#silent. hollow eyed.

[bylrndgm]

MIKE WHEELER IN EVERY EPISODE [25/42] 3.08 The Battle of Starcourt

[tender-rosiey]

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]

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.

[artficlly]

smog & spirits: eye for an eye (series)

Marvel 1920s Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU

gangsterboss!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

[hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall]

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.

[hp-hcs]

• 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!!

[bunnwis]

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?”

[samodivaa]

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!

More of this ex!Asset AU? - MASTERLIST

[its-avalon-08]

This is something i have been thinking of. Lando Norris x Sainz!sister. Essentially, both of them are friends with benefits, but they both like eachother more. But Lando makes it seem like he is super casual. So when Y/N asks Lando if he wants to go out for dinner and he says "we arent dating i dont owe you that " and goes with another girl to a club, Y/N is super hurt and is crying in carlos's arms who confronts lando and punches him. happy ending pls

look me in the eyes and tell me how you feel (ln4)

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monaco shimmered under the twilight, a playground for the rich and the reckless. lando norris, ever the showman, weaved through the throngs of fans at a yacht party, a mischievous glint in his eyes. his gaze, however, kept flitting towards a balcony bathed in soft light. there, y/n sainz, carlos's younger sister, leaned against the railing, her laughter like wind chimes.

lando and y/n had a… complicated arrangement. stolen kisses in motorhomes, tangled limbs in hotel rooms, whispered promises that morphed into playful banter the next morning. it was a delicious dance, fueled by adrenaline and undeniable chemistry. but lando, a master of deflecting emotions with a goofy grin, kept it firmly in the realm of casual. he couldn't risk messing things up with carlos, his teammate and closest friend.

the party thrummed with music. y/n, catching his eye, blew him a kiss, a playful challenge in her smile. a thrill shot through lando, warring with the voice of his carefully constructed facade. he sauntered over to a group of models, his trademark grin plastered on. a blonde beauty, all curves and confidence, latched onto his arm.

"hey, lando, fancy a drink?" she purred.

lando, internally cringing, forced a laugh. "sure thing, love." his peripheral vision caught y/n stiffen, a flicker of hurt crossing her features before she masked it with a dazzling smile for a group of friends.

later that night, as the party wound down, y/n approached lando, her usual vibrancy dimmed. "hey, you wanna grab dinner sometime this week?"

lando, caught off guard, fumbled for his usual playful response. "uh, y/n, you know the deal, right? we're not exactly...dating." he winced at the sting in his own voice.

y/n's smile faltered. "yeah, i guess i just…" she trailed off, disappointment clouding her eyes. "never mind. have fun tonight."

lando watched her walk away, a cold knot clenching his stomach. he hated himself for playing it cool, but the fear of ruining their friendship, of losing carlos, held him captive.

he spotted y/n leaving with another guy, a forced smile plastered on her face. jealousy, a green-eyed monster he'd never acknowledged before, roared to life. he spent the rest of the night drowning his turmoil in champagne, a hollow feeling gnawing at him.

rain lashed against the motorhome windows, mirroring the storm brewing inside y/n. curled up on a bunk, she hugged her knees to her chest, body wracked with silent sobs. the memory of lando's flippant "we aren't dating" echoed in her ears, a cruel reminder of their confusing situation.

a creak on the stairs alerted her. before she could wipe away the tears, the door swung open and carlos's concerned face appeared. "y/n? what's wrong?"

he rushed to her side, his presence a familiar comfort. all pretense melted away as y/n threw herself into his arms, the dam breaking with a fresh torrent of tears. carlos held her tight, his jaw clenched, a storm brewing within him that rivaled the one outside.

"he…lando…we…" y/n hiccupped between sobs, unable to form a coherent sentence.

carlos understood. his sister, usually a ball of sunshine, was a shattered mess. he rubbed her back soothingly, letting the tears flow until they subsided into sniffles.

"talk to me, hermanita," carlos said softly, using their childhood nickname for 'little sister.' "did he…did he hurt you?"

shame burned in y/n's cheeks, but she knew she couldn't keep it from carlos. "we aren't…dating, he says. just…fun. but it doesn't feel that way to me, carlos. i care about him, a lot."

carlos felt a familiar pang of protectiveness. he'd seen the way lando looked at y/n sometimes, the way a stolen glance lingered a beat too long. the frustrating thing was, lando clearly felt something too, yet his fear held him back.

"he's an idiot," carlos muttered, the words laced with anger and affection in equal measure. "but you deserve better than being kept in some emotional limbo, y/n."

y/n wiped at her remaining tears, her voice laced with a newfound determination. "i know. i just…i thought there was something there. we laugh together, we…" she trailed off, a blush creeping up her neck. "it doesn't feel casual, carlos."

carlos chuckled dryly. "trust me, i know. you practically glow whenever you're around him." he wrapped her in another hug. "but listen, sometimes guys, especially lando, can be dense as bricks when it comes to feelings."

y/n snorted, a faint smile playing on her lips. "thanks for the vote of confidence in our resident goofball."

carlos pulled back, wiping away a stray tear from her cheek. "look, you need to talk to him, y/n. tell him how you feel. and if he can't meet you halfway…"

he left the sentence unfinished, but y/n knew what he meant. "yeah, i know."

a beat of silence followed, broken only by the drumming rain. "but what if he doesn't feel the same?" y/n's voice hitched slightly.

carlos squeezed her hand. "then he's the one missing out. you, y/n, are amazing. funny, smart, and strong. he'd be a fool to let you go."

y/n looked up at him, a flicker of hope rekindled in her eyes. "really?"

carlos grinned, his usual mischievous glint returning. "absolutely. now, are you up for some revenge ice cream? we can trash lando's favorite video game while we eat it."

y/n laughed, a genuine, full-bodied laugh that filled the small space. "you're the best brother ever, carlos."

"that's what brothers are for," he said, pulling her into another hug. "now, let's get that ice cream and show lando what he's missing."

the next morning, lando found carlos pacing furiously in their shared motorhome. before he could stammer an explanation, carlos launched into a tirade.

"lando, what the hell did you do to y/n?"

the truth tumbled out, a torrent of guilt and frustration. as lando confessed his tangled feelings, carlos listened, his face a mask of conflicting emotions.

"you idiot!" carlos finally roared, landing a solid punch on lando's jaw. "she's been crazy about you for months!"

the pain in his jaw was nothing compared to the dawning realization. lando understood in that moment just how badly he'd messed up.

meanwhile, y/n, teary-eyed, sought solace in carlos's embrace. he listened patiently, his heart aching for his sister. as she sobbed about the confusing, one-sided nature of her relationship with lando, carlos knew it was time for a little brotherly intervention.

lando, bruised and shaken, confronted y/n later that day. he poured his heart out, confessing his fear of losing her and carlos. y/n, hesitant at first, listened, her own vulnerability peeking through.

"lando," she said softly, "we could have talked about it. you could have trusted me."

y/n sniffled, wiping away a stray tear that escaped down her cheek. lando sat beside her on the motorhome couch, his heart heavy with regret. the balcony overlooking the glistening monaco harbor, once a backdrop for stolen kisses, now felt cold and empty.

"i just...don't understand," y/n said, her voice small. "why can't it be more?"

lando reached out, his hand hovering over hers before retreating. "it's me, y/n. i messed up. royally." shame burned in his throat.

"why? you like me, don't you?" she looked up at him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

he took a deep breath. "like you? y/n, i…" he swallowed hard. "i'm terrified i'll lose you."

"lose me? how?"

"carlos," he confessed, the name catching in his throat. "he's my brother, my best friend. the thought of messing that up…"

y/n's brow furrowed. "so you'd rather keep things…casual…than risk our friendship?"

lando winced. "it sounds stupid when you say it out loud."

"it does," she agreed, a faint spark of anger flickering in her eyes. "because it is, lando."

he looked away, guilt gnawing at him. "i know. i'm an idiot."

silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. finally, y/n spoke, her voice stronger now. "fear shouldn't dictate our happiness, lando. not mine, not yours."

he finally met her gaze, a flicker of hope igniting in his chest. "you wouldn't…walk away?"

she shook her head, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "not if you're willing to take a chance, scaredy-cat."

lando's lips curved into a genuine grin. "alright then, fearless leader. let's see where this crazy thing takes us." he reached for her hand this time, his grip firm and warm. "together."

tears welled up in lando's eyes. "i will, y/n. from now on, nothing but the truth."

and that's how it began. a real, honest relationship built on shared laughter, late-night talks that stretched into sunrise, and a fierce, protective love. the paddock buzzed with speculation, but lando and y/n reveled in their newfound happiness. they were a force to be reckoned with on the track, and even more so off it, their playful banter now laced with a deeper affection.

one warm evening, after a podium finish for lando, they found themselves on the balcony of that same monaco yacht party. this time, y/n leaned against him, her head on his shoulder, a comfortable silence settling between them.

"next time," she said, a mischievous glint in her eyes, "dinner's on you. no excuses."

lando chuckled, pulling her closer. "wouldn't have it any other way." he knew, with a certainty that warmed him from the inside out, that this was more than just a delicious dance. it was a love story waiting to be written, and they were finally holding the pen.

news of their relationship spread like wildfire through the f1 circus. fans, initially surprised, warmed to the genuine connection between the young couple. lando's playful side, usually reserved for post-race interviews, found its way onto the podium, fueled by y/n's infectious laughter in the crowd.

their relationship wasn't without its challenges. there were jealous rivals, intrusive media, and the ever-present pressure of the racing world. but they faced it all together, a united front. y/n became lando's rock, his fierce supporter and confidante. he, in turn, was her biggest cheerleader, celebrating her triumphs, big and small.

their love story wasn't a fairy tale. there were arguments, late nights fueled by strategy and debriefs, and the occasional prank war between y/n and carlos (much to lando's amusement and slight annoyance). but through it all, their bond grew stronger.

one rainy weekend, cuddled up in their motorhome, lando surprised y/n with a small box. inside, nestled on velvet, was a delicate necklace. the pendant held a tiny silver replica of a helmet, engraved with "y/n" and their nicknames for each other. tears welled up in her eyes.

