#what if au where it's the other way around

[spikedfearn]

Bloodbound

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: In Godthrone, Mississippi, salvation comes at a cost: one girl, every ten years. Bound beneath a blood moon to Remmick, you become more than offering. You become his. He tastes your terror like honey, drinks your arousal like wine, and marks you in ways no god could forgive. Through soul-binding magic and whispered vows carved into skin, you learn that some monsters don’t take—they tether. And once you're his, there's no such thing as free will.

Only desire. Only devotion. Only him.

wc: 15.3k

a/n: I don’t even know where to begin—I’m still trying to process the fact that Brittany Broski posted Mercy Made Flesh to her insta story like it was just another Saturday and not the coolest thing that's ever fucking happened to me 😭 I’ve been writing these aus with my whole heart, but I never expected the absolute avalanche of love and support these past couple of weeks. The comments, the reblogs, the screaming in the tags. It’s meant more than I can say, you have all helped me find the joy in writing again, I promise I’m just getting started <333 and an extra big thank you to Liz @fuckoffbard for swooping in and not only beta reading but posting the fic from my account with her laptop bc Tumblr mobile kept crashing on me every time I tried to edit it. Not all heroes wear capes

warnings: possessive vampire, blood kink, bite kink, soulbonding, dubcon elements, obsession, marking, monsterfucking, ritual sacrifice, forced proximity, loss of agency, manipulation, primal sex, size kink, somnophilia (implied), power imbalance, breeding kink (suggestive), Southern Gothic horror, emotional coercion, sacred corruption, body worship, predator/prey dynamics, fear kink, aftercare, blood drinking, religious overtones, stockholm syndrome elements

tags: @sweetheart2210, @seashelleseashellsbytheseashore, @cosmicneptune (comment if you wanna be added to the tag list)

likes, comments, and reblogs always appreciated, please enjoy!!

They told you not to cry.

The priestess with the burnt fingertips and clinking bone necklace—she gripped your chin between cracked fingers this morning and said it soft, but firm: “He won’t choose the ones who cry. He likes a little fight.”

You didn’t ask who he was. Everyone knows. They say his name like the air around it might curdle. Remmick. No surname. No title. Just Remmick, the vampire king of the blighted woods, the monster who made your town a deal eighty years ago and never broke it.

Not once.

The sun rose slowly this morning, heavy with heat that made the back of your dress stick to your spine before you even got out the door. The August air tastes like rot and copper. You dressed in the church’s parlor room, with the other girls. Seventeen of you. All local. All barely women, but old enough for sacrifice. The law calls it The Binding, but everyone calls it what it is: Bloodbriding.

Your dress is cotton muslin, faded sky-blue with a high collar and puffed sleeves. You think it used to be a baptismal gown. It’s been worn before, passed from girl to girl, all of them marked and married off to the dead. It smells like dried lavender and fear. The buttons up your back had to be done by the priestess. You couldn’t stop trembling.

The town of Godthrone, Mississippi was dying even before the Great Depression turned fields to dust and fathers into ghosts. But they say things changed in 1853, when Remmick came up from the swamps with hunger in his eyes and a deal in his mouth. He would protect the town from sickness, starvation, and war. No one from Godthrone would suffer famine, plague, or enemy. In return, every ten years, a bride would be chosen.

One bride. One binding. One soul fed to the dark.

They tried sending soldiers once, back in 1891. Sixteen went into the woods. None came back whole. Some came back dead. Some came back wrong. One woman started speaking tongues until her mouth filled with spiders. After that, they stopped questioning the pact. Instead, they polished it, sanctified it. Made it a ceremony. A celebration.

Tonight, the Choosing will be held in the town square. You will be walked up barefoot, hair unbound, throat bare. They say the mark will bloom on the girl he wants. A burning, black sigil over the heart. Like a brand. Like a marriage license signed in blood.

Your fingers clutch the hem of your dress. Your name is somewhere on the roster. Somewhere between Eleanor Avery and Ruth Jameson, though it's hard to keep track when the names aren't arranged in alphabetical order.

You haven’t eaten since yesterday. You haven’t even had your first kiss and you’re ridiculously terrified. Because you’ve dreamt of serrated teeth in the dark for weeks now. Because your skin itches like something under it wants out. Because when you close your eyes, you swear you can feel someone watching. Someone already choosing.

And the sun is starting to go down.

They say only the pure get chosen. But that’s a lie. You’ve seen who’s been taken before.

Rebecca Sue, who slit her baby sister’s throat in a fever dream. Agnes Miller, who used to take men’s teeth as trophies.

None of them were pure. They were just...unlucky. Or pretty. Or strange enough that no one would miss them.

You’ve always known you were one of those girls. Born during a blood moon, baptized late because no one could find your daddy until spring thaw—when they fished him out of the river with his eyes missing and his hands gnawed to bone. Your mama didn’t cry. Just braided your hair tighter that morning and told you to never kiss a man with a gold chain or blue eyes. Said they never bring nothin’ but grief.

She died a year later. Something in her blood turned sour. The town doctor wouldn’t touch her. Said it was Remmick’s curse, passed down from when she laid with a man not her husband. Said that’s what happens when women sin.

You were seven when she died. You remember the flies buzzing in her throat. You remember how quiet the house got after. They moved you into the orphan house at the edge of the bog. You learned quickly not to cry at night. Crying brought the wrong kind of attention. So you got good at being quiet. Good at disappearing. Good at keeping secrets under your tongue until they turned bitter and black.

You never learned to curtsy right. You never kept your head bowed during sermons. But you were beautiful, and that was enough. Curious eyes, soft demeanor, a voice like river water. You didn’t want to be, but beauty in Godthrone is a death sentence wrapped in silk.

And now here you are.

Twenty-one and cursed with symmetry.

Chosen to stand under the sickle moon tonight, wearing a dead girl’s dress and nothing else beneath it. Your whole life leading to this—one slow march toward a monster’s mouth.

The town pretends this is holy. They hang garlands on the chapel door and sing hymns in minor chords. The mayor’s wife gave you perfume, lemon balm and sugar, and told you to “make the town proud.” Her eyes didn’t meet yours.

You think about running. You always think about running. But there’s nowhere to go. Not with that feeling in your chest. That strange pull. That sense of something waiting. Something with teeth.

