice. They don't know who or what you are exactly, and it concerned them all.

"Yes, but it seems my date was busy."

You replied smoothly with a sharp smile. That seemed to affect him even more because his grip tightened somehow. He was blushing under his helmet. He had always liked you. You gave him a thrill like nobody else and seemed to be clarifying his head. The rage he has settled into a cold and collected calm.

"Why don't you come out of the shadows and dance with me then?"

You smirked. Oh, you liked him already. Two-Face was starting to get annoyed now. He started struggling against his ties until Red Hood put a gun against his head.

"That's a negative, hoodlum. I have rogues to catch."

You had no idea that was your previous best friend, and Jason had no clue it was his previous crush. He waited to see if he could hear you with his slightly improved hearing, but nothing. You smiled a real smile for the first time in months as you walked out.

You spent the night going through Batman's mess and assisting civilians when you could from gangs or robbers. The good news was that everybody was taken care of that night with the help of Batman, Robin, and now this Red Hood guy.

Red Hood found the remains of the Joker and the grenade shards before Batman could, and he disposed of the body parts with a smile. You must know Jason then. Otherwise, you never would have used lethal bombs. That's a start to unmask you. Maybe he'll thank you personally. He's sure he'll see you on the streets again. Your flirting solidified that you will come back to him for more, and he can't wait.

#jason todd x reader #gn reader #vigilante reader

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empress-ghoul · 1 month ago

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Rising Waters, part three

141 x witch!reader | old gods of appalachia au cw: supernatural elements, kidnapping, threats of violence, suicidal ideation, bodily fluids

You did not trust these men and you certainly didn’t want to help them. They had chased you through the woods - through a storm - chained you to a bed, and now acted as though they were entitled to your help for the sole reason their boss sent them to die.

You wanted to tell them to go fuck themselves but you also wanted to live. And where would you go now? Your home was gone and there was a company of very dangerous men who apparently wanted you dead. A little protection might not be a bad thing.

And it wasn’t exactly a choice to be made.

Your wounds, the cuts on your legs and feet, had been tended to in a way that was not kind. It was cold and efficient. Something, that thing in your chest and head, told you that whoever wrapped them learned how to do so in the military.

These were not good men, and they seemed ready to prove that to you.

“How exactly do you think I can help?”

You needed to gauge just how much they had been stalking you and just how perceptive they were.

One of them, Gaz, left and returned with one of your witch bottles. The flood must have uprooted where you had buried them and Price recognized its significance. Clever dog

Gaz set the jar on the nightstand, the nails clinking softly inside.

“Okay,” you agreed. If they wanted your help, then you were getting your protection. “You’re gonna have to get me jars and nails then. And unchain me. Can’t exactly use my hands when they’re chained to the bed.”

When you were unchained, there was no more concern from any of them about if you might run. Your discomfort was obvious and anxiousness even more obvious. It didn’t help that you were eyed like a white-tailed doe that was being watched with the eyes of four apex predators.

Besides, you were struggling to walk on your wounded legs and trying to run would be more humiliating than anything.

You did not like the fact that in the time between being taken and waking up, you had been washed. Even if it was just the mud and earth rinsed off, you knew they–or at least one of them–had seen you naked. This was because you realized, as you fell into a chair at the kitchen table, you were put in nightdress.

It was odd, you thought as you gazed around the house. This was not the typical, cookie cutter company house, and it certainly did not belong to the men. It was a true home, one that was not all dissimilar to your former one.

You watched them move around. Based on the dishes in the sink and laundry strewn about, they had been here for some time, but it was still foreign land to them. Just as these mountains were. The more threatening glances thrown your way, still warning you not to move, the less you wanted to know about what happened to the former inhabitants of the cabin.

Supplies were finally produced and unceremoniously dropped on the table, along with some bread and dried meat. You ate first, much to the disdain of the four men staring at you.

Not much good is done on an empty stomach is something your mama would’ve said. Though you doubted any of them would care if you mentioned that little proverb.

You finally wiped your hands on the nightgown, one that you came to notice probably belonged to a woman old enough to be your granny, and you started working.

Four mason jars with three irons nails in each, the lids wrapped in twine and sealed with black wax.

“I need to bury ‘em,” you said finally.

You were given a spade and a bodyguard in the shape of a wolfish Scotsman, then shoved outside. The way he watched you navigate the plot of land the cabin was on was why he seemed so dog-like. His blue eyes burned into the back of your skull as you found the first corner and began digging.

He was silent, once again reminding you of a hollow man. You knew he wasn’t, but golly could he pass as one.

The shaking in your hands finally eased away when you finished burying the second jar. You were sweating from the humidity the storm left behind and your hands were covered in dirt and mud that had embedded itself beneath your nails.

The soft, damp earth made for easier work, but you were still winded by the time you finished the third jar. When you finally got to starting on digging a hole for the fourth one, Soap broke the hour-long stretch of silence.

“Gonna take a piss,” he stated, then walked into the woods.

AKA do not fucking go anywhere. You watched him go behind a tree before continuing to dig.

You set the jar of nails in the hole you dug, using your hands to pull the dirt back over to cover it. Then you stared at the hemlock plant that sat just behind the property line.

Soap was walking back over to you. The hemlock was practically screaming at you.

Take me. Use me. Crush me up and put me in their food. They’ll never know—

You grabbed a fistful of the flower and stuffed it into your pocket.

Grind me up. Put me in their food—

They’ll never know. Those words rang in your head as you grabbed four more stems and shoved them in alongside the rest. Disposing of the bodies might be a pain, but you’d have a place to call home again.

They’ll never—

A hand grabbed the back of your neck, fingers digging into your skin as Soap yanked you back and dug into your pocket with his free hand. His eyes, angry and wild, were fixed on the side of your face where your cheeks were burning. From shame or fear, you weren’t entirely certain. Probably both.

But the feeling of his eyes, his hate-filled, animal eyes, made you wish you could just sink into the earth if it meant you’d never be looked upon by him again.

He emptied the hemlock from your pocket and yanked you back further so your head was practically against his shoulder. The flower was almost glowing in the sunlight as he held it out for you both to see. You were staring at the scar on his temple that looked like mangled roots.

“What is it?” he demanded.

Poison. “Edible flowers.” Half-truth. “I couldn’t figure out if y’all were gonna feed me.”

Believe me, you thought. Please, please, please, believe me.

“Eat one then,” Soap replied. You wanted to be sick. “You must be pretty hungry if you want to eat fuckin’ flowers. Eat one.”

His voice was so mocking and cruel, and you couldn’t tell if he’d force you to eat one if you didn’t comply.

You thought about eating it. It wouldn’t be the most pleasant death but at least you could go down spiteful, refusing to help these dogs and letting them fend for themselves on angry land. Though, It might be slightly more merciful with him around.

Staring at the flower clutched in this creature’s hand, you truly thought about it. Nothing would hurt you anymore. But what would they do to your body if you were gone? You had a sneaking suspicion that it would be just a matter of time before they did what all men did. The thought of your dead body being desecrated began putting out the thought of a peaceful death.

Then you thought about the wards.

“I’m not hungry right now.” You had to force yourself to speak, your words nearly strangling you. “Maybe later.”

It was obvious Soap wanted to continue his interrogation but he instead opted to drag you inside by the scruff. That was fine. You could still feel the tremors running through his body, even if he was trying to force them down. He was good at hiding pain.

Price took one look at the flower in Soap’s hand and knew immediately. He grabbed you by the throat at the exact moment black bile began spewing from Soap’s mouth.

Ghost was suddenly at his side, despite having been across the room mere moments ago.

“Easy, J— Soap,” he corrected, patting the man on the back.

As if that would help.

Price looked at you with shadows over his eyes. “What did you do?"

Maybe you would shrug and pretend like you had no idea. Maybe smile and curse his bloodline. Or maybe pull a page out of your mama’s book and turn heel and run.

Maybe if you were brave, you’d do any of those things. But you were not brave, so you just kept looking between him and Soap.

He was on his knees now. Ghost was right next to him and Gaz had appeared with a glass of water.

It turned to chaos when Price prepared to slap an answer out of you and the world exploded in his ears. You could see the blood trickling out of them as Ghost left Soap to prevent Price from falling over.

Standing in the center was you. Soap had finally stopped spitting up what now looked like pure rot, while Price slowly recovered. But you remained, calm, rooted in place as you watched. It wasn’t like you there was much you could do.

All four men stared at you as you awkwardly sat on the couch, your spine ramrod straight. Price towered over you. His hands twitched but, to his credit, he held back.

It was odd. He was odd. You liked to pride yourself on being able to look at a person and know their motives and feelings, but with him…everything was so clouded. Murky. It was the river that carried you right to him— dirty and uncaring.