"it's perfect, lando," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

he pulled her close, his voice a low rumble. "just like you, y/n."

years passed, and their love story continued to unfold on and off the track. they supported each other through victories and defeats, podium finishes and heartbreaking crashes. they built a life together, filled with laughter, love, and the thrill of competition.

one sunny day, on the podium at monza, lando stood victorious, champagne spraying in the air. but his eyes were fixed on y/n, standing in the team garage, a radiant smile lighting up her face. he blew her a kiss, a silent promise whispered on the wind.

their love story, born under the glittering lights of monaco, had become a legend whispered through the grandstands of every formula one circuit. it was a testament to the power of vulnerability, the courage to face fears, and the unwavering belief that sometimes, the most exhilarating race is the one for love.

[fear-is-truth]

Kai anderson with a reader experiencing subdrop after sex. You can decide whether its their first time with this or not

So during the subdrop the readers nonverbal besides a couple whimpers and whines, noticeably js out of it and clinging to Kai all teary eyed nd shit 😛. + wtv else youd want to add ofc

tags — f!reader﹒fluff﹒finger sūcking﹒ kinda ooc?

THE AIR REEKS OF SWEAT AND SEX, remnants of your nightly union. the sheets tangle around your legs, clinging uncomfortably to your sticky skin, but you can’t bring yourself to move. kai’s chest rises and falls steadily beneath you, and you wonder if he’s fallen asleep. you stare vacantly at the black screen of the tv on the wall, the reflection of your bodies caught in its glossy surface. your mind is empty, but your chest feels too full, like it might burst.

coldness creeps in slowly, curling around your limbs despite the warmth radiating off him. you shift slightly, cheek rubbing against his chest, but even the heat doesn’t reach the icy ache spreading through you. your clammy hands find his sides, fingers trembling as you cling to him. tears sting at your eyes, your lips tremble as you press them together to hold in a whimper.

kai stirs beneath you, letting out a low, tired sigh. his hand moves lazily to your back, his fingers brushing against the ridges of your spine. “what now?” he mumbles, voice edged with irritation. his eyes flicker over your face, taking in your tear-streaked cheeks and the dazed, faraway look in your eyes. you don’t answer—can’t answer. all you can manage is a faint whine as your grip on him tightens. your head burrows against him, desperate for the kind of comfort you can’t find in yourself right now.

“you’re fine,” he says, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone, wiping away the streak of wetness there. “you’re not breaking, alright? you’re just in your head.” his hand moves lower, his thumb now brushing over your trembling bottom lip. “breathe, baby. in and out. don’t make me count for you.”

you try—a shaky inhale that stutters in your throat—but it’s enough for now. kai watches you closely, his thumb pressing against the plush of your lip. “that’s it…. attagirl.”he praises. “focus on me.” another quiet whimper leaves you, and he presses his thumb further, nudging it against your lip until it slips into your mouth.

“there we go,” he coos. “you like this, don’t you?”

your lips part without hesitation, and you let him slide his thumb inside, your tongue brushing against the calloused pad of it. hollowing out your cheeks, you suckle weakly, instinct taking over as the motion soothes the ache within.

“good girl,” his other hand still combing through your hair. “see? you’re okay. just needed to settle down. i’ve got you.” his voice is steady, firm enough to cut through the haze. your eyes are glassy, wide and unfocused, tears spilling over silently as you blink up at him. the coldness that had seeped under your skin begins to ebb away.

[rosemariiaa]

~The Weight of Want~

part: 5

pairing: Paige x Azzi

a/n: surprise,this is kind of rushed and shorter than expected!! happy reading lovelies 💌

themes: teasing , language, drinking

The leaves outside were turning shades of orange and gold, and the air had that crispness that signaled Halloween was just around the corner. Paige stood in front of the mirror, adjusting her hat, feeling more anxious than she’d like to admit. It had been almost a year since everything had “fallen apart” , and while she had tried to take Caroline’s advice to heart—focusing more on her studies, basketball, and just enjoying life—tonight felt different.

What if Azzi was there? The thought sent a rush of anxiety through her. Fuck. I haven’t seen her in months. They’d left things on somewhat good terms, but there had been no real closure. The idea of seeing that doe-eyed brunette again, with her cheeky smile and deep dimples, sent a rush of warmth through her. Get it together, Paige. It’s been a year.. But were you really ever over someone who made your heart race just by being in the same room?

“Yo P! Are you ready yet, or are you just gonna stand there and stare at yourself all night?” KK’s voice cut through her thoughts, impatience thick in the air.

“Yeah, just—” she started, but KK barged in, a teasing grin plastered on her face.

KK leaned against the door frame, arms crossed. “You look like a grinning tomato. Are you ready to scare people with that outfit or what?” Paige rolled her eyes, letting out a nervous laugh. “It’s not that bad! Just give me a sec!”

“Seriously, though, why are you so jittery?” KK asked, raising an eyebrow. “You’re acting like you’re about to walk into an exam you didn’t study for or something.” “I’m not jittery!” Paige protested, but the high pitch of her voice gave her away. I’m totally jittery.

KK stepped into the room, inspecting her costume. “Oh, really? Because you’ve been checking your phone like it’s a fucking lifeline.

Paige thumped KK’s forehead again, causing her to stumble back, hands flying up in mock defense. “Shut up. I’m just making sure I have everything I need.”

KK smirked, leaning in closer. “Look at you, still worried about something. What’s really going on?”

Paige tried to shake off the feeling, but it wouldn’t leave. “Nothing, okay? It’s just… I might be a little nervous about tonight.”

KK crossed her arms and leaned in, eyes narrowed playfully. “Nervous about what? You know it’s just a party, right? It’s not like you’re going to a funeral.”

“Yeah, but—what if…Azzi is there?” Paige blurted, her voice barely above a whisper. The thought of seeing Azzi again sent a shiver down her spine, and she couldn’t shake it off.

KK raised an eyebrow, an amused smirk creeping onto her face. “Oh god, don’t get your hopes up! You haven’t even spoken to her in forever! You think she’s just gonna pop up outta nowhere?”

“I don’t know!” Paige snapped, her nerves getting the best of her. “I mean, she doesn’t even like these types of events. But… still.”

“Girl, boo! Don’t get any ideas!” KK teased, shaking her head. “I’m over that! We’ve both moved on—she’s with Laila. She’s fine,” Paige insisted, though the words felt a little hollow.

“Yeah, about that…” KK said, raising an eyebrow. “I heard Laila cheated on her.”

“Wait, what? Seriously?” Paige’s heart skipped a beat. That’s… actually kind of great. “Good for her. I mean… fuck Laila, honestly.”

“Oh god, you’re so pussy whipped!” KK exclaimed, laughing at her friend.

Paige opened her mouth to protest, but nothing came out. KK shot her a knowing look. “Yeah, exactly. You haven’t even talked or fucked any girls since that talk with Azzi. Hell, you can’t even look at anyone else unless you’re stalking Azzi’s Insta.”

Paige fell silent, her heart racing as KK’s words hung in the air. She knew it was true, and that realization settled uncomfortably in her stomach. I can’t be this way. But I can’t help.

“Let’s just go, okay?” Paige finally said, brushing off the tension as she grabbed her bag. “We’re gonna be late.”

KK laughed again, clearly enjoying the view of the angry blonde. “Alright, alright! Just don’t get all mopey on me tonight. We’re here to have fun!”

As they left the apartment, Paige’s mind raced with a mix of excitement and anxiety. With a final glance in the mirror, she reminded herself that she wasn’t that scared girl anymore. Tonight was about having fun, enjoying herself, and maybe, just maybe, reconnecting with someone she had lost.

As they made their way to the party, Paige felt a flicker of hope amidst the nerves. Whatever happens, I’ll handle it. I’m ready. But are you?

———-

Azzi stood in front of her mirror, giving herself a once-over. The red cropped V-line top clung to her like it was made just for her, and those matching shorts? They fit her ass perfectly. She slipped into her red ankle boots, feeling like a total badass. The devil horns in her curls added the perfect touch—she felt like a cute little menace.

“Fuck Laila,” she muttered, still remembering how that whole shitshow had unfolded. Catching Laila in bed with some girl from accounting had stung, but the aftermath? So much better. She thinks she can just lie her way out? Nope, not this time. Surprisingly, Azzi had bounced back quicker than she expected. Maybe it was because she realized she didn’t need the drama.

Since then, she had tried going out with a few girls. But each time, it felt like they were just a distraction. Whatever, I don’t need that right now. She shrugged off the thought. Tonight was about fun, not some half-assed date that wasn’t going anywhere.

“Are you ready yet, Az? You’re taking forever!” Caroline’s voice broke through her thoughts, pulling her back to reality.

“Yeah, yeah! Chill, I’m coming!” Azzi shouted back, giving herself one last look. The flutter of anxiety mixed with excitement in her stomach as she thought about the party. What if Paige was there?

Get it together, girl. She took a deep breath, shaking off the nerves. It’s been months. You’ve got this.

As she stepped out of her room, she could hear the laughter and chatter of her friends in the living room. They were buzzing with energy, and she couldn’t help but feel it too. Tonight was going to be wild, and she was ready to let loose. With one last glance in the mirror, she adjusted her devil horns, smirking at her reflection. If Paige showed up, cool. If not? Whatever. She was done worrying about things that were out of her control.

“Let’s go!” she called out, confidence surging through her. Tonight, she was going to enjoy herself, and nothing was going to hold her back.

———-

Paige’s Pov

As I step into the bar, the energy hits me like a wave. It’s packed, and I scan the room, heart pounding when I spot Azzi leaning against the bar, a playful smile dancing on her lips as she chats with some guys. She’s wearing a fitted red top that draws the eye. my eye. And I can’t help but feel a mix of nerves and excitement. After everything that happened, this feels like a test.