And a name you never dared say out loud until last night. Whispered into your pillow like a prayer. Like a confession.

Remmick.

Your skin burns when you think about it now.

There are stories, of course. Every girl who grows up in Godthrone hears them. They start as whispers during thunderstorms—told under quilts with a candle burning low, shared like secrets between girls too young to know better and too scared not to listen.

“He walks on graves and doesn’t leave footprints.” “He drinks from animals and people, unless he’s claimed you.” “If he marks you, you’ll never want anyone else. Even if you try.”

But the worst ones are the quietest. The ones passed from dying lips to trembling ears. The ones that don’t sound like warnings—they sound like wishes.

“He touched me once. I haven’t known peace since.”

There was one girl—Celia Mott—who came back. Just once. Just long enough to be seen. The Binding year of 1911. She walked into the town square three years later, barefoot and smiling with red-stained teeth. Hair grown long and wild, white dress yellowed with age, eyes gone black. She didn’t speak. Not even once. Just walked right into the chapel and curled up on the altar like a dog. They found her there the next morning, hands folded on her chest, body cold as the river.

No one talks about Celia. But everyone remembers her. You remember her.

You were only thirteen, peeking through a knothole in the chapel wall. You watched as they wrapped her in burlap and buried her deep. You remember thinking she looked peaceful. You remember being jealous. That was the first time you ever said his name, whispered into the dirt above her grave. Not out of fear. Not even hate. Curiosity.

Because what kind of man makes a girl lie down and die smiling?

You used to wonder what he looked like. The other girls said he was monstrous, with claws for hands and eyes that burned like oil lamps in the dark. But that never sat right with you. You don’t think a creature that ancient would need to be grotesque to be feared. You think he’d be beautiful—awfully, unnaturally beautiful. The kind of beautiful that keeps you up at night, sick with craving.

And that’s the part that terrifies you most. Because somewhere in the dark part of you—the part that still dreams of blood-slick mouths and hands around your throat—you want it.

You want to know if he’ll kiss you first or just bite. You want to know what it feels like when the bond takes. You want to know if the mark will hurt as much as it’s supposed to. You want to know if you’ll scream.

You press your palm flat to your chest. Nothing yet. No mark. No burn. No claim. But you swear—you swear—you can feel something there. Like a match waiting to strike. Like teeth ghosting your skin. Like someone’s already touching you from the other side of the veil.

The sun is sinking lower. The bell will ring soon.

And then—the chapel doors open like a serpent unhinging its maw.

Wood creaks. Heat rushes in. And for a second, you don’t move. Then the priestess nods. Just once. That’s your cue.

You step forward on bare feet, feeling every splinter in the boards, every grain of dirt that clings to your soles as you pass the threshold and step into the sweltering dusk. The sky bleeds orange and purple, clouds dragging low like bruises. Somewhere, a cicada screams. And just like that—it begins.

The town square is only five blocks away, but the walk feels like miles. You don’t look at the people lined along the street—don’t dare. You can feel their eyes anyway. Heavy as wet cloth, pricking your skin like pins. Old women in rust-stained aprons. Young boys clutching their mothers' skirts. Men who won’t meet your gaze but still lean in for a better look.

It feels like being paraded through the gallows. Or the garden before slaughter.

The other girls walk ahead and behind you, a procession of blue and white and shaking, anxious limbs. No one speaks. Even the priestess has fallen silent. The only sound is the crunch of gravel underfoot, and the dry shush of cotton brushing thighs.

Your heart beats so loud it’s all you hear. It doesn’t sound like fear anymore. It sounds like an invocation.

The town square unfolds in front of the old courthouse, the brick stained dark from a fire no one talks about anymore. There’s a raised wooden platform at the center—built just for this, just for tonight. The gallows rope is still looped overhead, a relic from older rituals, back when Binding meant hanging the chosen until they gasped awake with his name on their lips.

Now it’s cleaner. More sacred.

They say he prefers it that way.

Gas lanterns flicker along the perimeter, casting warped shadows over the crowd. Wreaths of night jasmine hang from the eaves, their scent thick and cloying in the heat. Everything smells like smoke and sugar and sweat. It makes your stomach roll.

The girls are led to the platform and lined up—seventeen of you, barefoot on the warm planks, hands clasped at your waists like dolls posed for judgment. The crowd stares. Some murmur prayers. Some cry. And some just watch.

You keep your chin up. Not out of pride. But because you know he’s watching too. Somewhere. Behind the crowd. Behind the dusk. Behind the veil of what’s seen and what isn’t.

You can feel it. That tickle at the base of your spine. That breath against your collar. That heartbeat that doesn’t match your own.

The mayor steps forward. Fat and red-faced in a linen suit too tight for the heat. He clears his throat. The priestess lights the ceremonial flame in a basin of copper and bone. She whispers in a language that isn’t English, isn’t Latin, but makes your skin crawl all the same. The fire flares blue.

The bell tolls from the chapel behind you. One. Your pulse stutters. Every eye is on you. Two. You glance down. No mark. Just the flutter of your own chest, just the sickly thrill under your ribs. Three. You feel the wind change. Just slightly. Like something just arrived. Four. The bell keeps tolling, steady as a countdown. Or a death knell.

You don’t flinch, but your knees feel loose. Like they’re no longer yours. Like the wood beneath your feet is suddenly shifting grain, trying to swallow you whole.

The priestess raises both arms. Her voice, when it comes, isn’t loud, but it carries. Thin and sharp and dry as snakeskin. “By covenant sealed and blood remembered, we offer our daughters.”

The crowd murmurs the response: "May He spare the many, and take only the one."

Five. You keep your eyes straight ahead. The girl next to you, Ruth Jameson, is breathing so fast she sounds like a kettle about to boil. She’s a preacher’s daughter. Always wore gloves, even in the summer. Once slapped you for speaking during Sunday reading. You almost hope it’s her.

Let it be her. Or Eleanor Avery. Or Violet Price with the thick braid and expensive teeth. They’re prettier. Cleaner. More practiced in obedience. You’ve heard the whispers that the vampire favors grace, not sharp girls who talk too little and think too much.

Six.