You still saw it, though. Finally, you saw what you had been…looking for? Maybe expecting? In any case, you saw it not just Price, but in all of them. A slick coldness that crawled down your spine and that something that flickered just behind their eyes. Not quite human, but not quite animal.

“First you plot to poison us,” he began. “Then you do whatever the fuck that was. You got no idea how bad I want to put a bullet in that pretty face.”

Shame, selfishness, ugliness burned deep inside your chest. You didn’t like hurting people (and you weren’t certain you could consider them people) but it didn’t stop that nastiness from building up. Besides, they kidnapped you first. They were the ones who came to kill you.

You kept telling yourself that but it didn’t remove the taste of self-hatred in the back of your throat. It did, however, build up the terror you’d felt since Soap had dragged you inside.

“The wards,” you said. “If you want ‘em to work, I have to be alive. Unharmed.”

The words left your lips and you immediately noted how easily those terms could be stretched.

You suddenly realized that you might have made a mistake by helping them—that you should have said no and taken your chances with whatever fate they dealt you—but you were desperate to survive, and those odds increased exponentially with compliance.

Besides, what if they let you live but kicked you out? Where would you go then? Back to a ruined home? Make a barefoot trek to the main road and hope someone other than a worker from Shepherd & Graves found you? No, survival, in any form, was guaranteed this way.

A smile pulled at Price’s mouth. More of a smirk really, but you were desperate for kindness.

“Clever girl,” he replied. He leaned down, his hands on his knees to put himself at eye level. “You know how to stay alive. Like a fucking parasite.”

Oh. Really?

Anger, like hot oil splattering out of the skillet, was just beneath your soft skin surface. These men come to land that is not theirs and have the gall to call you a parasite. In another life you would have started shrieking and ripping his unkept beard out. Not this one, though.

“You know what it takes to survive, dontcha?” you asked, your hand clutching the skirt of the nightgown in a tight fist. Would he notice the shaking in your voice? Would he care? “Dog eat dog world out there.”

Price nodded slowly, his dead eyes locked on you as his jaw twitched. “I do,” he confirmed. “And it is.”

“You wanted my help,” you reminded them. “But I can dig up the wards if that’s what you’d prefer and I’ll be on my way.”

There was a resounding “no” from all four men.

“No,” Price repeated.

He worked his jaw for a moment before smiling and making a sound that might have been a laugh. The others were not as amused, and you did not feel at ease with the rumbling sound Price made.

It wasn’t exactly a choice to be made on whether you could stay or not, because no matter how much any of them hated it, they needed you.

#cod x reader #cod fanfic #cod mw2 #cod mw3 #call of duty x reader #141 x reader #141 x you #task force 141 x reader #john price #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #x reader fic #appalachian horror #risingwaters

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hp-hcs · 3 months ago

Text

• smut • the apprenticeship — apprentice! theodore nott x male! master painter! reader

not historically accurate, except for literally one word which everyone will assume is a typo lmao (the inaccuracy pains me too, dw)

as per always, slytherin boyos in my smut pieces are ALWAYS aged up, no exceptions

warnings: MDNI, noncon by virtue of a relationship with unequal power (i.e. master and apprentice), reader is amab, reader is bottom-coded fr, reader is referred to as "master" but like not in a kinky way thats literally just his occupational title, oral (m receiving), handjob, theo's a little simp, AU ig

very little plot despite this being just a fraction of a much larger AU i've been working on for months now

~1k, not proofread

MDNI

Theodore’s fingers nimbly folded in the last corner of the canvas he was stretching. Newly an apprentice, taken on by a young master painter at the behest of Lord Tiberius Nott, whose passing had left freshly eighteen-year-old Theodore Nott an orphan. Perpetually an asshole, even in death, Lord Nott had specifically arranged for Theodore’s apprenticeship to begin precisely at the time of his passing to prevent his son from immediately inheriting his title, status, and wealth. Dick.

“Theodore!”

You’d been pacing around your studio in circles for the last two hours, dead silent and lost in thought. Now, however, you were fluttering about like a directionless moth, making a mess as you dug through your piles of vellum sketches.

Theodore had never seen you so… erratic. You were usually very calm and collected—albeit, still fucking insane, of course. You were a master painter in Victorian England. You had to be at least a little nuts.

“Yes, Master…?” he queried in an unsure tone, trying to decipher your current erratic state.

“Take off your shirt.”

Theodore stared at you for a moment, wide-eyed and taken aback. His stomach fluttered, but he did as you bid, his tunic dropping to the floor. He awkwardly tried to cover himself with one arm.

You scrambled forward, pushing his arm out of the way so you could get a better look. “Yes…yes.”

He let out a squeak as you pulled his arm away, not quite knowing where all this was going. “M-Master…?”

Your fingers traveled over his abdomen.

Theodore shivered slightly as your fingers glided across his skin. “Master?” he breathed, still confused.

“Take off your breeches.”

Theodore bit his lip, his hands dropping to fumble with the ties of his breeches. He averted his gaze to the floor, cheeks warm with embarrassment. Any good apprentice knows better than to ask questions.

You dropped to your knees, caressing his thighs and looking up at him in awe.

“M-Master…” Theodore whispered, his cheeks flushed as he held your gaze. Part of him wanted to pull away, but the much larger part of him couldn’t for the life of him find the will to do so.

Your eyes returned to what was right in front of you when it twitched in interest. His cock.

He bit his lip again, watching you intently. The fluttering of his stomach ceased, replaced with a sort of pleasant heat.

You leaned forward and kissed its head, delighted by the way his hips automatically jutted forward at the soft touch of your lips.

“Master…” Theodore whispered breathily, fingers weaving themselves into your hair. You grinned at the touch, promptly taking him into your mouth.

He let out a squeak, his whole body spasming. “M-Master, we— we mustn’t…”

But even as he protested, his voice grew breathy with pleasure. He quickly shut up once you started dragging your tongue along the bottom vein, forcing him to let out a shaky moan in response. His fingers brushed through your hair, holding it back out of your eyes. “God— Master…”

Just to tease him, you hollow your cheeks, looking up at him with big doe-eyes. His fingers tightened in your hair, tugging gently.

“Master… Master, please…”

You moaned around him, eyelashes fluttering as the action sent delicious vibrations through his cock.

“Master— I’m.. I—” Theodore’s whole body trembled. He was forced to press a hand to his mouth in order to muffle his needy noises from being overheard by anyone on the street below outside the open second-floor window of the studio. With a final flick of your tongue, you finish him off.

The shudder that wracked his body is intense, forcing him to lean back against the wall, eyes closed and breathing soft and ragged.

“Master…” he breathed. “Please… let me return the favor…”

You swallowed and pulled off. “Mm?”

His eyes blinked open slowly, clammy hands coming down to cup your face gently. “Allow me to please you, Master. Please. It would— It would please me to do so… It would be a great honor…”

You nodded frantically, stumbling to your feet and loosely clasping your hands around Theodore’s wrists where he held your face, rubbing your thumb against the soft skin on the inside of his wrist.

Theodore pressed a kiss to your forehead sweetly, reveling in the smell of your unintentional cologne, a potent fragrance of oil paint and pig that clung to you like a second skin.

Backing you into the wall, he easily pinned you there with his hips, using his slightly taller height to his advantage. His lips found your neck, prompting him to hungrily mark the skin with a damson-colored hickey. His greedy hands dropped to your breeches, undoing the ties. You let out a soft whimper and grabbed his shoulders, charcoal-stained fingernails digging into the bare skin.

He pressed his body against yours, his hand sliding into your paint-splattered breeches. He slowly began to move his hand along your cock, his mouth busy covering your neck in a vibrant palette of plum and magenta.

You moan pathetically, eyes fluttering shut.

Theodore couldn’t help but smile against your skin, nipping at your neck softly. “You’re so pretty… So handsome; you’re just so beautiful, Master… I can’t take my eyes off of you when you’re painting. I’m so proud to be in your studio. I’d do anything to please you. I—” He faltered, his face reddening at his admission.

“Theodore— Theodore— keep talking—” you begged, hips jerking forward into his warm fist.

“You have the most wonderful smile I’ve ever seen… It’s so warm and full of life. And your eyes, Master, they’re so lovely…when you’re happy, they crinkle—” He was rambling at this point, more focused on giving you the best handjob of your life. “You paint better than any master I’ve seen in the town square. I—I adore you…”

At that final confession, you surged forward to kiss him, trying to convey a billion things without speaking a single word. He kissed you back, smiling against your lips. With just one clever twist of his fist, he sent you over the edge, coming in your pants like a cheap telegram boy.

“You’re so lovely, Master…” Theodore breathed, brushing his chapped lips against your forehead affectionately while you came down from your high.

“Y/n,” you gasped as soon as you’d caught your breath. “Call me Y/n.”