Taking a deep breath, I make my way over, trying to look casual. “Hey,” I say, the word barely escaping my lips. Azzi turns to me, eyebrows raised, surprise flickering in her eyes. “Hey,” she replies, her voice steady but cautious. “How are you?”

“Good,” I say too quickly, my heart racing. “You? I heard about… well, you know.” I try to keep my tone light, but it feels heavy. She shrugs, her expression hardening a little. “It’s whatever,” she says dismissively, taking a sip of her drink. “How’ve you been?”

I swallow, wishing I had something witty to say. “Oh, you know, the usual. Just… focusing on basketball.” I glance down, feeling a twinge of discomfort. We stand in awkward silence, both sipping our drinks. The tension hangs between us, thick and unyielding. It feels surreal to be in the same space after everything, and I can’t help but steal glances at her.

“Been hanging out with anyone special?” Azzi asks, tilting her head slightly. There’s a teasing lilt to her voice, but I can sense the underlying curiosity.

I shake my head, my heart sinking a little. “Not really. Just been busy. How about you?”

She smirks, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Sure, no one at all? You really expect me to believe that, Paige?”

I feel my cheeks heat up. “Yeah, I do. I haven’t talked to anyone since… you know.”

Her expression softens again, just a flicker, but it’s enough to catch me off guard. “Oh. Right.”

Another moment of silence stretches between us, and I can’t help but steal another glance. It’s strange, seeing her like this—confident but still vulnerable.

———-

Hours later

A little while later, I notice she’s already four shots down, laughing a bit too loudly. “Damn, Azzi, slow down!” I call out, amusement lacing my tone.

She just sticks her tongue out at me, a defiant grin on her face. “No way!”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “Whatever you say, little drunken devil.” I hop up on the bar next to her, facing her directly. “Want a sip?” I push my drink towards her.

Azzi takes the glass, swirling the straw a little while keeping intense eye contact with me. She takes a sip and lets out a soft moan at the taste. I can’t help but stare, captivated by the girl in front of me, a rush of memories flooding back.

“Stop staring,” she teases, but there’s a softness in her voice.

“I can’t help it,” I admit, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks.

Her smile widens as she leans in a little closer, her lips barely a breath away. “You’re really trying to play it cool, huh? Because it’s not working.”

“Yeah, well, you know me,” I reply, trying to sound nonchalant, but I can feel my heart pounding. “Always cool under pressure.”

Azzi leans back slightly, crossing her arms with a playful smirk. “Right. Like the time you tripped over your own feet in front of everyone during practice?”

I laugh, the memory fresh. “Okay, that was one time! But it was just a… tactical error!” “Sure, Paige. Tactical,” she says with a wink, and I feel the warmth in my cheeks deepen.

Suddenly, she hops off her chair and moves closer, her body mere inches from mine. Then, out of nowhere, she asks, “Do you miss me?”

The question takes me off guard, and I blink at her, trying to process. “Uh, yeah. Did you?”

Azzi bites her bottom lip, a small nod confirming what I’m hoping to hear. “A lot.”

That makes me smile, and without thinking, I tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, my fingers brushing against her soft skin. “I’ve missed you,” I say, my gaze drifting over her outfit. I lick my lips.

Azzi notices, her lips curling into a mischievous smile. “Is that better?” she asks, pulling the zipper of her top down slightly, revealing a hint more cleavage.

I smirk, nodding. “Definitely.”

Wrapping my hands around her waist, I pull her closer, staring deep into her brown eyes, my heart racing as I scan her face. The moment stretches between us, thick with unspoken words. I can feel the tension building, and before I can think too much about it, I whisper, “Can I kiss you?”

Without waiting for my full permission, Azzi closes the gap between us, her lips crashing onto mine. The kiss is electric, filled with urgency and desire. I can’t help but explore her back with my hands, finally letting them drop down to her ass. She sighs against my mouth, the sound sending shivers down my spine.

We break apart, breathless, both trying to catch our breaths.

Azzi looks up at me, her gaze softer now. “I’m tired. I wanna go home.”

“Okay,” I reply, still trying to process everything that just happened.

She looks up at me, her thumb grazing my cheek, then my lips. “Can you take me home, P?”

My breath hitches, and I nod, my heart racing. “Yeah, I can do that.”

———-

goodnight 😊

tags: @thaatdigitaldiary @patscorner @ohbueckers @sierrale8ne @mrsarnold @absolutelydreadful

[intimidatingpuffinstudios]

How would the RO's change if they were to lose their MC?

Warning: this answer is a heavy one, with mentions of tw: suicide. Proceed with caution.

Morkai: He'd turn somber and silent. Eerily so. The man of loud voice and even louder heart would be gone, buried under a shroud of his own grief. When the MC left, they took all the animation out of him with them. Mute and empty-eyed, he waits for the final bow.

Straasa: He'd become withdrawn and reclusive. Social contact sustains him, but the one he wants is gone. Anything else feels hollow, fake, a betrayal. So he hides himself behind a brittle smile and a veil of snow around his heart. He aches for the day he will finally be reunited with the only one who can make the snow melt.

Daelynn: She does not allow herself to feel it or comprehend it. She does not allow time to force her to face it..... What is knowledge, truth, if you don't have the time or capacity to parse their meaning? She ends the conversation before reality settles in. This is pretty dark, but...Daelynn would follow right after her MC.

Eledwen: She is tired. Tired of being strong, tired of always moving forward. Tired of being alone. So, she loses herself in the memories. Time to move back. She will wander among the places of the past, places from her and the MC's life together. An unending tribute to the love she lost, her feet forever staying in motion.

Manerkol: Nothing matters anymore. Not his purpose, not kingdoms, neither dragons nor mortals. At the end of a very dark tunnel, his MC brought in the light. They were the only thing that mattered. And they're gone. So Manerkol will now keep the promise he once made to them. Wherever you go, I will follow.

Sielthan: Sielthan knows how to bring the MC back. They know the cost for it. And they're willing to pay it. Whatever they have to become, whatever they have to turn the MC into--it doesn't matter. They'll take the smallest crumb over losing the MC altogether. You can be broken and twisted together.

Rai: They become arrested in time. Frozen forever in the place when realization settled in. When they realized their MC is gone. They would withdraw. Foreswear any meaningful contact with others. Lose themself in work until they are ground to dust. Not because they care, but because it's the only way to forget.

Mornie: Any pretense at humanity would be gone. Sheer, unadulterated fury would cover everything, red and sticky and murderous. She goes on a killing spree and does not stop shredding, does not allow for anything but death--for them, for her. It is the only future left for any of them. If she lives long enough to weep, she eventually crumbles and sobs until she meets her end.

Cy: They would lose all reason. All their grand plans--everything crumbles. Feral and near delirious, they'd try anything to bring the MC back. They'd sacrifice the world to do it. There is no price they are not willing to pay. And if all fails, they follow after their MC.

Zach: They would feel like they've lost the ground beneath their feet, survived a train collision, and become a ship left ruderless. All their unshakeable confidence and passion--extinguished. All their grand works, a heap at their feet. They turn grey and old and cold. And they learn to hate.

[avocadorablepirate]

Beneath the Surface - Prologue

Pairing: Trafalgar Law x fem!reader

Summary: When memories, buried deep within your sea of emotions, resurface, you’re left to question what lies beneath the surface. Did he truly mean to leave you behind, or was there something more to his silence than you ever understood?

Word Count: 1.4K

Warnings: angst, swearing, mentions of death, OP spoilers, this story follows the Dressrosa arc

masterlist | next

I’m back with another Trafalgar Law series! It’s been a while, whoops…definitely didn’t have any plans of putting an end to this blog 👀….anyway, this is going to be a pretty short series (decided to make it a series cause otherwise it would have just sat unfinished, in my drafts forever), but I hope with this I can get back into writing….alas we shall see how that goes.

I will try and update on a weekly basis (each chapter will probably have a similar word count), with the first part coming out next week, but I make no promises :P

It was a small dimly lit room, its walls adorned with peeling paint, and the floors strewn with mattresses. In one corner of the room came the quiet sniffling of a girl, and in another lay a boy, staring at the ceiling, desperate to get some sleep, but unable to due to the rather loud sound.

“Quiet down. Some of us are trying to sleep,” the boy whisper-yelled through gritted teeth after nearly half an hour of uninterrupted crying. He couldn’t fathom how the other two kids managed to sleep through it.

“Sorry,” came a quiet mumble through ragged breaths. But the whimpering didn’t quite stop. It alternated between soft sniffles and sharp intakes of breath, the persistent pattern grating on the boy’s nerves.

Exasperated, he heaved a sigh and walked over to the little girl. She had been with them for a week now, the newest addition to the crew, after they had found her wandering alone, dazed and hollow-eyed, on an island they had stopped at. She hadn’t said much since then.

But the crying? That had been relentless.

Her presence had unwittingly disrupted his nights, leaving him lying awake, night after night, listening to her tears. But tonight he decided it needed to stop, he couldn’t have this continue for the rest of his time.

“What’s your problem?” he asked bluntly.

Startled, the girl let out a gasp as she scrambled away from him. “Sorry.”

The boy rolled his eyes at her timid apology. “Why are you crying?” he asked, this time with a hint of impatience.

She looked at him with wide tear-filled eyes and mumbled something incoherent, only furthering the boy’s annoyance. “What?”

“I-I had a nightmare,” she managed to say, huddling further into her blanket as if protecting herself.

“About what?” he asked, sitting down next to her. He wasn’t good at this kind of thing - comforting others, but if it would stop her crying, he was willing to try.

“My parents and I,” she began hesitantly, her voice trembling, and he looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to elaborate. “We were being tortured…before they took my parents away. I managed to escape but...but I was so scared…and it hurt so much.”

The boy was silent for a moment, unsure of how to respond. He had known loss too, he had had nightmares of his own. But seeing the girl in front of him look so fragile, stirred something in him, compelling him to provide her with some comfort.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured at last, his voice unexpectedly gentle. “I know it hurts. But crying won’t bring them back.”