You exhale slow through your nose. Try to imagine the town square without people in it. Try to remember how it looked in winter, dusted with sleet and full of silence. Try to picture yourself anywhere else. You can’t.

The priestess begins the litany. A string of old names, spoken in a dialect that feels like ash in your ears. “Ishari. Vael. Thorne. Kelrem. Narthyx…”

The words twist like vines around your ankles, tight and burning. They say the names are the True Ones. The old ones. The first vampires. Remmick’s forebears, or his victims, no one’s really sure. You doubt there’s a difference.

Seven.

The wind shifts again. This time, everyone feels it. A ripple goes through the crowd—silent, almost reverent. A little boy starts to cry and is shushed immediately. You don’t dare move. You feel it too. It’s like being brushed by something that isn’t there. A pressure. A pull. Like your body isn’t entirely your own anymore.

Still, no mark.

You wonder if you’ll even know when it comes. If it will be sudden. Sharp. Like lightning. Or if it’ll be slow. Like seduction. Like being kissed where no one else can see.

Eight.

The priestess’s eyes are closed now. The other girls tremble. Someone is crying. You’re not sure who. You dare a glance to your left. Eleanor’s lips are moving, silent prayer or quiet bargaining. She looks ready to faint. Her hands are shaking. You look to your right. Ruth’s eyes are squeezed shut, lashes wet. No one is looking at you.

Good. Let it be one of them. Let it not be you. Please.

Nine.

The priestess holds up a small obsidian dagger. Cuts the palm of her hand and lets the blood drip into the blue flame. It hisses, high-pitched and eager.

You smell it instantly.

Not like iron. Like something older. Like the scent of a crypt cracked open.

Ten.

The bell stops. The crowd holds its breath. The fire roars. The flame in the basin spits.

Blue arcs to white. The heat radiates across the platform, and the priestess steps back, blood dripping down her wrist like ink on a parchment soaked too long. Still no mark on your skin. Still no voice in your ear. Still no rush of fire behind your ribs.

You let your shoulders lower a fraction, just enough to feel the strain begin to ease. Just enough to believe—maybe—it’s not you.

Maybe you were only ever meant to stand here, to be one of the extras. The backdrop to someone else’s fate. One of the girls who’ll go home tonight, pale and trembling and untouched.

You could live with that. You could learn to breathe again.

You could get married someday to someone simple and safe. A man with kind eyes and a little farmland. You could forget this ever happened, could press it flat like a pressed flower between the pages of your life. You’re almost ready to believe it.

Until the silence begins to stretch. And stretch. And stretch. Too long. Too unnatural.

The crowd is still holding its breath. But now, they’re waiting. Expectant. The air isn’t quiet—it’s thick. Charged. Like a storm that hasn’t broken yet, a scream that hasn’t been released. You swear the ground hums.

Your skin itches.

Not with sweat. Not with fear. But with awareness.

The priestess’s head cocks slightly to the left. She doesn’t move otherwise. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t speak.

And then the lamps flicker. All at once.

Not a breeze. Not a draft. It’s something deeper. Something below.

A mother in the front row lets out a sob. Her child starts crying again. No one hushes him this time.

The flame gutters low.

You see your breath fog in front of you.

It’s August. The air should feel like soup. But all at once, it’s cold.

A cold that doesn’t touch your skin—it touches your soul. And that’s when you feel it.

Not a mark. Not yet. But the presence. The knowing. It’s here. And it’s looking at you.

You don’t see him at first. You feel him.

Like being plunged into deep water. That gut-punch plunge, that pressure in your ears, that moment of suspended breath where your body forgets how to float. The world narrows. The noise dulls. Every hair on your body rises like it’s been called to attention.

The flame sputters. The priestess lowers her head, and the entire crowd follows. All at once, the square is bowing. No one told you that would happen. The girls beside you drop their gazes. You remain upright.

Too stunned. Too still.

And then you hear it.

Bootsteps.

Slow. Measured.

Bootsteps on gravel, a sound far too ordinary for something this monstrous.

And still, you don’t look. You can’t.

Because your chest is burning.

It starts beneath your collarbone. A single point of heat, sharp as a blade, blossoming outward like ink in water. You gasp, clutch at your heart—but nothing’s there.

No wound. Just pain. Just…change. You look down and see it bloom.

A mark.

Black and bright and moving, like a tattoo drawn by something alive. Swirling patterns, sharp edges and curling lines that twist and wind down your chest. You hear someone cry out—a choked sound, like a girl breaking open—but you don’t realize it’s you until the priestess grips your arm to keep you from falling.

She’s smiling. “The chosen,” she whispers.

And that’s when he speaks.

Not loud. Not rushed.

But his voice cuts through the air like a blade through silk.

“Lift yer head.”

You don’t mean to obey. But your chin rises.

And there he is. At the base of the platform. Not monstrous. Not grotesque.

But broad and pale, dressed in black that doesn’t shine, hair slicked back like wet ink, and eyes the color of dried blood and dying embers. There’s no mistaking him. No imagining he might be a man. He is not a man.

He is the end of prayers. The promise of ruin. The reason the dark exists. Remmick. And he’s looking only at you.

Possession, raw and ravenous, carved into every angle of his face.

“C’mere, little bride,” he says, softly.

And when you step forward—shaking, burning, claimed—it’s not because they all told you to. It’s because you want to.

You step down from the platform one trembling foot at a time.

The crowd doesn’t make a sound. No cheers. No wails. Not even a rustle of skirts or a cough from the old men lining the back.

Just silence.

The kind that feels held—like a breath everyone’s too afraid to release.

Your bare feet meet the packed earth. It’s warm from the heat of the day but it may as well be ice. You can’t feel anything but the burn of the mark, pulsing like a second heart beneath your skin. Every beat of it syncs with something that doesn’t belong to you. Something older.

Remmick waits at the bottom step.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. He just watches you walk to him—like he knew you’d come, like the ceremony was nothing more than a formality. A ritual to dress up inevitability.

You stop just before him. Close enough to feel the wrongness that coils around him like smoke. It doesn’t repel you. It draws you. Makes your blood thrum, makes your mouth dry, makes your thighs clench in a way that shames you instantly. You pray he can’t tell.

Then he lifts a hand. And brushes his thumb lightly across the mark.

Your knees nearly give.