“Y/n,” he amended, nuzzling his nose against your jaw. “Y/n.”

~~~

this author is fueled solely by comments. if you like this work, and want to encourage me to keep writing, drop a nice word or two in the comments!!

#harry potter #hp #fuck jkr #x male reader #hp x male reader #theodore nott #theodore nott x reader #male reader #theodore nott smut #theo nott #theo nott x reader #theodore nott x male reader

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bunnwis · 4 months ago

Text

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫

you were lost to shimmer. he was reborn as the herald. yet, despite everything, he still remembered you.

read on ao3

viktor x fem!user. part 1/2 — part 2 will have nsfw content.

sfw, fictional drugs, low religious themes, small plot, romance, hurt/comfort, crying, ex lover, light exhibitionism, soft viktor.

ㅤㅤㅤwith accompanying gifs from the series for immersion purposes. enjoy ♡

￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣

“I will carry the memory of us, even as I leave you behind.”

His words were soft, barely more than a whisper. His hands—once a source of warmth, of comfort—now gripped your shoulders with a quiet finality, pulling you away. You clung to him as if the beat of your heart depended on it, your breath ragged, frantic, as though losing him meant losing yourself.

“No, please, Viktor... don’t go. Don’t leave me here. Take me with you, please...” Your voice broke on the words, hands clawing at his shirt, desperation flooding you. The cracks in your voice were raw, torn by the sobs that shook your chest. The warmth of him slipped through your fingers, replaced by the biting chill of the undercity night. The air, thick with decay, suffocated you, and your sobs echoed in the silence. Without him to hold you, you crumpled, falling to your knees on the rocky floor, the weight of his absence pressing down like the cold that now clung to your skin.

The hollow click of his cane against the cobbled streets echoed as he walked away, each step a painful reminder of the crushing, impending absence of him from your life. The shadows seemed to swallow him whole, but just before he disappeared, he turned. His gaze met yours—heavy, laden with grief, with a silent plea in those sharp golden circles, as if he were silently begging for your forgiveness, not for leaving, but for failing to fulfill the promise of a forever.

　　　　　　　　　　***

The years dragged by, each one a crushing weight pressing down on you. Without his presence—his steady voice guiding you, his intellect leading you to better choices—you felt yourself spiraling deeper into the void your life had become. Knowing exactly where he was only made it worse: up in Piltover, thriving in the academy, living the life of someone with a future. But there was no way for you to follow him there—not anymore.

The scars told the story better than you could. Angry streaks of purple-red carved into your arms, a testament to the choices you couldn’t undo and the abomination you’d become. Half your face bore the same cruel marks, hidden behind the fall of your hair and the fabric of your cloak. You survived the only way you could, moving quietly through the merciless streets and corners of the undercity. Each day was torture, a waiting game until the vile purple liquid coursed through your veins again. It dulled the pain—physical and emotional—silenced your regrets and memories. For some fleeting moments, it made you feel strong—something almost invincible—in the face of the weakness consuming your flesh and mind.

　　　　　　　　　　***

You were asleep when it happened, curled up in a makeshift bed inside a flimsy tent shared with a couple of other girls. The arrangement wasn’t comfortable, but it offered safety in numbers—strength against the threats that lurked. A sharp, electrical hum cut through the quiet, jolting you awake. The air shifted suddenly, heavy with a strange static that prickled at your skin. The others stirred in hushed murmurs, their movements stiff with unease.

Wide-eyed, you peeked outside, hiding your face under your hair to not be seen, perceived, acknowledged. A figure stood at the center of the small "commune", cloaked in deep blue, a wooden cane in one hand. The faint glow of dim lights from up the crevice they were in illuminated only his outline. Beside him, a man knelt—someone who looked familiar, yet wrong. You recognized his face, but it was impossible to reconcile it with what you were seeing. There were no scars marring his skin, no tattered rags clinging to his frame. He sat upright, his gaze fixed on the cloaked figure with an expression that bordered on reverence.

The scene unsettled you. Questions stirred at the edge of your mind, but you pushed them away, exhaustion weighing too heavily on your mind for any clear thoughts to form. Instead, you slipped into the growing crowd that formed a loose circle around the figure. Careful and unassuming, almost opportunistically. Like the others, you only hoped for the promise of another dose, and it was enough to keep you lingering, watching, waiting.

The words that left the figure's mouth were spoken in a familiar accent and soothing tone you knew all too well. The realization hitting you like a thunderclap, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to tilt upwards. You felt a cold rush on your head as blood drained from your extremities, leaving your limbs cold and your heart pounding erratically against your ribcage. It couldn't be Viktor, what would he be doing here? He was a scientist now, an academic intellectual, practically adopted by Piltover.

“You need not suffer anymore.”

His voice was soft but resonant, his words final but with hint of empathy behind them, so familiar, yet sharper, more authoritative, more... otherworldly—only deepened the realization that he had changed, for better or worse she had no idea right now. He raised his head, the hood slipping back slightly to reveal more of his face. Viktor’s gaze swept over the gathering, and for a brief, agonizing moment, it landed on you. You saw it—recognition flickering in those sharp, golden eyes. Despite the stark transformation of his body, the way his eyes softened was unmistakably his.

The same golden pupils, framed by sharp eyes that had been blurry and distorted in your memory from the time apart, now stood before you. The weight of it hit you all at once, and your knees buckled beneath you, your body too weary to stay upright. Breath hitched in your throat, as though the very air you breathed had fled away, leaving your lungs to claw and heave. You looked up at him, paralyzed by recognition, disbelief, and... fear.

The murmurs of the crowd swirled around you, a low hum of uncertainty and awe. Their faces blurred as your vision narrowed, the man at the center of it all drawing every last ounce of your focus. How? How could he be here? Had he come for her?

Your eyes widened at the thought and you quickly lowered your head, not in reverence, like the man who had just been healed, but in a desperate attempt to avoid Viktor's gaze—afraid he might recognize you in this pitiful, broken state.

A faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. It was a gesture that felt both foreign and achingly familiar, a fragment of the Viktor you once knew. His lips parted, and when he spoke, the sound of his voice sent a shiver through you. It still carried that distinctive, comforting accent, but now it was layered with sorrow and regret.

“Моя зайка... I... didn’t expect to see you here.”

Your breath caught in a sharp gasp, your body frozen under the weight of his words, your hands trembling as they rested on top of your bent knees. The nickname, once a sweet whisper in the quiet moments you shared, echoed through your mind like a knife. Years had passed, but hearing it again stirred something within you—an uncomfortable mix of anger, shame, and an painful longing—twisting together until you could no longer tell where one feeling began and the other ended.

You lowered your head, trying desperately to disappear into the ground beneath you, but it was futile. Your body betrayed you, locked in frozen panic. Viktor took a step closer, his movements deliberate but unhurried, the soft hum of his energy pulsing faintly from his changed anatomy. The air around you seemed to thicken with every step he took, each one drawing him nearer, until finally, he knelt before you, and the world around you seemed to completely fall away.

“Look at me,” he urged, his voice a quiet plea that echoed through the silence between you.

For a long moment, you hesitated. Your hands trembled as they instinctively gripped the edge of your cloak, pulling it tighter around your scarred face. You couldn’t let him see you, not like this. But Viktor didn’t falter. Slowly, his transformed hand reached out, the cold metal fingers brushing your cheek with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the unnatural chill of his touch. The warmth you once knew was gone, replaced by cold, humming metal, and yet, his eyes—those eyes—still held so much emotion, it made your chest tighten in confusion.

“It’s alright, моя зайка,” he murmured softly. “These scars don’t define you.”

His words were gentle, but they stirred something deep inside you, something you couldn’t suppress no matter how hard you tried.

"Do not call me that..." Your voice broke, thick with emotion. "You abandoned me... You left me here to rot..."

When you finally dared to raise your eyes, meeting his gaze, you found him studying you—not with judgment, nor disgust, but with an almost painful tenderness that made your heart ache. You felt a surge of anger, bitter and sharp. How could you not? He had chosen a life for himself in Piltover, a life that brought progress and success, while you were left here, lost, broken, decaying.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the words unsaid hanging in the air, too painful to voice. You wanted to push him away, to scream at him for abandoning you, for leaving you to rot in the undercity while he built a new life in Piltover. But the sight of him—different, yet somehow the same—tugged at something deep within you. The anger still burned, but beneath it, something else flickered—something fragile, something you didn’t want to face.

Viktor extended his hand toward you, his cold metallic fingers hovering just above your scarred cheek. He studied you carefully, the glow of Hextech energy pulsing faintly around his fingertips, casting a strange light on the bruised and broken skin that you had come to hate. You flinched instinctively, but there was no hostility in his gesture. No demand, no force. His eyes, though distant, softened—if only for a moment—as his hand hovered closer, almost like a gesture of apology as his fingers traced a scar on your cheek, gentle and reverent. “I never wanted to leave you,” he said softly, his voice almost a whisper. “But I couldn’t stay, Любимая. Not when I could do more... when I could make a difference.”