She sniffled and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “I know. But it’s hard. I miss them so much.”

“I get it,” he admitted quietly, his sudden empathy surprising not just him. “But you have to be strong. If you keep crying every night, you’ll never get better.”

She nodded, sniffling again. “I’ll try.”

After another long pause, the boy hesitated before offering tentatively, “Do you want to talk about it? Sometimes talking helps.”

She looked at him, eyes wide with surprise. “You…you want to listen?”

He shrugged, awkward but sincere. “If it helps you stop crying, then yeah.”

Taking a deep breath she began to speak - recounting her story to him. She told him about her parents, how they cared for her, and about the day they were taken away. The boy listened quietly, saying little, simply being present as she poured out her heart. Gradually, as she spoke, her crying began to subside.

When she finally finished, the room was quiet. She glanced at him, her eyes red and puffy but no longer filled with tears.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

He nodded. “Get some sleep,” he urged gently, standing up. “We’ve got a mission tomorrow, so it’ll be a long day.”

She lay down again, curling up with her head resting on her arm. The boy watched her for a moment, then turned to return to his own mattress.

Softly, she called out his name, and he paused in his steps. He hadn’t heard such a tender voice say his name in a while, it spread a warm feeling through him, one that he was reluctant to acknowledge but couldn’t ignore.

Slowly turning back to her, he spoke, “What?” His voice came out harsher than expected, and he noticed the curves of the girl’s lips briefly turn down into a frown.

“Why do you think you're going to die in three years?” she asked, her voice hesitant but filled with concern.

The boy froze once again, the weight of her question settling heavily on his shoulders. He walked back and sat down next to her. “I have a disease,” he said slowly. “A terminal one.”

Her eyes widened in shock as she sat up. “But...but there has to be something that can be done. A cure, a treatment...something.”

He shook his head. “They tried everything. There’s nothing that can be done.”

Tears welled up in her eyes, surprising him with the depth of their emotion. “I’m sorry,” the girl whispered, her voice thick with sorrow.

He shrugged, feigning indifference. “I’ve accepted it.”

She shook her head vehemently. “No. I won’t accept it. I’ll help you find a cure. We’ll find a way to save you.”

He looked at her, surprised by how determined she sounded despite not knowing him all that well. He hadn’t met anyone like her yet, someone willing to help him. That same warm feeling spread through him, and for a moment he let himself be hopeful. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” she said firmly, a small smile tugging at her lips. “We’ll do it together. I promise,” she said, almost sounding excited.

She held out her pinky for him to take and for the first time in a long time, the boy allowed himself to feel a flicker of hope. Though he convinced himself it was only to please her.

With a hesitant smile of his own, he locked his pinky with hers, the gesture although strangely comforting, making him cringe slightly.

“Alright,” he murmured softly, meeting her determined gaze. “We’ll find a cure.”

xxxx

The waves lapped against the hull of the Sunny as Law leaned against the railing, the salty breeze tousling his hair. In the distance, the silhouette of an island could be seen - their next destination.

The face of a man flashed in his mind, followed by hers - her smile, her determination, her promise. Law found himself lost in the memory from his past, a memory fresh in his mind as if it had just happened yesterday. But years had passed since then, and now any memory of his past was followed by a storm of anger, determination, and something else — something he couldn’t quite identify, but something that only came when he though of her.

Law clenched his fists, his mind racing through the chaotic events that had brought him here. But amid the anger and resolve, his thoughts kept drifting back to her - the girl he had spent nearly two years with, the girl he had left behind.

The mission to take down Doflamingo was more than just a personal vendetta; it was a lifeline. Not just for him, but for her too. She had been his constant, his only surviving reminder of what he was fighting for, and he needed to get her out of there.

The truth about Doflamingo's takeover of Dressrosa was a well-guarded secret, one that had been kept from her as well. For the longest time Law had wondered why she had never left, and his only explanation was that the truth had been hidden from her. He knew that if she discovered the full extent of Doflamingo’s treachery, she would leave him without hesitation. But for whatever reason Doflamingo wanted her by his side - and just the thought of it was maddening.

Suddenly, his musings were interrupted by the sound of footsteps behind him. Law turned to see Luffy approaching, his usual carefree grin plastered across his face.

“Tra! Dinner’s ready. You coming?” Luffy asked, oblivious to the turmoil in Law's mind.

Law gave a short nod in reply and as Luffy bounded back towards the galley, he took a deep breath, steeling himself for the battles ahead. He couldn’t afford to be distracted. Doflamingo needed to be stopped, and she needed to be saved. And he would do whatever it took to make that happen.

Turning his gaze back to the horizon once more, Law allowed himself one last moment of contemplation. "Just hold on a little longer," he whispered to the wind, hoping somehow, she could hear him.

—————

Let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist!

[flametrashiraarchive]

So, since @desi-the-blue-eyed-kakushi fed me real real good with her Muzan smut I wanted to write something in exchange, and as per usual I got carried away and the Giyuu "blurb" I promised became nearly 3k words of smut and feelings.

Stay With Me

Giyuu Tomioka x F!Reader. Childhood friends to lovers. A lot of handholding.

NSFW below the cut. MDNI

It began innocently. 

You and Giyuu were just kids, given barely enough time to catch your breath and begin processing your grief after final selection when you were sent on your first mission together. The fight was messy and hard. Other slayers died. You survived, and that was a burden you both would always carry.

By the end of the fight, the pair of you were so exhausted you could barely stand. Giyuu's sapphire eyes stared at the snow-covered ground as the demon's body crumbled to ash and was lost to the wind. Your comrade’s bodies remained along with the guilt. The weight of everything sat atop you both, crushing and relentless; the loss and responsibility far too great for hearts so young to bear. 

You were hurting but so was he. Giyuu’s heart has been hurting since the day he emerged from that accursed mountain and stood unblinking in the wisteria grove. Back then you hadn’t known how to comfort that scared, silent boy, but as he sat beside you on that first mission, you reached out and offered him simple solace. You held his hand.

“Giyuu,” you said, “stay with me. It’ll be okay.”

His hand was small and trembling back then, calluses barely formed and skin peeling where the hilt of his blade had rubbed away the top layers. The skinned peaks of his little knuckles broke your heart, even though your hands were just as small and battered.

His hand just hung loosely in yours as you curled your fingers around it. But he didn’t try to pull away. He simply let it be. 

You kept a hold of his hand all the way back home.

“Thank you,” he said solemnly as you finally parted ways at a fork in the road. Those were the first words he had ever spoken to you.

As he walked down the road toward his village, your hand flexed around empty air. You missed the warmth. 

The next mission you were sent on together ended in much the same way. And the next. And the next. 

It became a habit. He would come to your side when the fight drew to a close, his hand nudging yours, inviting you to take it. He never spoke much– which you didn't mind at all; his presence was comforting enough for you. Some said he was weird. Others that he was too haughty to speak. You quickly silenced those whispers. 

Giyuu was just quiet and sad, carrying so much on his shoulders. And though you barely knew a thing about him, he was your friend. So, after every mission you found yourselves on together, after every death, you held Giyuu’s hand.

But the years passed and he climbed the ranks faster than you did. The silent boy became a stoic man; his hand feeling larger, rougher, and heavier after every mission. Before long your fingers couldn't surround his fully, but you still tried. And despite the strength of his grip on the hilt of his blade, he remained passive in the gesture, his fingers never once curling to squeeze yours.

Then, Giyuu became a Hashira, tasked with eradicating demons far stronger than you could even attempt to fight. Your missions together grew fewer and farther between.

You missed him; missed the weight of his hand in yours, the constant comfort of his presence, the deep blue shade of his eyes. A hollow, almost painful feeling surged in your chest wherever you thought of him, but there wasn’t time to dwell. There were demons to kill, lives to save. You took the ache and pushed it down, burying it beneath your responsibility. 

And then the time came when you were charged with leading a squad of lower rank slayers on a mission. Your quiet friend was engaged elsewhere, and at that point you hadn't seen him for months. Perhaps you never would again.

You tried not to think about him.

The mission went badly. Your entire group was wiped out. All of them, even the kids you'd silently sworn to protect from harm. The grief and the guilt were crushing. If only you'd been a split-second faster, if only you'd stood an inch the the left, if only your instincts hadn't told you to duck.

You sent your crow to fetch help, and tortured yourself with what-ifs, sitting on the earth in that forsaken forest. Waiting… surrounded by shrouded little figures. Two days later a troop of kakushi arrived to clean up and recover the bodies as you stood numb, staring… lost.

You were so close to disassociating entirely that you almost missed the glimpse of Giyuu's haori in the corner of your eye. Even when you registered what you had seen, you doubted your senses. Why would he be there? There was no need for a hashira; the demons were all gone. But no… your grief-stricken mind hadn't lied. He was there. For you. 

He approached you silently, standing by your side, his knuckles brushing against the back of your hand. A moment later he curled his fingers around yours, firm, reassuring, but so gentle.

"I heard what happened and came as soon as I could,” he said. 

"I should have protected them." Your voice trembled.

"I know it hurts. You can't blame yourself." His hold on you tightened. "Not even for a moment."

"Giyuu–"

His lips parted for a moment at the sound of his name coming from your lips, but he quickly recovered his composure. "Come with me."

Down the mountain he led you, away from the horrors, his hand cradling yours the entire way. His grip never once faltered. Even when you reached a village tucked away among the foothills. He brought you to a house whose door was painted with a wisteria seal. 

He had the mistress of the house fetch a doctor to check over your injuries, which were miraculously minor, and told her that yes, you would require food and tea when you couldn't summon the words yourself. To your surprise, he knew exactly how you liked your tea brewed and what foods you liked, even though you had never talked about it. It seemed he had paid close attention to your preferences over the years. 

He stayed by your side, guiding you gently through that difficult day. When the time came for you to rest, your hands remained linked across the space between your futons.