The touch is not cruel. It’s not even forceful. But it ignites something deep, something coiled and ancient inside you. The mark responds—flaring hotter, the lines shifting under his skin like they recognize him.

And then his eyes meet yours. That red glint beneath the dark, sharp and knowing.

“Felt ya long before this,” he murmurs. His voice isn’t deep. It’s smooth. Clear. Cold. “Y’cried my name in yer sleep last week.”

Your breath catches. You didn’t even remember dreaming. But he speaks it like truth. Like he was there.

“Almost took ya then,” he says, dragging his gaze down your body, slow and deliberate. “But this here's cleaner.”

He leans in. And you flinch.

He pauses—just a hair—and then his mouth is at your ear.

“Like when they tremble,” he whispers, voice full of something dark and warm and terrifyingly pleased. “But I like it more when they beg.”

Your breath hitches so violently it hurts. And then his nose drags along the line of your throat. He inhales. A shiver tears through you, sharp and helpless.

“Smell like mine.”

He says it like a promise. Like a curse. Like a man who doesn’t need to raise his voice to ruin you.

The mark burns.

And your body answers with something shameful and wet.

His hand slips to the back of your neck, cool fingers cradling the base of your skull. “I can feel ya now, little bride,” he says, voice softer. Hungrier. “Every shiver. Every ache. Every time yer thighs press together ‘cause yer thinkin’ of me.”

You want to say no. You want to say stop.

But your lips part— —and all that comes out is a broken, traitorous moan.

The crowd still doesn’t move. The priestess watches with her hands folded. And Remmick, smiling now, presses his lips to your jaw—not a kiss, not yet—and whispers:

“We begin tonight.”

They don't clap. No one dares.

The moment he speaks, the crowd begins to part like a body splitting open. Quietly. Obediently. As if on cue.

Remmick doesn't take your hand. He doesn’t have to. You follow him. You don't look back.

The crowd watches in total silence, as though afraid that one misstep, one murmur, might draw his attention. You feel their eyes on you—burning, curious, afraid. But none of them move to stop you. No one calls your name. No one tries to say goodbye.

And somehow that hurts worse than if they had.

The mark on your chest is still searing, like hot iron beneath your skin. But it’s not just pain anymore—it’s pull. With every step you take behind him, it feels stronger. Hungrier. You feel him through it now. A weight in your gut. A throb between your legs. An ache in the part of you that shouldn’t want this, but does.

You wonder if he feels it too. You don’t have to wait long to find out.

Halfway down the path, Remmick pauses, turns his head just slightly—not enough to see his whole face, just the ghost of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. “Stop squeezin’ yer thighs together like that,” he says without looking at you. “Ain’t polite.”

Your cheeks go hot. You hadn’t even noticed you were doing it. Instinct. Reflex. Shame flickers to life—but it doesn’t stay long. Not when he glances back, finally, and meets your eyes with something wicked and low in his voice.

“Though I do like it.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just keep walking.

Remmick’s estate lies on the edge of the woods, past the last row of homes where the gas lamps thin and the road turns to dirt. The air shifts the moment you cross the boundary—cooler, thicker. It feels like stepping into another world. A forgotten place. The trees here lean too close. The moss drips like old lace. You see stones sunk into the earth along the path, names long worn away. Grave markers, maybe. Or warnings.

The carriage is waiting for you.

Sleek, black, quiet. Not pulled by horses—those would never make it through these woods. Instead, it waits unnaturally still, shadows wrapping around its wheels, as if it simply appeared when called. Remmick holds the door open for you.

You pause.

Not because you’re afraid. But because everything in you wants to go in.

You hate how much you want it.

Inside, the cabin is too dark. Too cold. The seat cushions are velvet, the color of dried wine. There are no windows. Only candle sconces that haven’t been lit. You sit, carefully. Your thighs still sticky from earlier. You press your knees together and fold your hands in your lap like a good little bride.

Remmick follows. Closes the door behind him with a click.

You’re alone. Utterly, entirely alone.

And you feel the silence tighten around you like a glove.

Then he speaks. Low. Deliberate. “Take off the dress.”

You don’t move. You don’t breathe.

The words take off the dress still hang in the air—heavy, impossible to grasp, clinging to your skin in ways you can’t shake.

Your fingers twitch in your lap.

The candle sconces haven’t been lit, but you can see him anyway. The dark doesn’t seem to touch him, not really. His eyes are brighter in it. Redder. Watching you the way a wolf watches a trembling rabbit—not out of pity. Not out of malice, either. But with the certainty of hunger.

He leans back, legs spread, one arm resting along the velvet seat. Casual. Patient. Like he’s giving you a choice when you both know there isn’t one. “I won’t ask twice, sweetheart.”

The term of endearment doesn’t sound kind. It sounds dangerous.

Your breath comes shallow. You reach for the first button.

The collar is stiff, the thread old. You fumble. Your fingers feel clumsy, not from fear—but from how aware you are of his gaze. It traces every movement. Tracks the tremble in your hands. Watches your chest rise with every breath.

You get the first button undone. Then the second. The third.

The dress loosens across your shoulders. The mark, still searing hot and alive, seems to pulse brighter in the air between you. It aches when you drag the fabric down your arms, exposing more of it. The gown drops to your waist, then your hips. You shift to slide it lower.

Remmick still hasn’t moved.

But the air has. It feels denser now. Like you’ve stepped inside his lungs and forgotten how to breathe on your own.

When the dress slips past your thighs and pools at your feet, you’re left in nothing.

No underthings. No slip.

Just bare skin and that still-burning sigil over your heart.

Your hands twitch up to cover yourself—reflex, instinct, shame—but his voice stops you before they reach your chest.

“Don’t.” One word. Quiet. But it scalds.

You obey. Your arms drop.

He finally leans forward.

His palm drags over his jaw as he takes you in, slow and deliberate. You expect him to leer. To lick his lips or reach for you like you’re already his. But instead, he just looks.

Like he’s seeing something holy.

And then, softly—more to himself than to you—he says, “Fuckin’ beautiful.”

You bite your lip.

Something twists in your belly. Something hot and low and helpless.

He leans in, elbows resting on his knees, and murmurs: “Y’don’t even know what yer feelin’, do ya?”

You try to speak, but your throat’s too dry.