You swallowed hard, fighting to keep the tears from rising. Make a difference. He had chosen progress, a future that didn’t involve you. It had to be for the greater good, but what of the cost? What of you?

He paused, his eyes tracing the jagged streaks that marred your skin. "I never meant for you to suffer..." The words felt like a weight, but a hollow one. Did he really not know? Did he really not understand?

“Let me help you, моя любовь” he said, his voice lower now, tinged with an almost imperceptible sadness. The words, though calm, seemed to hang between you like a fragile bridge, barely holding together the tension of the moment. “Please,” he whispered again, his hands guiding your face to look up at him, he was do close, and she could only see his eyes and the honesty in them. “Let me help you heal,” Viktor said, his voice low and steady. His hands hovered just above yours, close enough for you to feel a faint warmth radiating from him.

You opened your mouth, wanting to protest, to tell him that it was too late for help, too late for any of this. But before you could speak, his hands gently guided your face upward, urging you to meet his gaze. His touch was softer than you expected, a stark contrast to the cold metal of his body, and you found yourself obeying, despite every instinct screaming at you to look away, to run. His face was close now, and all you could see were his eyes—those sharp golden pupils that had once been full of warmth and promise, now shadowed by something that seemed impossibly ancient. But the honesty in them, the rawness in the depths of his gaze, pulled at something deep within you. You wanted to look away, but you couldn’t. There was a weight in his stare that felt like the entire world had shifted between you, and in that space, you felt the unbearable tug of both pain and longing. The crowd—those few still watching—seemed to hold their breath in silence, as though caught in the web of your silent exchange. But they were nothing more than shadows, now. Viktor’s presence consumed everything, and the murmur of voices around you seemed distant, irrelevant, as though this was the only moment that mattered. The air between you felt charged, alive with every unsaid word, every question that had been left unanswered for so long. Your mind screamed in protest, telling you that you had every right to hate him, to demand an explanation for his absence. But his hands, steady and certain, held your face with a tenderness that seemed to erase every barrier you had built. And as you stared into his eyes, something inside you began to crumble.

The dam inside you had cracked, and the words spilled out—fragile, trembling, as if saying them aloud might shatter what little remained of your composure. "Please... Help me..." You begged, your voice barely above a whisper, but thick with a desperation you could no longer conceal.

For a moment, Viktor remained silent, his gaze softening further, his eyes reflecting a weight of regret and longing that mirrored your own. It was as if the weight of your words landed on him with the same crushing force they had on you. The air between you was thick with every unsaid word, every wound that had never been healed, every second of the years they'd been apart. Your mind screamed in protest, telling you that you had every right to be angry, to demand answers for the years of abandonment. But his hands, steady and sure, cradled your face with a tenderness so soft, it began to blur the lines between what you wanted to believe and what you had to face.

His skin seemed to hum with an energy all its own, glowing faintly in a deep purple hue that emanated from his underneath his skin. The strange warmth of Arcane energy filled the space between you, vibrant and charged with an ethereal power. Slowly, Viktor extended his hand toward your forehead, his cold, metal fingers hovering just above your skin.

You held your breath, feeling the weight of his presence, of the years that had passed, all of it converging in this single moment. His eyes fluttered shut, and with the gentleness of a prayer, his fingers pressed to your skin.

The hum of energy intensified, filling your ears with a soft but insistent buzz that seemed to reverberate through your very bones. The air around you seemed to stir, light swirling and pulling at the fibers of your being. It was as if he was pulling something from deep within you, all the grief, all the regret, all the pain that had carved its way into your soul and body.

Your body tensed with the sensation, but you could do nothing but surrender to it, to the almost overwhelming energy coursing through your veins. You closed your eyes, a soft sigh escaping your lips as the purple light that surrounded you began to fade, replaced by a soft, golden glow.

When Viktor finally withdrew his hand, the silence was profound, as if the world itself held its breath. He opened his eyes, his gaze lingering on you with an intensity that was both reverent and filled with sorrow. There was no need for words now—the weight of everything unsaid between you was carried in the soft warmth of the healing light that lingered on your skin. You opened your eyes slowly, staring at him in a daze, your breath shallow. Five faint golden prints appeared on your forehead, marking the place where the darkness had been lifted from your soul. You could feel the weight of the past slip away, and with it, a quiet peace began to settle in your chest. You had been cleansed—by him, by the herald.

Before you could speak, before the silence could stretch any longer, he stepped closer. His hand gently cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against the smooth, healed skin as if to verify the change, despite a bead of sweat dripping from his forehead from the toll taken on him by the healing process.

“Forgive me, Душа моя, I was foolish to ever abandon you. I never once stopped thinking of you.” His words hung in the air, and for the first time, you allowed yourself to believe him. The walls that had held you together, kept you from falling apart, were crumbling now. You didn’t know how, but in that moment, you knew it was time to let go.

And then, as if time slowed, he leaned forward, his lips hovering just above yours. His breath mingled with yours, warm and faint, his gaze fluttering from your lips to your eyes, as if pleading to continue—reassuring you, before he closed the distance, pressing his lips gently against yours in a kiss that was both soft and desperate, as an unspoken apology.

For a brief, fragile moment, you allowed yourself to fall into it—the warmth of the connection, the touch. The kiss was a promise, a frail bridge across the years, and, as it ended, you were left breathless, your mind still hazy with the remnants of the energy that cleansed you. You leaned into him, your forehead gently resting against his as you both shared the same quiet breath. The world around you seemed to fade, leaving only the two of you in that brief, delicate moment of peace.

“And I.. never stopped loving you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible but filled with all the years of longing, of pain, of hope for what would come next, but also with fear that he'd leave again now.

Viktor didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His gaze said everything. The weight of the years apart, the hurt, the anger—it was all there, but it no longer felt insurmountable. There was a chance now. A chance to heal together beyond the physical sense.

And for the first time in years, you allowed yourself to believe in that possibility.

You looked down, your fingers tracing the cold, metallic surface of his chest, which now seemed more like of a machine than of a man. The once familiar warmth had been replaced by an alien chill, but there was still a pulse beneath your fingertips—an unmistakable sign that the man you loved was still alive, still with you, though in a form you hardly recognized. The shock of the moment was starting to settle, and with it came an overwhelming tide of questions, each more urgent than the last. You could feel it, deep in your bones: something was wrong. The Viktor you had loved, the one who had gone to Piltover with dreams of advancing technology, was now unrecognizable—not just in his appearance, but in the very essence of who he had become.

Your breath caught as your gaze lifted to meet his. His golden eyes, now swirling with an iridescent glow, were far removed from the gentle warmth you had once known. This was not the same Viktor who had whispered sweet nothings in your ear, the one who had shared dreams and doubts with you. This... this was something else entirely.

Your fingers brushed his cheek, where the same marks now marred his skin—marks not unlike those of the people he healed. It was as if he had become one of them, a vessel for something greater. A soft sigh escaped you as you met his gaze again, those golden eyes dancing with a glow that was foreign to the Viktor you had known. The eyes that once held tenderness and love now glimmered with a distant, almost otherworldly intensity. You reached up, your hand trembling slightly as it traced the sharp contours of his face—marked with the same strange symbols. The transformation was complete, yet the man beneath it still seemed to long for something, something you weren’t sure you could understand.

The question escaped your lips before you could stop it, tender and filled with unspoken desperation, and a hint of pity behind your gaze. “Oh, Viktor... What happened to you?”

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samodivaa · 1 year ago

Text

Thrill me, Fulfill me

You agreed to help for one mission—now you are both lustful and carnal, affected by sex pollen—you are flint, he is tinder.

Warnings - sex pollen, smut, rough/possessive sex, Hydra past, breeding kink, choking kink, multiple orgasms

Words - 8k

(the 3D render is for this fic, enjoy :3)

The horizon tips on its side, and slowly, hour by hour, the day spills out and soon the night will spread its darkness—traveling through the countryside is a charming escape and in a chronicle of events, with the light of the days—you feel the light inside too, your human spirit wanders in thoughts as you sit on the BMW’s trunk with closed eyes. It is June, and the world smells of roses, moments like these leave a rich heritage of beautiful memories in their going—in a fortunate combination of delightful weather, Bucky and freedom—your soul feels at peace.

“I talked with Sam, he wants me to help him” There is an endearing nervousness in his voice “I was wondering if you would like to come with us”