The sounds of his soft, slumbering breaths lulled you to sleep. And for the first time you could remember, you slept well.

When morning came, you awoke to the warm, comforting security of his embrace, your face pressed to his shoulder, and his fingers still entwined with yours. Sometime during the night you had rolled across to his futon and burrowed into his arms. 

With a gentle murmur he began to wake and opened his eyes a little; a sliver of deep blue appeared half-concealed beneath his thick black eyelashes.

His breath audibly caught in his chest at the sight of you curled against him, but he didn't move. Neither did you. 

Giyuu's shallow breaths fanned across your brow as you gazed into his eyes, caught in the duality of wondering if you had unintentionally crossed a boundary and feeling as though you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

"Is this okay?" you whispered.

He nodded once, and his hand gently tightened around yours. "Please… stay with me."

Heart thrumming against your ribs, you raised your interlocked hands to your lips and pressed a slow, tender kiss to each of his scarred knuckles. “Always.”

A sharp exhale blew across your forehead. You heard him swallow before he mirrored the gesture, his lips brushing against your aching hands, as soft and tender as new leaves warmed by morning sun. And when he had kissed each knuckle, he pressed a long, slow kiss to the pulsepoint of your wrist, closing his eyes, pulling in a deep breath.

Outside the world carried on as normal; birds sang, people chattered, carts rolled down the streets, but in your shared sanctuary everything changed. You repaid the kiss to your wrist with a kiss to his shoulder. He gave you an achingly soft kiss to your temple. You pressed your lips to his cheek, and he exchanged it for a kiss to the very corner of your lips which curved into a smile to mirror his own.

You were both breathless, pink-cheeked and dizzy with trepidation as the space between you closed and he touched the very tip of your nose with his. The warmth of his breath against your lips stirred up butterflies in your stomach. The hazy, almost drunk look in his eyes made your chest tighten. 

Bringing up his palm to cup your cheek, he stroked his thumb along its curve. He closed his eyes and kissed your lips; softer and lighter than mist at first, then deeper, and deeper. You might have missed the quiet moan which escaped him if not for the vibration against your fingertips which pressed lightly to the hollow of his throat.

Kisses cascaded between you, each deeper than the last. Giyuu moaned again as you slid your tongue over his bottom lip, opening his mouth to permit your entry. With every new sensation he grew bolder, pressing his body against yours, sliding his hand down to your thigh to hitch it over his hip, rolling you onto your back with his weight and pressing you down, once more interlocking his fingers with yours.

The soft smile Giyuu had given you as you exchanged kisses faded, replaced by a silent intensity as he rocked his hips against you, shivering at the sensation. Both of you were clad in thin pajamas, and the shape of his body, as well as the heavy swell of his erection were unmistakable. He groaned as he felt the intoxicating heat of your pussy through your nightclothes, both of you desperately craving closeness in any form. 

“Please…” he whispered, the only word his mind could summon as he pressed his forehead to your shoulder, fighting with the compulsion to keep rubbing his cock against you.

Heat tingled on your cheeks as you nodded in consent. “Yes.”

You were no less desperate, wetness soaking through the fabric of your pajamas as he grinded against you again. 

You were both functioning on instinct as you pulled off your shirts, and Giyuu’s lips closed around your nipple, lapping at it with his tongue. He lifted his hips and the pair of you pulled down his pajama pants, freeing his erection. It wasn’t the first you’d seen, but it was by far the prettiest– gently curved toward his belly, crowned with a sweetly blushing tip and adorned with serpentine veins. It was also the largest you’d seen. By a long way. 

He must’ve noticed the widening of your eyes, or the trepidation written across your face at the sight of it, because he released your nipple and glanced down with a worried expression which made your heart ache.

“You’re big,” you explained, wrapping your hand around it and giving him an exploratory stroke. 

A choked cry burst from Giyuu’s lips as his cock twitched against your palm and a white rope of cum shot from the tip, spraying over your stomach. He hurried to clean it up with his pajama shirt and collapsed into you, burying his face against your neck, red with shame and arousal. “Sorry, I’m so sorry. Oh, Gods, I didn’t mean t–I’ve never felt anyone touch–”

“Giyuu…” You placed your hand on the back of his head and stroked his hair, gently and shushing him. “Stay with me, it’s okay.”

His breaths blew hot and heavy against your collarbone, each one accompanied by a ragged whimper until the sensation of your fingers threading through his hair calmed him. “I don’t think I’m done,” he said, lifting himself up and glancing down at his cock. He was still erect, a pearl of cum dripping from the tip. “I…don’t want to stop… please…”

“Are you sure?”

“Very sure. Please don’t stop.”

You smiled and spread the cum over the blushing head with your thumb, arousal flushing your chest as his face darkened and his eyes fluttered shut. As much as you craved his touch, watching Giyuu fall apart was the most beautiful and delicious thing you had ever witnessed, and a part of you wanted that again and again. 

But Giyuu’s fingers gave yours a reassuring squeeze and then let go. He drew back away from your hands to kneel between your thighs. Inch by inch, he removed your pajama bottoms, kissing every bit of skin he exposed; your lower belly, your hips, your thighs, down to your knees. He removed the garment completely and glanced at your rosy face before his gaze fell reverently to your pussy. 

His lips were maddeningly soft as he kissed your cunt slowly, his tongue delving into your entrance as his groan curled your toes. His eyes flicked up to you, gaging your reaction before he traced the shape of your pussy lips, with his tongue. After each experimental caress his eyes returned to your face, so desperate to please, to give you everything he could. 

He lapped his tongue against your clit and your hips bucked toward him. “Fuck, Giyuu– that... Gods, yes–!”

Oh, there was nothing of the shy, quiet boy in his eyes then. Seeing your reaction, knowing he was pleasuring you well, tilted his lips into a smirk before they returned to their newfound purpose of driving you to absolute ecstasy. The blush on his cheeks spread as he licked at your clit, breaking away to breathe and circle it with the tip of his nose before continuing his kisses. His hot, wet mouth against your slick skin applying such divine pressure you couldn’t help but place your hand on the back of his head and sink your fingers into his thick, black hair, silently encouraging him to go on.

His name tumbled from your lips as you fell apart, grinding against his mouth. He savored every drop of your essence. Everything was new and fascinating to him; the way your thighs tensed and trembled, the powerful throb of your muscles as you rode the waves of your orgasm. He adored it. He wanted to give you more. More pleasure, more kisses, more love. He needed it. 

 As you came back down to earth, Giyuu kissed your pussy with such affection and tenderness your heart ached. He desired you, deeply and truly.

“I want–” he began, losing his voice to his shaking breath. “I want to be closer to you… can I…?”

You sat up, still trembling, anchoring your hands on his shoulders as you kissed him. The taste of you remained on his lips, mingled with the comforting scent of him. You wanted it too. You needed to be closer, to feel him inside you. 

Pulling him back down, you stroked a hand up the back of his neck as the other pressed his cock between your folds, coating the tip of it in your slick before pushing it into you.

Despite the fact he had already cum, he was entirely unprepared for sensation of fucking you. His back arched, pressing his pelvis firmly against yours, bottoming out in you suddenly and eliciting a cry from both of you as his feet slipped against the futon for purchase.

“F—fuuuck,” he gasped, lowering his head and gritting his teeth as his arms trembled beneath him. It was all too much. 

His body pressed to yours entirely, craving intimacy and closeness. He didn’t thrust–he couldn’t– he simply ground his hips against yours, the base of his cock rubbing against your clit as he gasped and the crease in his brow grew deeper. He was hanging on by a thread, overwhelmed and desperate to hold on, to make it last, to–

“Giyuu,” you whispered, placing your hand on his, “stay with me.”

He nodded, intertwining his fingers with yours and pulling in a breath. “Always… always.”

You held each other’s hand; that simple, innocent gesture of love and comfort, now more meaningful than ever. For years you had shared grief and guilt, loss and loneliness and the sweet comfort and solace you found in each other. And now you shared this. 

Giyuu Tomioka, that quiet boy whose hand once trembled in yours, now held firm and just as securely as you did him.

[hookhausenschips]

can I request some of the drivers dating a girl who isn’t afraid to clap back and go just as low as the fans? I love a messy girl like us😂

Clock It

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Warnings: Clapbacks, fans being disrespectful, curse words

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

Drivers: Lando, Carlos, Oscar, Charles, Max, and Franco

Lando Norris – Paddock Tension

The sun gleams off the circuit at Silverstone, reflecting the high-stakes energy that fills the paddock. The roar of the crowd, the sound of engines revving, and the shimmering excitement of race day are in full swing. Lando Norris, a rising star in Formula 1, walks confidently through the paddock. His girlfriend, Y/N, strolls beside him, equally unfazed by the buzzing attention they attract. Dressed in a striking McLaren orange jumpsuit that hugs her frame perfectly, Y/N commands just as much attention as Lando, if not more. Her calm demeanor contrasts the excitement around them as they head toward the McLaren garage.

It’s not the first time the couple has walked hand-in-hand through the chaos of race day. They’ve grown accustomed to the stares, the whispers, and the buzzing cameras. Y/N had learned to navigate the complexities of being in the public eye, especially alongside a high-profile figure like Lando. Today, however, feels different—the attention is sharper, more intense. Lando senses it too, and as they pass a row of fans, the energy shifts.

“Lando! Lando, over here!” A woman’s voice rises above the usual cacophony of the crowd. At first, it’s a simple call for an autograph, but then it turns ugly. “Ditch the gold digger! You deserve someone who cares about you, not your money!”

The words slice through the air, sharp and cruel, turning the heads of those nearby. Y/N stops dead in her tracks, her confident smile evaporating as she scans the crowd. Lando feels her hand tense in his, his own expression darkening as he tries to pull her away, but it’s too late. Y/N isn’t the type to back down.

With an air of unshakable calm, Y/N strides toward the group, her energy radiating fierce confidence. She stands tall, her head high, and her eyes narrowed on the woman who dared to shout the insult. Y/N’s movements are measured, her anger controlled, but it’s clear to anyone watching that she is not going to let this slide.