He tilts his head, watching the way your thighs inch together again. “That’s the bond, love. That ache? That throb in yer cunt? That heat sittin’ behind yer ribs like a sin waitin’ to be confessed?”

His voice drops even lower.

“That’s me.”

You shudder. The mark pulses.

And Remmick, grinning now—slow, sharp, possessive—reaches out, thumb brushing just under the curve of your breast, not quite touching the mark but close enough that it sparks again behind your ribs. “Y’feel me yet?” he asks.

You nod. Barely.

He laughs, soft and cruel and pleased. “Good. Then let’s make it permanent.”

Your breath stutters.

His thumb still lingers just below your breast, not quite touching the mark, but the heat from his skin radiates into yours like an ember pressed to parchment. You feel it coil low in your belly, tight and trembling.

And he sees it.

Of course he does.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, voice like smoke curling around your neck. “Already buzzin’ for me. And I haven’t even laid a proper hand on ya yet.”

He lets his fingers trail lightly down your sternum. Not rushed. Not greedy. It’s almost reverent—if reverence could be soaked in hunger. His fingertips drag over your ribs, then down to the soft dip between them, tracing lazy circles that never quite reach where you want.

The bond throbs between you like a living thing.

It doesn’t just burn. It pulls.

Each touch sends something electric singing across your nerves, as though your body’s not fully yours anymore—shared now, tied to something dark and breathing. Every sensation is heightened. The velvet seat beneath you feels too soft. The air feels too tight. And his touch?

His touch feels like command.

He leans closer. You feel his breath on your throat before you see his mouth. “Tell me where it hurts,” he whispers, and his tongue brushes the shell of your ear.

Your hips shift without permission. “Lower,” you manage, barely above a whisper.

Remmick hums. A dark, pleased sound. “Aye. Thought so.” He brings his hand to your thigh, palm broad and cool, fingers spreading to grip you firm. Not harsh. Not rough. But with purpose. Like he’s claiming the space. Like he already owns it. He pushes your legs apart slowly, and the bond sings when you don’t resist.

When you offer.

His gaze dips down.

And he groans—quiet, guttural. “Sweet fuckin’ Christ.”

You’re soaked.

Your body, treacherous and needy, has already given itself over. The mark glows faintly in the dark now, pulse-for-pulse with your heartbeat, lighting the curve of your breast and the sweat beading along your collar.

“You know what this is, don’t ya?” he says, dragging a finger up your inner thigh, stopping just shy of your center. “The bond’s settin’ in. Claimin’ ya. Makes every nerve scream for me. You’d let me do anything right now, wouldn’t ya?”

You want to say no. You really do. But your body says yes in a dozen ways. The way your breath shakes. The way your thighs tremble. The way your hips rock forward, desperate for any friction, even the ghost of it.

You meet his eyes. “Please,” you whisper. It slips out before you can stop it.

Remmick’s grin turns sharp. Triumphant. “Say it again.”

Your cheeks burn. But your body doesn’t hesitate. “Please.”

He moves then.

Not fast. Not rough. But with absolute, devastating intent.

He sinks to his knees in front of you. Not in worship. Not in submission. But in devouring anticipation.

His hands slide up your thighs, spreading them wider, and he presses a kiss just above your knee. Then another, higher. And another. Each one closer to the place that aches. The place he’s not touching.

Yet.

“You don’t even know what I’m about to do to ya,” he murmurs, mouth against your skin. “But yer body’s already beggin’.” He nips just above your hip, tongue soothing the sting. And finally, finally, his hand reaches the mark again—palm flat over your heart.

You jolt.

It feels like fire licking up your spine. Like something ancient waking up. Like something that says: Mine.

“Y’ready, little bride?” he asks, voice rough with hunger, reverent with power.

Because this is more than lust.

This is binding. This is belonging. And you’re about to be his—in every sense.

Your heart is a drum. A hammer. A hymn.

And Remmick holds it in his palm like he’s already broken it open and tasted what’s inside.

He watches you. Eyes dark, pupils wide, mouth parted—not in awe, not in shock, but in possession. Like a man handed his favorite weapon after years of war. Like he knows exactly how to use you. “Keep yer eyes on me,” he says softly.

You do. Because you can’t look away.

His thumb strokes over your mark, slow and possessive. The moment he presses down—just the lightest pressure—you gasp, full-body and shaking. It doesn’t hurt. It’s worse than that.

It undoes you.

Your back arches off the seat. A whimper slips past your lips, high and humiliating, and the fire under your skin blooms wider, deeper, lower.

“Good,” Remmick breathes, as if your body’s reaction is all the permission he needs. “Let it take ya.” He leans in again, lips brushing over the curve of your breast, just below the glowing sigil etched into your flesh. His mouth is soft. Cool. But where it touches, heat follows. Magic, maybe. Or something far filthier.

You shiver.

He trails his tongue in a slow, careful circle around the mark. Not kissing. Not biting. Just tasting.

You make a sound—something raw and helpless—and Remmick laughs, low in his throat. “Feel that?”

You nod, dazed.

He hums like he’s proud of you. Like he owns every breath you take now. “Bond’s startin’ to root,” he says against your skin. “It’s in the blood. In the muscle. Every heartbeat yer body makes now? It’s for me.”

His hand moves lower.

Fingers dragging down your belly, past your hip, settling between your thighs where you’re soaked and trembling and already spreading for him without thought. “You feel like sin,” he murmurs. “Gonna taste like salvation.” And then he finally, finally presses his mouth to the center of you.

You jerk. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

His tongue is slow at first, lazy, almost cruel in how lightly he licks. As if he’s savoring the fact that you’re shaking under him already. You try to move—try to rock against him—but his hands grip your thighs, holding you open, holding you still.

“This ain’t just fuckin’,” he rasps, voice muffled by your body. “This is the bind. This is me settin’ my claim.”

You moan. You whimper. And when his mouth closes over your clit and he sucks, your vision shatters.

It’s not just pleasure. It’s magic.

You feel it in your bones, in the roots of your teeth, in the back of your throat. You feel the bond snap into place like a tether. You feel him inside you—his hunger, his need, his desire—mirroring yours, amplifying it, turning you both into a single, burning thing.

You’re panting now. Desperate. Gone. “Remmick—” you gasp.