In an instant, you reply with an annoyed face “No”

“No? Come on, you need people other than me in your life”

He scolds as he nests between your legs, fingers finding their way on both sides of your hips, drawing soft circles as they travel up towards your waist.

You arch an eyebrow at him, as if the answer is obvious “I don’t need others”

“You will love Sam, I told him about us, I mean-about us living together”

“You did, why?” you clip your words, hissing them into his face as you give a wide-eyed, searching look.

“I used to invite him over to my apartment, he started wondering why I stopped. I wanted him to know anyways”

“What else did you tell him?” you look at him with an arrested expression. His smile fades, and he finds himself staring into your eyes “James?”

It is only a brief moment, but you catch his blink of surprise at your demanding tone before he offers a tentative smile.

“I-I told him about your connections and he was hoping that-” he trails off quietly and you notice a tightness around his mouth and a dimness to his usually bright eyes.

You regard him thoughtfully and he sees the comprehension dawning in your eyes. You know exactly what he is asking.

“Did you miss the part of how I built them?” you ask, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

He huffs in annoyance “Well no, but don’t worry-”

“Oh, hey Sam, I am another brainwashed assassin and when I escaped I did it willingly, for money, nice to meet you by the way”

“I get it, but you are changi-”

You snap, pinching your eyebrows close together.

“And this is my former partner who I used to occasionally fuck at Hydra and now that we have reconnected, we are fucking and living together”

“Anything else you want to add?”

“No, that's all” you finish bitterly, furious with him for letting Sam know so much about you.

“He already met you once in Madripoor, he knows about your past. Trust me, he is a good person, he accepted me”

You let out a hollow laugh

“I am not Captain America’s best friend, James. I am nobody, I don’t even have a legal identity”

You explain in a humorous yet deprecating tone, staring into space.

“Look at me, you need to trust me” he coos, his blue eyes have a doorway to your heart, the place where his care for you resides “I know that you are scared, but you need other people in your life”

It's the caring that he lovingly gives, the passion that he shows—that convinces you every time.

“If I break your heart, I break mine, darling”

Shifting your mouth from a frown into a light-hearted smile, you let out a small chuckle from underneath your breath. His metal hand rests on the small of your back, in that sweet spot that makes you feel feminine and protected—vanity, fear, uncertainty—all such distortions within your own ego—condition you to stay silent about your own feelings. Your programmed mind-pattern still needs to heal, all you need is time, you will get there eventually.

You kiss him on the cheek, which kind of surprises him.

“Хубаво, ще дойда” (Okay, I will come)

His gaze flickers up to your eyes and he can detect no deceit, no mockery.

There are many circumstances that lead to arrogance: one is when you're wrong and you can't face it—but you decide to face it this time, because you know that your brain relies on the familiar. It is reluctant to experience the unknown, which is the very essence of your human life.

The past should have no power over the present, but it still does sometimes—anger and death are deeply rooted, your emotional thermostat is broken. Everything in you is broken—you view yourself as pieces and Bucky somehow sees you as a whole.

Inside, your soul was so cold that you hated everything. You even despised the sun, for you knew you would never be able to play in its warm presence—you were condemned to stick to the past, working as a hitman for years. Everything changed when Bucky decided to track you down. You knew he was spying on you, because you made it easier for him.

You were afraid of the aloneness that you trusted for so long, but that is the truth that you still store in the granary of your mind. Maybe you will tell him one day. Maybe one day you will let him know that he helps you abandon your corporeal prison.

"Я просто люблю запах страха" (I just love the smell of fear) you whisper—a knife-wielding lunatic.

You face the attackers in a kind of instantaneous flash and see the disconsolate eyes, which remain stamped on your heart like the hot coals of fear, the power of death is then borne out by you—the queen at the bloody carnival, not afraid to spill blood while Bucky tries to prevent hurting, killing people at all cost.

It is easy when you work together, just as in the past—but he is holding back, you are not used to seeing him fight so carefully—Winter’s brutality is non-existent.

You sigh as the last man drops dead to the ground. With a knife in his chest. Or, rather, a pair of knives in the chest.

Yes, you helped them locate the rumored Hydra base, but Bucky’s intense paleness on his face shows regret, because you still don’t mind killing—you give him a pitying smile when your eyes meet before your system is poisoned with something.

It is such a tumultuous and intemperate invasion that you forget why you are here. And then your eyes meet again, there is fascination in his gaze, menaced by some invisible danger, and you want to succumb the terrible desire to weep when you realize what it is and you look at the mysterious trembling of your hands—your gaze goes up, but Bucky is nowhere to be seen.

He knows he has to go somewhere, he heads back to the apartment and he has feelings of sorrow, regret, directionless rage, a broad feeling of impotence. The horror of this misfortune penetrates Bucky so deeply that he is close to a panic attack—as if reliving the nightmare he sometimes has—Hydra giving him the pollen back in 1990.

He wanders all through the rooms as if walking in his sleep, chewing on his quiet rage.

He knows the theoretical mechanics of the pollen and he can barely stay on his feet because of the weakness of his knees, his skin is burning and he can’t resist the urgent need to palm himself through his pants—it starts slow and will go progressively worse.

He rubs his hand over his scalp, where his long hair used to be—now shaved very close to his head and bristling against his fingers, he lowers his blue eerily crystalline eyes before closing them. He feels like he should be crying, but he couldn’t summon the tears.

—it’s all his fault. Why did he need to come to your apartment a year ago, on a beautiful August’s evening?

„I knеw that we were following me, Soldat,“ you loudly acknowledge him, drawing out the derogatory term while your back is turned to him.

Stillness wraps Bucky up in a cold embrace, a chill running down his body as he hears you speak. On the string spun of your angel voice, grief and pain drowns him. The tone drawn from memory in his dreams it’s the same, unblinking, robotic as you offer him one spare look before focusing on cutting vegetables on the wooden board.

He exhales, then he slowly enters the apartment. „It is not Soldat, it’s Sergeant now“ his breath hitches and he stops as soon as he enters the room.

There is a crack in his stoic expression, excruciating memories flooding his mind. He knew that somewhere, some day, maybe at a less miserable time, you may see each other again, but he couldn't wait any longer.

The memories are still in his mind and the pain—too ripe in his heart. The more deeply he felt, the less he was able to breath, thinking of grief, and of getting past it.

That's why he came. He needs you in more ways that he wants to confess.

„Oh? What do you want, Barnes?“ your face is carefully blank.

„I wanted to talk to you“ he starts, taking a couple of steps towards.

Shadows lick up the side of his cheekbones, making his skin gold as he slowly walks to the opposite side of the kitchen island, you hear him move the wooden seating.

„And you couldn’t just-I don’t know…have knocked on the door?“

„Sorry, I didn’t know how to-“

He says, a tremor makes his voice uneven. Bucky takes in a deep breath to balance out the embarrassment thrumming through him.

„It is easier to be loyal to past habits, can’t blame you“ you murmur, voice perfectly respectful as you think about it with a heavy heart.

You said it as a matter of fact, without the scorn and mockery, but as an accepted truth before placing the knife you have been using, on the cutting board and finally facing him completely as you step closer to the island as well, leaning forward on your elbows.

But the wintery feeling of the pollen is already clouding the pond, frosting the pane, obscuring that summer's memory of meeting you.

The memory played in his head, with a hopeless nostalgia that he was completely disoriented—he doesn't care if you are heartless, vicious and vulgar, stupid, grasping with incurable programming and mental problems, he enjoys spending time with you. He would rather have misery with you than happiness with any other person, because it is shared, you have a deep and silent understanding.

He was so happy when you suggested living together four months ago—he was okay with the sleepovers at each other's apartments—never was bothered with the need to rush your companionship.

The key to personal development lies in the daily routine—creating new memories with you stretches out psychological time, and lengthens his perception of both your and Bucky’s lives. When he wakes up from a nightmare he is so relieved, because he wakes to a dream, he enjoys the miracle of living with each other as much at the table as in bed.

Bucky finally lays on the bed, his head aches. He admits that he is still human, vulnerable, and sensitive—but he begins to remember how it had been when Hydra gave him the pollen and his self revolted at this, hates himself for not being able to fight it, hates himself for bringing you here.

He is sick with conflict, destructive emotions festeres in him while this sludge eats away at his insides and Bucky is acutely conscious of the swift passage of time, it will make him become blunt and callous—there is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get for him, but maybe this is what he deserves.

When you push open the bedroom door, you can’t prevent it from scraping against the uneven floor. Suddenly, in the absolute darkness of his mind, Bucky is brought back to reality. He is not surprised, for without knowing, he has been expecting you to come.

You close the door behind you as he stands up on his elbows—wondering why are you such a stubborn, blind, obtuse woman—why are you here?

Your scent carries across the room and paralyzes him with longing.