“Excuse me?” Y/N’s voice cuts through the noise with a biting edge, each word deliberate. “What was that?”

The woman falters under Y/N’s piercing gaze. Her bravado seems to waver now that she’s face-to-face with her target. She looks to her friends for support, but they stay silent, wide-eyed and nervous.

“You heard me,” the woman stammers, attempting to reclaim her footing. “He could do better than you.” The words, though repeated, now sound hollow.

Y/N takes off her sunglasses slowly, her expression unyielding as she steps closer. “Better?” she echoes, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Sweetheart, better would be me not wasting my time here educating you. But since I’m feeling generous today, let’s clear a few things up. You see, I’ve got my own. I’m not here for his money—maybe you should Google me sometime, yeah?”

The woman’s confidence crumbles under Y/N’s steady, unflinching gaze. She shifts awkwardly on her feet, muttering something unintelligible. Lando, still holding Y/N’s hand, leans down slightly, his voice gentle as he whispers, “Come on, babe. Let’s go.”

But Y/N isn’t done yet. She holds the woman’s gaze for a beat longer, ensuring her message is crystal clear before slipping her sunglasses back on. “Next time, say it with your chest,” she tosses over her shoulder as she turns away, her stride purposeful and unfazed.

As they walk away, Lando struggles to suppress a grin, his admiration for Y/N shining through. “You didn’t have to do all that,” he teases lightly, though the pride in his voice is unmistakable.

“Oh, I absolutely did,” Y/N responds, her tone unyielding. “People think they can talk trash without facing any consequences. Not today.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder with a smirk, her confidence unwavering.

Lando laughs softly, shaking his head in admiration. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

Y/N winks at him playfully. “Smart man,” she replies, the tension already evaporating as they step into the McLaren garage.

Inside, the hum of mechanics working on cars and the murmur of the team greet them. The air is thick with concentration, but Lando and Y/N slip seamlessly into the controlled chaos. The earlier confrontation feels like a distant memory now, drowned out by the electric energy of race day. But as Lando prepares for his upcoming session, he can’t help but glance at Y/N, his respect for her fierceness only growing.

Y/N knows that being in a relationship with someone like Lando comes with its challenges. The scrutiny, the whispers, the constant questioning of her motives—it’s a regular part of her life now. But she’s never been one to shrink in the face of adversity. Instead, she meets it head-on, confident in her worth and her place by Lando’s side. The people who criticize from the sidelines, hiding behind their assumptions and their envy, don’t know her. And frankly, she doesn’t care what they think.

As Lando climbs into his race suit and prepares to join his team, Y/N settles into a chair nearby, scrolling through her phone as if nothing had happened. She’s already moved on, her mind focused on supporting Lando through his race. If the incident from earlier affected her, she doesn’t show it. That’s the thing about Y/N—she doesn’t let the negativity stick. It’s just noise, easily silenced.

When Lando finally steps out onto the track, Y/N watches with a quiet sense of pride. She knows the pressure he’s under, the expectations from the team, the fans, and the sport itself. But she also knows that he’s more than capable of rising to the occasion, just as she is capable of standing strong beside him. Together, they form a team, one that’s unshakable in the face of external doubt.

The race continues, and as the sun begins to set over the Monaco circuit, Y/N’s earlier confrontation seems insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Her confidence, her unwavering belief in herself and in her relationship with Lando, remains unchallenged. And as they leave the paddock hand-in-hand once more, the noise of the crowd fades behind them, leaving only the quiet assurance that they are stronger together than anyone could ever understand.

In this world of fast cars, fast fame, and fast judgments, Y/N knows exactly who she is. And more importantly, she knows exactly where she stands—with Lando, confidently, unshaken, and unapologetically herself.

Carlos Sainz – Vacation in the Maldives

The Maldives is a paradise, a perfect blend of turquoise waters, white sandy beaches, and luxurious resorts that seem to float on the edge of the world. For Carlos Sainz and Y/N, it is the perfect escape from the relentless pace of the Formula 1 circuit. After months of intense competition, the constant travel, and the high-octane energy of the paddock, they have finally carved out time for themselves, away from the noise and pressure of the sport.

Y/N is lounging on a deck chair, her tropical-print dress fluttering softly in the warm breeze. She tilts her head back, the sun warming her skin, and sips from a colorful cocktail as the gentle sound of the ocean waves laps at the shore just a few meters away. Beside her, Carlos is reading a travel magazine, his sunglasses perched on his nose, looking every bit the relaxed vacationer. The two of them are a picture of tranquility, far removed from the intense world they usually inhabit.

“This is heaven,” Y/N sighs contentedly, setting her drink down on the small table beside her. “I could stay here forever.”

Carlos smiles, glancing over the top of his magazine at her. “You say that now, but give it a week, and you’ll be itching to get back to the excitement.”

Y/N laughs softly, nodding. “Okay, maybe not forever. But I’m definitely not ready to leave yet.”

As the conversation lulls, Y/N picks up her phone, scrolling through the latest social media updates. It’s habit, something she does without thinking—checking in on the outside world, even while trying to escape it. She swipes through a few photos of their trip, the beautiful views, the serene beaches, and then lands on a picture she posted earlier in the day—a candid shot of her and Carlos laughing, his arm draped casually around her shoulders as they explored the island. The photo had racked up thousands of likes and comments, most of them positive, celebrating the couple’s obvious happiness.

But one comment, in particular, catches Y/N’s eye.

“She’s so loud and extra. Carlos deserves someone more refined, not some wannabe trying to get attention.”

Y/N’s good mood dissipates in an instant, her relaxed posture stiffening as she reads the words again. The audacity of it, the arrogance in assuming they know what Carlos deserves, sets her blood boiling. She clenches her jaw, sitting up straighter in her chair.

“Oh, hell no,” she mutters, her fingers already moving to respond.

Carlos looks up, sensing the shift in her mood. “What’s wrong?” he asks, concern flickering in his eyes.

Without a word, Y/N hands him the phone, the offending comment glaring up at him from the screen. Carlos reads it, his brows furrowing slightly, but then he shakes his head with a soft chuckle.

“It’s not worth it, amor,” he says, handing the phone back to her. “They’re just jealous. We don’t need to give them attention.”

But Y/N isn’t having it. “Oh, no. This one deserves a personal response,” she insists, already typing furiously.

Carlos watches with a bemused expression as Y/N taps out her reply: “‘Loud and extra’ keeps him happy, especially earlier this morning in our bed, so maybe focus on making yourself interesting before you come for me. Ciao.”

She hits send with a satisfied smirk, leaning back in her chair as she watches the comment thread blow up with reactions. Carlos lets out a low laugh, shaking his head as he watches her.

“You’re ruthless,” he remarks, amusement clear in his voice. “They don’t stand a chance.”

Y/N grins, taking a long sip from her cocktail. “Damn right they don’t,” she replies confidently. “I’m not the one to come for if you don’t want the smoke.”

Carlos reaches out, taking her hand and pulling her closer to him. “That’s one of the reasons I love you,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to the top of her hand. “You never back down.”

Y/N smiles at him, her earlier frustration melting away in the warmth of his affection. “And you better remember that when someone tries to come for you,” she warns playfully. “I’ve always got your back.”

Carlos chuckles, his thumb gently brushing over her knuckles. “I know you do,” he replies sincerely. “And I’ve always got yours.”

They fall into a comfortable silence, the sound of the waves and the rustling palm trees providing the perfect backdrop for their quiet moment of connection. It’s in these moments, away from the pressures of the public eye and the constant scrutiny of the media, that Y/N and Carlos can truly be themselves. There’s no need for pretenses, no need to play the roles that the world expects of them. Here, they are simply Carlos and Y/N—two people deeply in love, enjoying the rare luxury of time alone together.

But even in paradise, the shadows of their public lives can creep in, as Y/N was reminded today. It’s not the first time she’s had to deal with online trolls, and it certainly won’t be the last. Being with Carlos, a high-profile athlete constantly in the spotlight, comes with its fair share of challenges. People always have opinions—about her, about them, about what their relationship should look like. But Y/N has never been one to let those opinions affect her. She knows her worth, and she knows that Carlos loves her for exactly who she is.

The rest of the day passes in a blissful haze of sunshine, laughter, and the occasional playful banter. They stroll along the beach, hand-in-hand, the soft sand warm beneath their feet. They swim in the crystal-clear waters, teasing each other and splashing like children. And as the sun begins to set, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange, they sit on the edge of the infinity pool, watching the horizon together.

Later, as they return to their villa, the night air cool and soothing, Y/N checks her phone again. The comment she responded to earlier has blown up, with hundreds of replies supporting her clapback and laughing at the original troll. She smiles to herself, feeling a sense of satisfaction. It’s not about winning internet arguments—it’s about standing up for herself and for her relationship. And in this world of constant judgment and scrutiny, that’s something Y/N will never shy away from.

As they climb into bed, Carlos pulls her close, his arm draped around her waist as they settle into the comforting quiet of the night. Y/N rests her head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“You were right earlier,” Carlos murmurs, his voice low and soft in the darkness.

“About what?” Y/N asks, her eyes already drifting shut.

“That you’re loud and extra,” he teases gently. “And that’s exactly how I like it.”

Y/N laughs softly, too content to argue. “Good,” she replies sleepily. “Because I’m not changing anytime soon.”

Carlos kisses the top of her head, his lips lingering against her hair. “I wouldn’t want you to.”

And with that, they drift off to sleep, the world outside their little paradise fading away, if only for a while.

Oscar Piastri – Monaco Grand Prix Weekend

The streets of Monte Carlo are alive with the thrilling atmosphere of the Monaco Grand Prix weekend. Fans from all over the world flood the narrow streets, hoping to catch a glimpse of their favorite drivers as the city buzzes with excitement. This is the pinnacle of glamour and adrenaline—fast cars racing through historic streets, the Mediterranean Sea gleaming in the background, and celebrities rubbing shoulders with the elite of motorsport.