He groans like your voice alone could finish him.

You feel his tongue again—harder now, faster, coaxing your orgasm to the surface like a secret—and you give it to him. You give everything. You come with a cry, eyes wide, hips shaking, the mark on your chest glowing like fire in the dark. And Remmick?

He doesn’t stop.

Not until you’re slumped against the seat, legs still twitching, the bond humming under your skin like a satisfied beast. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Smirking.

“First part’s done,” he says, voice wrecked. “Now we finish it.”

He stands. Unbuckling his belt. Unbuttoning his trousers.

And between your thighs, your body begins to ache all over again.

You’re still trembling when he rises.

Remmick towers over you in the low flickering dark, the glow from your mark throwing soft gold light across the sharp bones of his face. He looks half-saint, half-devil—something carved out of hunger and patience, restraint and ruin.

He doesn’t touch you yet. Not again.

He just watches as you breathe, chest heaving, legs still slack and parted. And for a heartbeat, he says nothing. He simply drinks you in like a man parched. And then his voice cuts through the silence again—low, velvet-rough, intimate as a mouth pressed to your spine. “You’re takin’ it real pretty,” he murmurs, thumbing the buttons on his trousers loose one by one. “Didn’t think you’d fold that fast. But fuck, I felt it.”

Your body answers with a pulse.

You want to close your legs, to pull your dress back on, to shield yourself from how open he’s left you—but the bond won’t let you. It aches when you think about hiding. It pulls you back toward him, like a tide. Like gravity.

And he knows it.

He steps out of his slacks and lets his shirt hang open, chest pale and cut with the kind of lean strength you’ve only read about in books meant to be hidden under your mattress. His body is strong, scarred, real. A monument to the centuries he’s outlived.

Your eyes drop lower. And—god.

You freeze.

He’s hard already, thick and flushed, hanging heavy between his thighs, and for the first time since the mark bloomed, you feel a new kind of fear coil in your gut.

He’s going to ruin you.

And you want it so badly you could cry.

Remmick sees the way your gaze lingers. “‘S alright,” he says, stepping closer. “I’ll go slow. First time’s meant to sting a little.” His hand drags down your cheek, thumb brushing your lips. “But y’won’t be scared of the pain. Not when I’m the one givin’ it to ya.”

You make a sound in your throat—something small, breathless, wanting.

He strokes your jaw, then cups the back of your neck, guiding you gently down, down, until you’re laid out across the velvet bench seat. He doesn’t climb on top of you right away. He kneels beside the bench, one hand splayed wide across your ribs, the other pressing just above the mark on your chest.

The weight of it grounds you.

“Last chance, little bride,” he says softly, and there’s something raw beneath the teasing now. “After this, there ain’t no undoing it.”

You look up at him. And despite everything—despite the fear, the heat, the bond that feels like it’s branded your soul from the inside out—

You nod.

Remmick’s smile is slow. Tender. Like a secret finally answered.

“Atta girl.”

He leans down.And when his mouth presses over the mark—soft, sure, claiming—you swear your body catches fire all over again. His mouth seals over the mark, and it’s like being opened. Not physically—not yet—but inside. Beneath your ribs. Somewhere sacred.

You feel it the way thunder rolls over land—first a hush, then a tremble, then a crack that splits you straight down the middle. His lips part just enough for his tongue to drag across the sigil, and something ancient stirs to life.

The mark glows white-hot.

Your back bows off the seat. Your fingers clutch at velvet, at air, at him. A gasp tears from your throat, raw and keening.

Remmick moans against your chest. “There she is,” he rasps, mouth dragging lower, down the slope of your breast. “Fuck, yer soul’s singin’ for me now. Y’feel that? That little ache in the base of yer spine?”

You nod, frantic.

“It’s me,” he says, hand sliding back between your thighs. “That’s me growin’ roots in ya.” His fingers tease your slick folds, feather-light, not giving what you need, just promising.

You whimper.

Remmick watches you writhe, his cock hard and leaking, resting heavy against his thigh. “Spread ‘em wider, sweetheart. That’s it. Just like that. Let me in.”

You do as you’re told. You’d do anything he asks right now. Not because he’s taken your will. But because he’s claimed your want.

He climbs over you slowly, one knee pressing between your thighs, his body blanketing yours with terrible warmth. The feel of his skin against yours makes your mark pulse like it’s alive. He lines himself up, dragging the head of his cock against your soaked entrance, letting it slip through your folds, slicking himself in you.

You gasp.

“Remmick—”

He cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, voice low and hoarse. “I’ve got ya. Gonna go slow.” He pushes in.

God.

It’s thick. It stretches. It burns in the best, most ruinous way. You clutch his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as he inches deeper—slow, agonizing, precise. Every breath is a plea. Every heartbeat is his. You feel the bond knot tighter, pulling you to him with every inch he sinks into your body. Halfway in, and you’re already fluttering around him, body shaking, eyes wet.

Remmick groans, low and wrecked. “Fuckin’ hell,” he grits out. “You’re tight as a fist. Grip me like you were made for it.” He rolls his hips forward, just a little deeper.

You cry out—more overwhelmed than hurt. Pleasure is coiling inside you like a scream wound too tight to release.

“‘S alright,” he murmurs. “Yer takin’ me so well. Gonna have all of me soon.”

He kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then your jaw.

“Y’wanna say it?” he asks.

You blink up at him, dazed.

He smiles against your throat. “Say yer mine.”

The words curl on your tongue, fever-warm. “I’m yours.”

His hips snap forward, burying himself in you to the hilt.

You shatter.

You can’t breathe. Not properly.

Not with him buried that deep inside you—thick and unyielding, pressing against something that makes your vision go white around the edges. The stretch burns and soothes all at once, every nerve pulled taut, every inch of your body drawn to his like a tide to the moon.

Remmick doesn’t move right away. He just holds himself there. Letting you feel the full weight of what he’s done.

What he is doing. What you’ll never come back from.

You whimper, your hips twitching, the pressure too much and not enough and perfect. And all he does is lean in close, his voice curling against your ear like the heat of a candle’s flame.