“Stay away, why did you fucking follow me?”

You stop in shock at the words he utters—they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless.

He is vulnerable, slightly paranoid. Although his voice is broken by uncertainty and his hands seem to doubt the existence of things—he tries to appear composed.

You can feel his eyes traveling up your whole body, staying on your side for a split second before moving up to meet your gaze.

“James, we don’t have another choice, we don’t have time”

You can't blame him—he is scared, scared and frozen, afraid of what he can do to you...the old primitive urge for sex. It's getting harder to control it with every passing minute—every second is lived with terrible intensity. It all flows over you with a screaming ache of pain—as you see him, the need grows even faster...and all you can do is remember and feel—the effects of the pollen—like a disease of the blood, dispersing throughout the body.

He looks like a bundle of past recollections, knotted up in a bundle of flesh.You remember what his flesh has gone through—but you also remember what he put you through that day. You feel the naked fear, the urge of self-preservation, you appear solid in front of him, but you are mimicking nothingness.

“God, I smell you. So hot and sweet”

The blank hell in the back of his mind starts to break through, spewing forth like a dark pestilence, the pollen eats away the pith of his humanity—the chaotic words pour out of his mouth as he gets up from the bed and you self-paralyze, your back hits the door—but this is the only way that will pull you both out of the plunge of—pain, need.

Your sexual attraction to him has been heightened beyond measure, as much as you try to bury it deep down in fear, the lust is getting greater than any other feeling or emotion. Every part of him is heightened to you now...his voice included.

He stops in front of you, belatedly realizing where his feet have carried him. There is no glamor, no attempt to hide it, nothing: his need taking slowly over all his senses. The unwelcomed bubble of intrusive lust, sinking into an even more heavily occluded state—you feel it too as he molds his front to yours and pins your breasts against his chest.

You are mesmerized by the tiny flecks of indigo in his blue eyes—you can drown in those eyes and it wouldn’t be the worst way to go. His beautiful features offer themselves to your gaze as you trail through them, annoyed at how attractive he looks—putting your mind into a darker cloud of irritation, waiting for him to do whatever he wants.

You feel stuffy, there is not enough air to breathe as he cages you against the door, his consciousness already vanishing and deforms itself in something primal, there is a delicious animal fire in his gaze.

“I want to taste you so desperately, it rages through me-fuck, fuck this-I want to fuck you”

His eyes are growing moist with indignation, with angry impotence, he is barely controlling himself. It is the natural sequel of an unnatural beginning— it’s hard—but not harder than his cock.

“Do it, come on” you gasp out.

“If you don’t get out of here, you know what will happen”

He explains weakly, and when you say nothing, he grabs your waist with both hands, vision already blurring. His bones fill up with foam, a languid fear, and a terrible desire.

Bucky’s control dies a slow death, shedding layers like leaves until—there will be none—he tends to be particularly rough, aggressive and possessive when given the pollen. You remember the feeling of possessiveness he had as the Winter Soldier over you, so intense it transformed into an obsession over your body.

“I'm not leaving, I need this as much as you” you say, tremulous with longing.

Bucky stares at your mouth as you speak—it looks provocative to him when you talk.

“Enough, dammit, leave”

His voice tightens, it pierces your soul—half agony, half lust.

You still have the choice of running away and finding someone else to do it, but leaving Bucky behind—you know there is not a girl in the world that can handle him, no one else has the serum, but you—your brain is ricocheting in between. It all drifts to the periphery of the mind when you meet Bucky’s eyes.

“It’s normal-” you say haltingly, your expression turns guarded.

He is livid, a sad look on his face

“We are not normal” he interrupts with a soft firmness “It’s insane to pretend we are”

You are both aware. Catastrophically aware.

“Stop talking, we’ve been through that once-”

and you look so well-equipped for this that is seems abnormal to Bucky, he is conquered by the obstinacy of you—so docile and willing to help—he wants to be emancipated for the moment from the torment of the pollen, but the guilt is still eating him.

“Do you remember the year it happened?”

"You always ask me whether I remember the stupid years, lets just-” you say with a shrug.

"It matters, it matters to me. I hate that you remember, I hate myself for what I've done to you” He explains, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear with his human hand.

"James” you whisper his name tremulously “I don’t blame you for anything”

His pain is paramount and you want it to end. His pain, his guilt. You are willing to suffer for the rest of your night so that he can take the easy way out of his needs. You admit it to yourself, without bitterness—you need to sacrifice dearly on behalf of Bucky.

“I’ll lose control” What you cannot forgive is dishonesty—you would rather know the hideously unflattering truth of his devastating visions than foul evasions “If you try to run now, I will probably chase you down anyways”

With all that waiting you have lost the strength of your legs, the firmness of your breasts, your tenderness look—barely keeping your heart intact. Maddened by that prodigious talking, you shamelessly groan, closing your eyes.

“This is bad,” you whimper “Oh God, this is bad. Please, do something”

The next critical manifestation: the unbearable pain.

“Snezinka-” (snowflake)

“Stay with me” your eyes shone “Play with me, please” like those of a cat.

In that state of hallucinated lucidity—you just can’t take it anymore. Presently the need grows stronger, hesitating then no longer. The attempts to conceal the pollen’s effects don't work anymore.

“At least…give me permission this time” Bucky shakes his head, sadness vibrating through his body as he speaks through clenched teeth.

“Yes, do whatever you want” you moan, shaking, desperate for his touch.

And then you see something possessive wash over him, making your body shiver in anticipation.

“Please, I need yo-”

You say, nodding at the soul-reaching blue crystals, not looking away from him, but Bucky doesn’t let you finish as he kisses you. His lips are warm, his body is heat and muscles against you. He kisses you like a tide, gentle at first, but with the ability to drown, his fingers digging into your waist, urging you ever-nearer to him, even when it’s physically impossible to be. Then his fingers slithers over your chest, hands immediately find your breasts and he starts to massage them for his own pleasure.

His fingers curl around the edges of your soaked blood shirt, pulling and eventually tearing it away from your skin.

There is lust and there is pain, a whirling wheel—not stopping.

He wastes no time, kissing you deeply again, already missing the feeling of your skin.

“I am yours, you know that”

A simple reply, his voice cut into you like glass, his words bleeding into your skin. It isn’t something to be argued against, it’s the truth and you acknowledge that. It’s ridiculous, absurdly sentimental to think that you managed to lay a claim on him like you did in the past.

You are trying to think of something, coming up short when he presses his hips flush against yours again, the chest harness wrinkling under the tight grip of your fists, pulling him and he hems you up against the door, grinding his cock against you. You slide one hand downwards, wrapping around his hard manhood and squeeze, Bucky moans quietly and involuntarily rolls into the contact, desperately seeking relief.

“Fuck” he says, a bit too breathlessly.

„James-this is not enough“ you undulate your hips against the aching bulge.

His name falling on his ears like that sent chills down his spine, he can hear the beat of his heart, his palms belong on your skin as he closes the gap between you. Nothing is sweeter, nothing else than you—lust is spreading like quickfire in his veins, groaning in the kiss.

“I know, I know” he whispers, a hint of exasperation and affront in his tone, leaning forwards to kiss you yet again, teasingly licking at your lips as he pulls away.

Sexual perversions mix with guilt and adrenaline as his mind sees in scattered images of varying vulgarity. Bucky grips your waist and lifts you off the ground with ease, dropping you softly on the luxurious white linen bed.

You lick your lips, trying to quench the thirst for him. Your throat is dry as you watch him between your spread legs—his belt clattering noisily as he unbuckles it, popping the buttons of his jeans open, followed by the low purr of his zipper coming undone, he drifts his hands down his sides and hooks both thumbs into his jeans, sliding them and the boxers down his legs. The corners of his mouth curve upward when he notices you staring a moment too long as he removes his jacket and shirt.

You remove your own pants and then you spread your legs open, positioned right in front of his standing body—one hand toys with your breast through the bra while the fingers of the other hook in your panties and drags them down your legs fast before throwing them in his direction.

His breath stutters as he catches them with his metal arm, becoming more and more aroused with every beat of his heart that runs down his shaft. It’s becoming more painful. He starts to pump his cock, the veins bulging beneath his grip—even in his large hand, it looks intimidating, the veins in his neck tightening.

He’s quite tall with broad shoulders and an athletic physique that even his leather jacket cannot hide. Your eyes continue their upward travel to his strong square-shaped face framed with short brown hair that falls to his shoulders and deep, blue eyes.

He then craws on top of you and he cannot articulate a word, capable only of an animal sound, a strangulated wheeze that shocks him deeply, enraging him, this sudden loss of the faculty of speech that feels somehow bestial and forgotten now.

It is the impatience of the way he tears your bra from your body that really scares you: the pollen getting the better of him and you spread your legs wide, exposing your overall and the fragrance of the essences permits in the air, he smells it.

His cock nudges around your sleek mound until he gasps as he guides his sticky cockhead glides through your delicate folds. He doesn’t say anything as he slips inside you, burying himself to the hilt.