Oscar Piastri and Y/N walk through the heart of it all, navigating the winding streets of Monaco like seasoned veterans. Oscar, the young F1 sensation, wears the casual confidence of someone who’s already made a name for himself in the sport, despite his relative newness to the Formula 1 scene. By his side, Y/N exudes confidence and grace, dressed in a sleek, black jumpsuit that hugs her frame and commands attention. Her presence complements Oscar’s calm demeanor, making them a striking pair as they stroll through the city.

The couple is stopped every few steps by fans eager for autographs and photos, and Oscar obliges with his trademark humility and charm. Y/N stands by his side, smiling at the supporters and making small talk with those brave enough to engage her. For the most part, the day feels perfect—Monaco’s luxurious aura surrounds them, and the thrill of the upcoming race is palpable in the air.

But in every crowd, there are always a few who can’t help but whisper. Y/N is used to it by now—the hushed judgments, the sneers, the people who think they know more about her than they actually do. Today, though, it seems louder, sharper. A group of women nearby, decked out in expensive sunglasses and trendy outfits, aren’t as discreet as they think they are. Their words carry over the noise of the crowd, clear enough for Y/N to catch every single one.

“Look at her, acting like she belongs here,” one of the women says, her voice dripping with disdain. “She’s only with him for the status. You can tell she’s not a part of this world.”

The comments hit Y/N like a slap in the face. Her blood boils instantly, and she can feel the anger bubbling beneath her calm exterior. The temptation to ignore them flickers for a brief second, but Y/N quickly realizes that’s not an option today. She’s not the kind of person to let things slide, especially when someone questions her place next to Oscar. After all, she knows exactly who she is and why she’s there—and it certainly has nothing to do with fame or fortune.

Oscar, engrossed in signing autographs, doesn’t notice the shift in Y/N’s demeanor at first. She gently pulls her arm away from his for a moment, her movements deliberate as she turns to face the group of women. Her back straightens, and she walks toward them with an air of confidence that silences their giggles.

“Do you have something to say to me?” Y/N’s voice is sharp and direct, her words cutting through the murmur of the crowd like a knife. The women freeze, their laughter dying instantly as they realize Y/N has heard every word. “Or do you always talk behind people’s backs like that?”

Caught off guard, the women glance at each other, suddenly unsure of themselves. They hadn’t expected Y/N to confront them so boldly.

“Uh… no, we were just saying…” one of them starts, but Y/N cuts her off with an icy look.

“There’s no need to whisper,” Y/N says firmly, her gaze unyielding. “If you’ve got something to say, be bold enough to say it to me directly.” She pauses for effect, her voice lowering with a dangerous edge. “Because trust me, I belong wherever I choose to be.”

Her words hang in the air, and for a moment, it feels as if time stands still. The women are visibly uncomfortable now, fidgeting with their bags and sunglasses, clearly out of their depth. They mumble incoherent apologies before awkwardly shuffling off, leaving Y/N standing tall, her head held high.

Satisfied, Y/N turns back to rejoin Oscar just as he finishes signing the last autograph. He glances at her, a curious look on his face. “What was that about?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

Y/N shrugs, slipping her arm through his with a casual smile. “Just some clueless women talking nonsense,” she replies, her voice light but firm. “They learned today.”

Oscar chuckles softly, clearly impressed by her resolve. “You didn’t have to say anything, you know.”

“Oh, but I did,” Y/N replies, her tone leaving no room for doubt. “People think they can say whatever they want without consequences. Not with me around.”

Oscar laughs, shaking his head in admiration. “Well, remind me never to introduce you to Twitter. They wouldn’t survive.”

Y/N flashes him a playful grin, her earlier frustration melting away. “I’d break the internet.”

They continue their walk through the streets of Monaco, arm-in-arm, their connection stronger than ever. Y/N’s heart swells with pride, not just for standing up for herself, but for the unwavering support she feels from Oscar. He never questions her worth, never doubts her intentions—and that’s all that matters.

The whispers, the judgments, the petty comments—they are just noise in the background of their relationship. Y/N knows that as long as she and Oscar are solid, nothing else matters. And as they make their way through the glamorous chaos of the Monaco Grand Prix weekend, Y/N feels more confident than ever in her place by his side.

Charles Leclerc – Traveling in Italy

The warm, golden hues of the Italian countryside create a picturesque backdrop as Charles Leclerc and Y/N sit at a small, rustic restaurant tucked away from the tourist-heavy streets. The charming, intimate atmosphere is perfect for a romantic evening, and the scent of fresh pasta and wine fills the air. Earlier in the day, they had explored vineyards, tasting some of the finest wines the region had to offer, and now they’re relaxing, enjoying the peace that comes with being away from the F1 spotlight.

Y/N scrolls through the photos on her phone, smiling at the memories they’ve made today—Charles grinning with a glass of wine in hand, the two of them laughing together under the Tuscan sun, the beautiful vineyards stretching out for miles. It’s been the perfect day, and Y/N feels content, her heart full as she glances over at Charles, who is busy browsing the menu with a thoughtful expression.

But as she continues scrolling, a new notification pops up, and her playful mood instantly sours. A comment on her latest Instagram post catches her attention: “She’s way too flashy for Charles. He deserves someone more understated, not someone who’s just after attention.”

Y/N feels her stomach drop, the familiar sting of online criticism hitting her hard. It’s not the first time she’s been on the receiving end of such comments, but that doesn’t make it any easier to brush off. She clenches her jaw, her grip tightening on the phone as she reads the words again, the implication clear: she’s not good enough for Charles.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Y/N mutters under her breath, her earlier happiness replaced by a growing anger. She turns her phone around, showing Charles the comment.

Charles looks up from the menu, his brow furrowing as he reads the words on the screen. He sighs softly, shaking his head in disbelief. “Ignore them, chérie,” he says gently, reaching for her hand across the table. “People like that don’t know us.”

Y/N exhales slowly, but she’s not the type to let something like this slide. “Oh, I’m not ignoring this,” she says, her voice firm as she starts typing out a response.

Charles watches her, his expression a mixture of amusement and admiration as she types furiously on her phone. Within moments, she’s crafted her reply: “Fitting into your world? Honey, I am the world, and Charles knows that. Stay mad.”

Satisfied, Y/N hits send, leaning back in her chair with a smug smile. “There,” she says, her tone triumphant. “That should shut them up.”

Charles chuckles softly, his fingers gently brushing over hers. “You really don’t let anything slide, do you?”

“Nope,” Y/N replies confidently. “People think they can say whatever they want because they’re hiding behind a screen. They need to learn that I’m not the one to mess with.”

Charles’s lips curl into a fond smile as he squeezes her hand affectionately. “And that’s one of the things I love about you,” he says softly, his voice full of sincerity. “You never hold back.”

Y/N grins, feeling her mood lighten under his warm gaze. “Damn right,” she replies, her confidence fully restored. “Besides, someone’s got to remind them who they’re dealing with.”

Charles nods, clearly proud of her. “They’ll learn soon enough,” he says, his tone filled with quiet amusement.

As they return to their meal, the soft murmur of other diners around them, Y/N feels the tension in her shoulders slowly fade away. The comment, as hurtful as it had been, is now just a distant memory. It’s moments like these—sitting across from Charles, holding his hand, sharing a quiet evening in one of the most beautiful places in the world—that remind her of what really matters.

Charles has never doubted her, and she’s never doubted him. Their relationship is built on trust, respect, and love—something no online troll or judgmental comment can ever shake. And as long as they have that, Y/N knows she’ll always have the upper hand when it comes to dealing with the haters.

Later that night, as they stroll through the cobblestone streets hand-in-hand, the warm Italian breeze caressing their skin, Y/N leans into Charles, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her hand.

“You know,” Y/N begins with a smirk, glancing up at him. “If you ever want me to clap back at anyone for you, I’m always available.”

Charles laughs, the sound rich and genuine as he pulls her closer. “I don’t doubt that for a second, chérie,” he replies, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “But I think you’ve got it covered enough for both of us.”

Y/N laughs along with him, the earlier frustrations of the day long gone as they continue walking together through the beautiful Italian night, content in the knowledge that they have each other’s backs—no matter what the world throws at them.

Max Verstappen – Private Yacht in Monaco

The luxury yacht bobs gently on the crystal-clear waters of the Mediterranean as the sun dips toward the horizon, casting a golden glow over everything. The sound of waves lapping against the boat and the distant hum of Monaco’s nightlife creates a tranquil backdrop for Max Verstappen and Y/N as they relax on the deck, soaking in the beauty of the evening.

Y/N, reclining on a lounge chair in a chic swimsuit and oversized sunglasses, looks every bit the picture of calm and confidence as she scrolls through her phone. Max, sitting beside her with a cold drink in hand, glances over at her occasionally, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It’s rare for them to have moments like this—quiet, private, away from the chaos of the F1 world—and they’re both savoring it.

But their peaceful evening is interrupted when Y/N’s phone pings with a new notification. She sighs softly, her serene expression darkening as she reads the message.

“You’ll never be good enough for Max. He’s a world champion, and you’re just here for the ride.”

Y/N’s lips curl into a mocking smile as she reads the comment again. The nerve of some people, she thinks, her annoyance growing with each passing second. It’s one thing to criticize her, but to insinuate that she doesn’t deserve to be with Max? That’s a line she’s not willing to let slide.

She turns her phone toward Max, showing him the message. “Look at this,” she says, her voice laced with sarcasm.

Max scans the screen, his expression unbothered as he rolls his eyes. “People always think they know everything,” he says with a dismissive shake of his head. “It’s not worth your time.”

“Oh, but this one chose the right day to try me,” Y/N replies, sitting up and quickly typing out a response.

Max watches her, his eyes glinting with amusement as Y/N types: “Good enough? Honey, Max isn’t the prize here—I am. You don’t even have the nerve to put a profile pic up, so maybe worry about your own lane.”