“There it is,” he murmurs. “Feel me in ya? That ache in your belly? That’s me settin’ in, stretchin’ ya out, makin’ room.” His hand cups your jaw, gentle but firm, tilting your face toward his. He watches you—hungry and soft all at once, like a man who’s both starving and reverent. “Y’wanna know somethin’, sweetheart?” he asks, hips giving one slow, rolling thrust.

You gasp, back arching, lips parting in a helpless cry.

He groans, deep in his throat, and stills again. “You’ll never forget this feelin’,” he says. “No matter what happens after. No matter where you run. This right here?” He shifts inside you, not pulling out, just moving deep. “This bond’ll hunger until I feed it.”

You can’t speak. Your body is writhing under him, hips tilting instinctively, needing more, needing movement. The bond is humming now—hot, thick, vibrating under your skin like a wire ready to snap.

And then he starts to move.

Slow. So slow it feels lethal.

He pulls out an inch. Pushes back in. Again. And again.

Each thrust is a deliberate claiming—grinding against the deepest part of you, igniting something wild and ancient in your blood. You moan with every slide, and his name slips out of your mouth between gasps like a prayer, like a curse, like you don’t care who hears.

“R-Remmick—”

He shudders above you, burying his face against your throat.

“Fuck, say it again.”

You do. You can’t stop. “Remmick. Remmick—” Your fingers dig into his back, pulling him closer, urging him to move faster, harder, deeper.

But he won’t. Not yet.

He keeps the pace slow, grinding into you with the kind of restraint that hurts, like he wants to ruin you one slow breath at a time.

You’re sobbing now. From pleasure. From pressure. From the overwhelming rightness of being filled by him.

He kisses the corner of your mouth. Then your jaw. Then the spot where your pulse pounds like a war drum. “Let it take ya,” he whispers. “Let me in. All the way.”

You don't have to let it take you. It's already happening.

Every roll of his hips, every grinding thrust, buries him deeper—not just into your body, but into your very being. You feel him threading through your blood, knotting himself into the soft, wet, secret places no one else has ever touched. You feel him becoming part of you.

And it’s bliss. It’s agony. It’s everything you never dared want.

Remmick groans into your throat, the sound rough and ragged, and you realize—he’s shaking. His arms bracket your head, muscles tense, as if he’s holding himself back with the last threads of a fraying leash. "Fuckin’ hell," he rasps against your skin. "You don’t even know what yer doin’ to me, do ya?"

You moan when his hips shift again, a slow, brutal grind that rubs against something deep inside, sending another crack through your already crumbling self.

"You’re burnin’ me up from the inside," he breathes. "Claimin’ me right back without even tryin'." He thrusts again, a little harder this time.

Your nails rake down his back, and he hisses, the sound sharp and desperate.

"Y’hear that, little bride?" he pants. "The bond’s snappin' shut. Lockin’ us together. Ain’t no prayers that can undo it now."

You whimper under him, nodding frantically because words are gone. Lost. All you can do is feel. All you can do is take him. The magic between you stretches taut—white-hot and endless—pulling tighter with every slow, deep stroke.

Remmick lifts his head. Looks at you. Really looks at you.

And something raw, something wild flashes through his crimson eyes.

Not cruelty. Not hunger. But devotion. The kind of devotion that ruins. That razes. That rebuilds.

And his voice—Christ, his voice—comes soft and reverent, like a prayer said in a burning church. "Mine." He pulls almost all the way out.

Your body cries for him.

And when he slams back in, burying himself to the hilt, the bond explodes.

You barely have time to scream. It rips out of you as Remmick drives back into your body with a force that shatters something deep inside—not bone, not muscle, but something older. Something tied to the very breath in your lungs and the heat in your blood.

The bond snaps tight. It doesn’t just settle between you—it erupts.

A wave of heat crashes through you, stealing your sight, your breath, your thoughts. The air around you blurs and sharpens all at once, everything too bright, too loud, too much. You feel him in every corner of your being—his hunger, his lust, his need crashing against yours in a brutal, endless tide.

Remmick groans low in his throat, a broken sound, like he’s barely holding himself together. "That's it, love," he pants, thrusting deep and sure now, fucking you through the bond’s collapse. "Feel it. Feel me." Each thrust drives him deeper than flesh, branding his presence into you so thoroughly you don't know where you end and he begins.

Your fingers scrabble at his back, nails dragging across his spine. You clutch at him like drowning, like if you let go you’ll be ripped apart.

And maybe you would.

"Yer mine now," he growls against your neck, voice shaking with the force of it. "Every heartbeat. Every breath. Every fuckin’ drop of blood in that sweet body—mine."

You sob beneath him, helpless.

Because it’s true. It’s so true it hurts.

He fucks you harder, hips slamming into yours, the slick sound of your bodies joining filling the dark carriage. Every inch of you aches for him now, craves him. The pleasure is brutal, endless, washing over you in thick, consuming waves that blur the edges of the world. "Say it," he snarls. "Say who owns ya."

You can barely get the words out, your voice broken and gasping between thrusts. "You—Remmick—I'm yours, I'm yours—"

He groans, loud and wrecked, driving himself deeper. "Again."

"I'm yours!" you cry, clinging to him, legs wrapping around his waist without thought. "I'm yours!"

The bond screams its satisfaction, magic sealing tighter, brighter, a perfect, eternal tether. Remmick’s rhythm falters—just for a heartbeat—and then he lets go completely. He fucks you harder, faster, rougher now, as if trying to stamp himself into every molecule of your body. As if the bond isn’t enough, as if he needs your body to remember what your soul already knows.

You’re close again. Closer than before.

Tears leak from the corners of your eyes, not from pain—but from the overwhelming rightness of it. The way your body, your magic, your very soul sings under him.

"That's it," he grits out, teeth scraping against your jaw, your throat. "Gimme one more, sweetheart. One more, and I'll fill ya. Mark ya up proper."

You sob something desperate and broken against his shoulder.

And then you fall apart.

Your body breaks first. You cry out, a sharp, ragged sound, thighs locking around Remmick’s hips as your climax rips through you like a flood that’s been dammed too long. It’s blinding—so much more than pleasure. It's surrender. It's consummation.

The bond erupts under your skin, a wildfire racing from your chest outward—your limbs, your heart, your mind all filled with him, only him.