Sex with you this time is different, he has never felt this dominant, this claiming, this selfish. He is so far in that his balls are right against your pussy lips.

His greedy lips are once again on your skin, devouring everything he can—licking, sucking, and kissing, not holding back his throaty moans. He drags his lips up your throat, along your jaw, back toward your mouth. His lips are usually gentle and loving, promising long days and summer forever—but they soon turn sharp, peppermint, winter.

Animal logic. Prey. Predator… teeth dragging against your neck, living marks. The primal lust, the sheer need to claim you, quickly finding ways to express his sacred hunger to you in animal passion. He snarls out gluttonous groans against your skin as you clench and seize, pounding you harder as your body contracts. Pleasure breaks out like a wildfire, reaching around your temples; shooting up and down your spine.

You're perfect when you're underneath him, it's where you belong, beautiful face and pretty wide eyes locked onto his powder-blue orbits—curves cushioning him, your obedient body lush, muscular, but still feminine, your eyes flashing—and all he wants is to ruin you.

It's a sinful sight each time he buries the length of his cock all the way inside you, shaft slick and wet and glistening when he pulls it out. You make the prettiest noises when he shoves in deep only to pull out and slam himself back inside, you've got the prettiest expression as he grips your legs and folds them up to fuck his dick into you even harder than before.

“Don’t stop, don’t, please”

There is something raw and pleading in your voice that surpasses sexual desire, these fleeting moments of carnal craving.

He continues to trail his lips down the front of your throat and you realize that he is mouthing words against your skin “Mine. Mine. Mine”

“You feel so good every time, snezinka” he murmurs at your ear as slide to your throat and he tightens his grip on both sides on your neck, reducing the blood and oxygen to the brain. When he loosens, the rush of blood and oxygen to the brain results in an explosion of dopamine, followed by a shamelessly loud moan from your lips “I think that I love you”

“We’re drugged. That’s why,” you gaspe “Did you forget?”

Bucky acknowledges your words, they sink into him—he focuses his attention on your skin. He nibbles at your earlobe, loving the sharp intake of your breath, skin breaks out into a pale sweat and your eyes fill with tears. His trusts are ruthless.

“There is no pleasure as good as the feel of your pretty cunt wrapped around me” a dark edge creeps into his tone.

He says as he fills out pounds you, drawing a muffled scream from your throat as he starts to thrust more rapidly, setting a demanding rhythm.

Something strange starts to rage inside him, hearing you inhale sharply as he continues to kiss and bite your neck, leaving bruises deliberately and as he fucks you deeper, wanting to mark you in an entirely different way—he wants to breed you.

And you know you will wear the bruises of Bucky’s hands as you wear the scars of Soldat.

All extremes of the pollen are allied with madness, finally consuming his brain and body.

“You are so beautiful”

He says into your skin, tears welling, confused, mingling in his throat. Old wounds never truly heal, your past will never fully heal anyways. That one tear, that tiny, salty, droplet of moisture is a means of expression—joy, and torment. Although it's just a small tear, it is the heaviest thing in the world. And it doesn't do a damn thing to fix anything in this situation.

“James-” your whole body exhaled a lugubrious lament, your heart breaks for him.

His eyes are always soulful, in some way; they seem to say things that you know he's probably never say out loud.

“I know baby, I know,” he nibbles on the side of your neck “You are so beautiful, I am sorry-so sorry, I can’t stop” his growls erupt from his chest, the primal noise flooding your senses, making your insides clench around his length “I need this, I need you”

You’re powerless…utterly at his mercy and that’s what makes you cum—his voice sends shudders through your body, reacting in all the right ways to the words. The orgasm has gutted your vocal chords, and all you manage is a small gasp, tears slipping down the old salty trails as he doesn’t stop, his head lulling on your shoulder.

He leans down, nose brushing against yours as he pants, thrusts never faltering, his mouth hangs open with bliss, his cock plunging into you with skin-slapping speed and he finally reaches his orgasm, cock spurting a thick dollop of cum with each throb. He closes his eyes, because of the volcanic eruptions of fever still goes through his body—his orgasm is long, raw, reaching all his body senses.

Sex is unthinkable without roughness tonight—he is already thinking about his second orgasm—should he just cum in your mouth when he makes you fall to your knees… or if he should take you by the hair before he’s finished and fuck you into a sobbing heap before blowing his load. Of the few times Soldat has face fucked you—gagging you to near vomiting—you’ve never miss a drop of cum. He remembers it.

His hand closes around your throat and the grip tightens, slowly cutting into your skin while cutting off oxygen. It is more painful than lethal, but more erotic than painful. Your head is spinning, ears are ringing—suddenly, without warning, he withdraws completely, leaving you coughing and gasping for air. As you try to catch your breath, you feel him get up from the bed which urges you to come back to your senses faster.

In his temporary madness, an idea comes to his mind.

In seconds, he is back on top and when your vision finally clears—his lusty orbs descend to your cheeks, detailing your skin before leaning in to lick off your tears—some form of mercy which you don’t need.

He is now in that state of fire that excites you. You want to be burnt.

His eyes drift leisurely back up to your face and he smiles, nova-flare eyes blazing into your own—you look for love hiding in his eyes, in his face, and you find nothing but possessiveness.

But something is not right.

His eyes are cold and dark.And your heart stops.

He is taking you over. Staking a claim.

He slowly thrusts his hips forward, his cock pressing into your front, earning a squeal from you as he ruts back and forth dragging his length across your opening and then slowly plunges into you. You exhale, trembling as you feel the tip pressing against your opening and penetrating you. He is mesmerized by the sight of his cock disappearing inside of you, filling you up to the brim.

Bucky brings both of your wrists above your head and grips them in his metal arm, restraining you from moving them—and you tremble like a downy rabbit caught in the clutches of a wolf—he seizes you as boldly as Soldat used to capture his favorite prey—you—in the past.

A flash blinds you for a moment and you see him holding his phone—this feels surreal—leaving you breathless with an inexpressible delight of it. Bucky’s inner voice of lust speaks, it is so spontaneous and unannounced. Your mind searches for the logical thought of his action.

“Fuck, I can cum just by looking at it” He musters his primest tone, throwing the device to the side.

You whimper as your abdomen contracted painfully around his hard length at his words. He lets his fingers release your hands as his cold digits swipes back the hair from your face. Cursing, he grips the back of your neck and brings your lips to his while the metal ones grip your hip so tightly you are sure he’d leave a bruise. You whimper as he starts to fuck you, slamming you into the matress.

The usual warmth of his hands is not there. They chill your skin as they hold you close to his body, and you realize he is scared. The extreme joy mixes with the bone-crushing grief—what if you don’t want to be around him after this night? What if you condemn him, consider it with high and unjust resentment and leave him? It pierces his soul, but he can’t stop—he is half agony, half animal...the past beats inside like a second heart now.

Your soft fingers trail his face and continue to attempt a connection that he refuses to acknowledge at first—the past slips and vanishes like sand between the warm touch of your fingers, acquiring material weight, only in its recollection, because the more shared past there is in any relationship, the more present you need to be for each other.

“Let go," you whisper and he loosens the grips—he is ashamed of holding you so tightly "No, not of me," you say smiling.

You look right into his eyes, right into him as far as you can see, because you want him to hear you, you want him to hear you with everything you say—and his chest tightens as if some euphoric drug has gone straight to his nervous system—but it is not the pollen, it is you—reassuring him, leaving a psychic imprint in his mind.

It’s both a blessing and a curse to share the same trauma. And even though you are sometimes harsh, restless and despairing—he is your weak spot, you love him in your own way.

"You can hold on to me as long as you want. Let go of the past, let go of the pain" you say, giving him permission, taking him into your flesh, a clear invitation to madness.

Emotions clamp down on his heart, but he stays terribly silent. Bucky says nothing after that, only your name, as if your name is not a name but a question. He shakes his head and kisses you, long and quiet.

He grabs your jaw in one hand forcing you to look at him, tears coursing down your cheeks as he thrusts into you, making low, growling noises in his throat—a predator purring with pleasure while it devours its prey, picking up a brutal pace once again. Your legs tighten around his waist, hooking over his hip bones as he practically folds you in half, nails digging into his back, surely breaking his skin with your manicured fingers.

He groans at the pain and removes your hands, intertwines his fingers with yours, pins your wrists flat to the mattress on either side of your head. He holds himself up over your body as he fucks into you, supporting his weight on his forearms. His cock is slamming into you, balls bouncing against your clit just right, the sight of his well-muscled body, covered in a thin layer of sweat, invites you to utter depravity, it is what drives you over the edge.

“You look so good taking all of me” he pants against your throat “I will fill you again-so good”

Hard, long, deep trust that forces moans out of both of you.