She hits send with a satisfied grin, leaning back in her chair as she watches the comment thread explode with reactions. Max chuckles, clearly entertained by her fiery response.

“You really don’t hold back, do you?” he says, his tone affectionate.

Y/N shrugs, slipping her sunglasses back on as she relaxes against the cushions. “Why would I? People think they can say whatever they want just because you’re in the spotlight. They need to be reminded that I won’t let them walk all over me.”

Max leans over, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “That’s why I love you,” he murmurs against her skin. “You’ve always got that fire.”

“Damn right,” Y/N replies, her confidence unwavering. “Besides, I don’t need anyone to tell me what’s good enough for you. We already know the truth.”

Max smiles, pulling her closer as they both settle back into the warmth of the setting sun. He knows that Y/N is more than capable of handling herself—whether it’s dealing with online trolls or navigating the pressures of being in a high-profile relationship. She’s strong, confident, and unapologetically herself, and that’s exactly why he loves her.

As the yacht gently rocks on the waves and the lights of Monaco begin to twinkle in the distance, Max and Y/N enjoy the peace of the evening, content in the knowledge that nothing—and no one—can shake their bond.

Franco Colapinto – Backstage at a Press Event

The backstage area of the press event is bustling with energy as drivers, media personnel, and team members prepare for the upcoming Formula 1 season. The air is thick with excitement, the hum of cameras and the chatter of journalists filling the space. Franco Colapinto stands front and center, answering questions with the ease of a seasoned professional, his charming smile never wavering despite the rapid-fire interviews.

Y/N stands off to the side, watching him with a sense of pride and admiration looking stunning as always. She’s seen Franco grow into his role as a driver, handling the pressure with grace and poise, and it’s moments like this that remind her of why she fell in love with him in the first place. Some fans nearby snap pictures, but a few nasty comments about Y/N quickly make their way online.

But as she scrolls through her phone, her attention is quickly drawn to a notification that sours her mood.

“She’s too aggressive, too much attitude. Franco deserves someone sweeter, not someone who’s always so loud and in your face.”

Y/N’s eyes narrow as she reads the comment, her fingers already flying across her keyboard as she types a response.

“Aggressive? Seriously?” she mutters under her breath. “Aggressive? You mean confident, right? And let’s not pretend you know what Franco deserves, because I guarantee you don’t.”

She hits send with a sharp exhale, the satisfaction of clapping back quickly replacing her earlier annoyance. Just as she finishes, Franco wraps up his interview and walks over to her, his smile widening as he approaches.

“What’s going on?” he asks, noticing the intensity in her expression.

“Just clapping back at some clueless fans,” Y/N replies, her tone casual but firm. “Nothing new.”

Franco raises an eyebrow, his smile softening as he takes her hand. “You’re always ready for a fight, aren’t you?”

Y/N laughs, leaning into him as he pulls her closer. “If they come for me, they better be ready. It’s just who I am.”

Franco presses a kiss to her forehead, his admiration for her clear in the way he looks at her. “And that’s exactly why I love you.”

Y/N smiles up at him, her earlier frustration already forgotten. With Franco by her side, she knows she can handle anything the world throws at her—whether it’s the pressure of being in the public eye or the opinions of people who think they know her.

Together, they’re unstoppable.

F1 Taglist: @tallrock35, @yourbane, @hiireadstuff, @really-fucking-tired, @evie-119, @donteventry-itdude, @spookystitchery, @dhanihamidi, @decafmickey, @cmleitora, @d3kstar, @mellowluka, @ysnhua, @omgsuperstarg, @qxeenjen

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[aloysiavirgata]

Prompt! Vulnerable post-case Scully. She can be prickly (because I love your Scully) but also delicate. Case-related vulnerability is my most favourite vibe in the series and every so often I get sad that there are no more moments to watch. Thank you 💜

By the time she gets around to taking it off, her blood-soaked starched blouse has all but melded with her skin. They have to peel it from her body with a crackling sound. Her jacket is already stiffly tented in the corner.

He will burn those items later, he will burn and burn and burn.

***

Acrid scent of gunpowder in the air still. Blood like pennies baking on hot tarmac. Cortisol, adrenaline.

Terror.

Her grasping fingers, her grasping hands, her wracking sobs even as he pried her away to check for wounds.

***

Mulder helps her to his bathroom, holding her elbow as she staggers beside him like a fawn. Her hair is dried in ragged, bloody clumps.

He settles her onto the toilet lid, gets the bath running at her preferred level of scald. He squirts in a few blobs of his pine-scented body wash, which begin to foam. Scully smiles a heartbreaking smile in thanks.

“Bubbles,” he says, inanely.

Scully’s chest is caked with blood, even with her shirt removed to reveal the stained satin of her bra. Her belly is streaked with it, her black trousers rusty and stiff.

How is there any blood still inside her? How is she still here?

She has her arms crossed at her lap, her head bowed. He cannot see anything but her white shoulders and her draggled hair and her dark, narrow thighs.

“Scully,” he whispers.

She gazes up, hollow-eyed. “He didn’t…” she begins. “We never….”

She looks away, lower lip between her teeth.

“Oh, Scully.”

His hands are gentle at the clasp of her bra; he turns his eyes from her breasts even though he’s seen them.

He unbuttons the fine wool trousers at her waist, slides them down with her dark panties. He doesn’t look or touch or breathe more than he has to because the idea of connecting any of this to lust makes him sick.

Her hips, the dark triangle of sunset hair between her thighs, are also sticky with blood. The lace clings a little and she winces. Her trouser lining tugs. Finally, she is nude. She is so small and so bloody and so bare, like a newborn creature.

Mulder guides her towards the tub, averts his eyes like she is Artemis bathing. Tries not to think the name Diana.

Scully, breast-deep in bubbles. Scully dripping rusty rivulets in the steam. Her tears are silent now, streaking paths down her blood-smattered kidskin face.

Mulder fills a scuffed blue plastic Knicks cup with water, curves his palm around her eyes. “Look up,” he murmurs, and she does, distant, outside of herself.

He sluices water over her head until it runs clear, until she is sleek as an otter, a siren, a goddess. She gasps a little, spreads her fingers against her skull.

Her freckles are magnified by the falling water, her eyes a little too big. A little too round. Her nose is straight and queenly throughout however; her lips parted like a budding tulip.

He massages pearly-blue Head and Shoulders shampoo into the rare, persimmon beauty of her hair. He massages her scalp until she purrs a little. He touches her until his nerves are settled.

“Mulder,” she says, and grasps his forearm in her fine, pale hand. Her face is pre-Raphaelite. Her face is like a D below middle-C; a plucked bowstring, still quivering.

Agent Mulder is already in love.

“Padgett was crazy, he was -“ she begins.

“Sshhhh,” he says. “I have conditioner.” He holds the bottle out, a drugstore brand promising THICKNESS!!! and SHINE!!!

She laughs and it warms him like a hot toddy, like the sun in August, like the sand at Ninigret Pond.

***

Scully is clean, finally, even her smudged makeup rubbed away. They’ve drained and refilled the tub with fresh water, with fresh bubbles. She seems like herself again, not so dazed.

He passes her his robe, turns his head to hold it out when she stands.

“You’re so Victorian.”

“Oh, you know how much I love to lie back and think of England.” He glances over. “The memories are so nice, Phoebe and all.”

Scully ties the too-long belt in a big square knot. “It was kindly meant.” Her smile is soft.

“I know.”

They shift awkwardly for a moment in the small space. Scully looks like a kid dressed up as an angel for a Nativity play in that enormous robe, her bare face and bare feet and tumbled halo of hair.

“Thank you,” Scully begins finally. “I couldn’t have-“

“I’m sorry,” he says at the same time.

Scully frowns. “Why on earth are you sor-“

“My neighbor. So I feel like I..I don’t know. I led him to you.” He picks at a non-existent hangnail.

Scully sighs. “Oh, Mulder.”

He shakes his head. “No, I don’t… I didn’t mean to make it about me, I know these are your choices, that you’re not some damsel in distress. I just hate when these things hurt you.”

Things is such an inadequate word, but no word ever could be adequate.

Scully blinks. She opens the door, wafts into his bedroom with the steam. Trails his bathrobe like a court gown.

Mulder follows after, wary. Watches her sprawl on his bed, far from the blood stains in the living room. He’s already called the crime-scene cleanup company.

Again.

She pats the bed next to her. “I promise I won’t take advantage of you.”

He laughs a little at that, remembers her looking a lot like this years ago in Bellefleur, in that awful motel with that terrible brown Clairol wash on her hair. He flops next to her. “Any mosquito bites you want me to check, Doctor Scully?”

She thumbs his cheek. “I was a child.”

He kisses her nose so that he doesn’t kiss her mouth. Though why shouldn’t he? Why shouldn’t they?

“I was a child and she was a child in this kingdom by the sea…” he quotes. Trails off. What are they doing, this isn’t a partnership. This is strange and awful and gorgeous. Her dying baby in his arms, her ova, her-

“In her sepulchre there by the sea…” Scully murmurs. “In her tomb by the sounding sea.” She closes her eyes.

They breathe one another’s air. They breathe artificial pine scent, dryer sheets, warm nitrogen. Faded cotton, old paper.

“Are you okay?” he asks, so he doesn’t slip a finger between her thighs. So he doesn’t say I love you the way oysters love the morning tide.

Her finger at his lips, her breath on his lashes. Her sweet, warm skin and her extraordinary brain and the scarred palimpsest of her body right here.

“No,” she says, stroking his jaw. “But I will be.”

****

She stays with him all night and he stays with her all night and they are arranged like the Lovers of Valdaro.

His coffee pot is programmed. His carpet is soaked in her blood, her gun is going to be the subject of an investigation.

He and Walter will protect her.

***

She loses the robe at 2AM, mumbling something vague about being tangled and too hot. Her naked body is now asleep against his chest and he lets go, finally, in the sweet vulnerability of her slim arms that can heal and kill.