You whimper and nod dumbly, screw your eyes tight as another wave of pleasure spread throughout your body in orgasmic tingles as he pulls his own climax with you. He presses his face against your neck as his hips lose any and all sense of tempo and when he finally stills, he holds himself deep inside as he leans back—with every breath, your bust heaves, sweat droplets running between them and attracting his gaze.

It pollutes his mind even more, it cripples his morality, because he is infatuated with fucking you like this again—is it the pollen at this point?

''Bear with me'' He murmurs, gritting his teeth ''I need…more” his cock slowly sliding out of your tight pussy before sliding back inside with equal slowness, sliding through copious amounts of thin lubrication and cum. Your legs wrap around his waist and prevent him from pulling out even if he wants to—your understanding, your willingness is a kind of ecstasy to him.

The blue moons in his eyes are glimmering with an emotion you can’t put your finger on. What is he thinking about?

A part of him cares about you.

But there’s a depravity in his mind right now that enjoys seeing you like this—your hair is in disarray, several tendrils scattered across your face and constricting your view of him, sweat pricks at your hairline and down your back. There is something unmistakably exultant in turning you into a mess—such a mess of cum and tears. Gently, he brushes the tendrils out of your face, tenderness in his touch—that’s the part of him that cares.

“I need you on the floor, on all fours” —that's the part of him that's deprived tonight.

You can feel the desire. The thirst. The absolute beast threatening to tear from his skin.

Soldat loved to fuck you against solid ground. He never truly left, sometimes Bucky is on the verge of cracking and showing the color of the thing beneath, but you don’t mind, you are not scared, you never were.

All he wants is for you to be filled, marked, bruised from staying up all night, taking his cock into your body until you are depleted of all your strength. Even then, he will fuck you. He doesn’t say more, but he groans as he gets up—what a sinful twist of his lips, watching you slowly get up, your legs are incapable of supporting your weight much longer.

Your cunt hurts, too—you feel his cum dripping down your thighs, making yourself position in doggy style, legs winched apart, everything exposed to his view and he goes to stand on knees behind you, eagerly holding up his cock then he lines up your hole. He twists your hair around his fist and yanks your head back, at the same time thrusting into you from behind as his fingers slide to dig into your ass.

Bucky grunts as he slams into you “Я без ума от тебя” (I'm mad about you) his balls slapping against the sensitive nub. You choke on your words, this angle allowing him in far deeper than before. You arch your back more and dig your nails into the floor, clawing at the dirty ground as he relentlessly pounds into you. Sweat drips down his neck as he watches himself entering and exiting you.

He grips your hips tightly, slamming into your snatch with ferocity. A wave of pleasure suddenly overwhelms you, and the tingling is growing stronger once more.

“Я предан тебе…ты моя девочка”(im devoted to you)...(You are my girl)

You can only mewl and gasp as you are rocked back and forth on your knees, losing your breath every time his cock hammers into your cunt. You clench around him when you hear your full name spoken in his gravelly tenor.

He molds his front to your back, spearing through your tightening pussy. He grabs your hair and snaps your head back roughly before it travels down around your throat and squeezes tight while his other palm splays across your stomach.

His lips rests on the back of your shoulder, hissing

“Очевидно, что , нас чувства друк к други” (You can’t deny what's between us)

He carries on rutting you like an animal. Your skin slapping together, your pussy squirting around his cock as it invades your snatch repeatedly, making suction squelching noises with every thrust in of his length. It keeps on hitting your cervix, your nubile breasts swing with the force of your body rocking—you know that you will be sore later.

"You fill my heart, I fill your cunt"

But his words strike every inside your body and his honesty brings the euphoria of complete surrender.

“Enough, stop, it is too much”

You plea and nearly asphyxiate on the words as your orgasm bursts upwards from your abused cunt. A sob wracks your throat and he continues thrusting, riding your orgasm until your entire body is convulsing and you are desperately trying to wiggle out of Bucky’s arms with the last of your strength, but it's not enough compared to the strength of his arms holding your hips with renewed vigor, determined to breed you.

You catch sight of him from your peripheral vision, his eyes closed, his lips are silent, but he chatters with his fingertips, with the way his hands grip your hips, fingers digging in, the way he fucks you. And you thought that he chose that position, because he was embarrassed, but he was not—he wanted to disguise from you how much he was enjoying himself.

You have the strength to kill him, but here you are—so obedient.

His little submissive.

His expression is dreamy, floating. Soaked in pleasure—breathless, possessed, lost in the volcanic eruptions of fever, lust and delight. Your pussy cradles around his dick as he pounds into you from behind.

“James”

His name on your lips sooth a place deep inside him, and the urgent need to hear it in again pulses in his heart, making himself guilty of such a secret, he must perforce hold it—

—but he shamelessly let out a loud moan, he never felt so out of control. You are a disease worse than the pollen itself.

“Bucky”

That makes him groan like an animal, noises coming out of him that you never heard before, he was never this vocal. The groans are desperate, endless, but the sound of his name is unspeakably erotic to him. He can’t get enough of this. He will die without it, without you.

“You look too pretty when you’re getting fucked like that” he blurts out, without even thinking.

There is already a fissure in his mind and madness just rushes through. Praising him puts him on edge, it’s something he never thought he wanted or needed. You wreak havoc on his life.

He squeezes his eyes shut—to utilize the entire spectrum of the other senses, moans of ecstasy crescendos and his breaths come in short instances, each with a slight pause in between as his body is rack with his orgasm, cum is flooding out of your cunt, dripping of you onto the hardwood floor and there is a charm about it that makes it unspeakably desirable for Bucky.

In this stillness, he finally finds serenity.

All you want to do is crawl back beneath the mound blankets—he gently picks you up and you smile crookedly at him, something about your smile loosening a knot in his chest, because holding you in his arms is more natural to him than his own heartbeat.

Morning came in through the blinds cutting everything into ribbons, but the light can make the most vulgar things tolerable—you are aware of the aching hips, and your whole body hurts like hell as if you have been run over by a train.

Bucky steps out of the bathroom, freshly showered with a white towel around his lean hips. He takes a half step toward the bed, and his jaw works for a moment before he asks

“How are you feeling?”

“Tired, did you tell Sam what happened?”

“No, of course not. He is thankful that you helped us” He says and rakes his fingers through his damp hair, making it stand on end “He invited us to Louisiana”

You barely resists smiling at him “Okay”

He raises a brow “Just like that, okay?”

“If you give me my bracelet back”

You both look at the bracelet around his right hand. Then he bites his lip as he grins.

“Not happening” he says, his tone flattening and he can't help the smirk that tips up the corners of his mouth.

“Guess I need to buy a new one then” You peel back the covers, indicating for him to get in and you watch him climb next to you “With your name on it”

His palm reaches up to wrap around the back of your head, his fingers tangling in the depths of your hair, pulling you closer, his lips hovering over yours. Everything about him pleases you.

Not just his looks, but his patience and his kindness. He is an obsession waiting to happen. Kissing him is terrifying, breathing the same air makes your knees weak, a liquid sensation swooping throughout your stomach—but you've been betrayed, stabbed by every single person in your life, the body heals, but it injures the heart and the wound lasts a lifetime. You are scared of love, scared of these new feelings, scared of trusting anyone, but you are trying—that’s why you gently press a kiss to his mouth.

(Her kisses are deliberate and polished. When she kisses me—she doesn't want me. She has me and knows it.)

Bucky throws himself onto the couch next to Sam, slewing his eyes over to him.

"So you are sleeping and living together, but you are still not in a relationship?"

He takes a long sip of his drink when he hears the words, tips his head back against the couch, and decides he could…maybe live with that.

"Yeah"

Sam’s lips tighten to suppress a smile "That's a bit weird, Buck"

He chuckles, low under his breath "The part where I live with my ex-coworker or the part where we sleep together?"

James takes a deep breath, and Sam can see his blue eyes searching for his, like he is looking for an answer.

”Maybe it is what it's meant to be for now” A frown settles on Bucky’s face as he considers that “She has a lot to experience, too. If you pressure her with anything, you might lose her completely”

“I don't want to be in love, but she is making me, Sam” he sighs, a headache blooming right between his eyes. He rubs at the spot, stalling as he tries to figure out what he wants to say “But you are right, she needs to heal”

Several emotions swirl in Sam’s eyes. Worry, sadness, maybe even intrigue. But not judgment. Never. “Did she agree to go to Wakanda?”

He wets his dry lips and says the most basic truth:

“No, she is too untrustworthy, I can’t believe she even agreed to come here”

Sam sees it as hope—and he wants to put that light within his friend, too “But she did”

They can’t talk about it anymore, not when they hear you, Sarah and the kids coming back, and when your gazes meet, your soft smile and the look in your eyes, they are the best interpreter of your mind—you are truly happy, seeing you like that makes him feel like he can single-handedly vanquish an army.

He has outlasted all family, desires, dreams, his grief alone is left entire—sometimes visiting the lonely desolation of nightmares, they are gleamings of his empty heart—Bucky is a heap of ashes, but meeting you—kindled him back into fire.

Oh my goshhh thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed this project!

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