Remmick snarls low in his throat when he feels it—feels you milking his cock, spasming around him, clutching him so tightly you might tear him apart if he were anything less than what he is. "Fuckin’ hell, there’s my girl," he growls, voice thick, shaking, barely human. "God, yer perfect—perfect for me."

You barely hear him over the rush of blood in your ears, the way your heart stutters and kicks under the strain of the bond locking into place. You feel like you’re dying, being reborn, consumed.

And then—

His hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back to bare your throat.

You don’t resist. You can’t.

You offer it to him. Begging without words.

Needing it. Needing him.

Remmick’s breath sears against your pulse, a guttural sound of want breaking free from his chest. "Mine," he rasps, and then— He sinks his fangs into your throat.

You scream—not from pain. From release. From completion.

The moment his teeth pierce your skin, it’s over. The bond seals so violently you swear you feel the whole world lurch.

You feel his cock throb inside you as he spills himself deep, hips jerking hard against yours as he empties everything into you—claiming you, breeding you, binding you. His moan vibrates against your throat, a filthy, possessive sound, full of ancient, ruinous satisfaction.

You convulse around him, helpless, drowning in the force of it—your orgasm crashing into his, a tangled knot of pleasure and magic and hunger so overwhelming you stop knowing where you end and he begins.

Everything collapses into him. His taste. His scent.

His voice murmuring ragged, half-spoken promises against your bleeding throat.

"Never lettin’ ya go." "Made ya for me." "Gonna fuckin’ ruin anyone who tries to take ya." "My sweet girl. My bride."

The world fades to black around the edges.

Not death. Not fear. Just him. Only him.

You don't know how long you stay like that. Him buried deep inside you, teeth still sunk into your throat, body trembling with the aftershocks of the bond and the brutal, gorgeous wreckage he’s left behind.

When he finally pulls his fangs free, you whimper at the loss—but he shushes you gently, lapping at the puncture marks with slow, lazy strokes of his tongue. Sealing the wound. Marking you further.

His hand cups the side of your face, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth like he's calming a horse that’s been run too hard. "There she is," he murmurs, voice low and thick with satisfaction. "My little bride."

You blink up at him, dazed, boneless, ruined.

He smiles.

It’s not kind. It’s not soft. It’s something far worse. Worship.

"You feel it, don't ya?" he whispers. "That ache behind yer ribs? That’s me sittin’ in yer soul now."

You nod weakly. You can still feel him inside you—hot and sticky, filling you in every way a man can. The bond thrums between you like a heartbeat shared.

And he’s not done.

You see it in his eyes. That hunger. That certainty.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth—slow, claiming kisses, each one staking a piece of you deeper than the last. "You’ll never want anyone else again," he promises, voice almost tender. "Yer mine now. Body, blood, soul."

And somehow, impossibly—

You don't fear it. You crave it. You crave him. Forever.

The carriage rocks gently as it moves, but you barely notice. You’re sprawled across the velvet seat, bare and boneless, your limbs too heavy to lift, your skin humming with the aftershocks of what just happened.

Of what you are now. Of what he made you.

The mark on your chest still glows faintly, a soft pulse in the dark, echoing your heartbeat—and his. It thrums in your veins, in the tender ache between your thighs where he spilled himself so deep you can still feel the heat of it. You don’t know where your body ends and his begins anymore.

Maybe there’s no difference. Maybe there never was.

Remmick sits at the far end of the carriage now, leaned back lazily against the seat, trousers still open, hair a mussed halo around his head like he’s been through a war and came out smiling.

He watches you. God, he watches you.

Eyes dark and glittering, hungry and satisfied all at once, a predator marveling at the way his prey still twitches even after the final blow.

He’s in no rush. He’s got you now.

Forever.

And you feel it—the first thread of it tightening low in your belly.

A throb. A pulse.

Your body responds instantly to his gaze, hips shifting, thighs pressing together, nipples tightening in the cool air. You bite your lip, trying to smother the shameful rush of heat flooding you again, but it's impossible.

Because now—

Now he feels it too.

A low, wicked chuckle rumbles from his chest. "Aw, sweetheart," he drawls, the accent thick and syrupy, heavy with cruel affection. "Already missin’ me inside ya?"

Your face burns. You shake your head, a weak, pitiful denial—but the bond betrays you.

He tilts his head, the smile on his lips turning downright vicious. "Don’t lie to me," he says, voice dropping low and rough. "Not now. Not when I can feel every twitch of that sweet little cunt clenchin’ on nothin’."

You whimper, curling in on yourself without thinking.

But he doesn’t let you hide for long.

In a blink, he’s across the carriage, hands bracketing your hips, dragging you back flat against the seat. He crowds over you without even touching you fully, his presence alone suffocating, his body heat pouring into you like a second, darker sun.

"You’re open to me now," he murmurs, brushing your hair from your face with almost obscene tenderness. "Every want. Every ache. Every filthy little thought—" He presses the flat of his palm to the mark. You jerk under him, helpless "—I feel ‘em all."

His thumb strokes slow, lazy circles over the mark, and each touch sends new ripples of need spiraling outward—your body trembling, your thighs wet and slick all over again. "You’re gonna learn real quick, love," he says, grinning as you whimper, as you arch into his touch without meaning to. "Ain’t no hidin’ from me now."

He leans down, mouth brushing your ear. "Every time you ache, I’ll know."

"Every time you touch yerself, I’ll feel it." "Every time you think about me splittin’ you open again—"

He rocks his hips against you, not entering, just letting you feel the thick, hot weight of him. "—I’ll be right there, cock hard, ready to remind ya who you fuckin’ belong to."

You sob, overwhelmed.

And his voice goes velvet-soft, coaxing. "Beg me, little bride," he whispers, lips dragging down your throat, over your mark, down the trembling plane of your belly. "Beg me to fuck ya again. Right here. Right now. Fill ya ‘til there’s nothin’ left but me."

You’re already halfway there. The bond shudders and pulls tight, a perfect, beautiful noose.

And you know— You’ll never be free again.

You’ll never want to be.

You don’t even realize you’re begging at first. It’s not words—

It’s sounds.

Soft, desperate little whimpers that slip from your mouth without permission, without shame. Your hips rock up toward him, seeking friction, seeking him, even though there’s no chance of satisfaction without his mercy.

Remmick smiles down at you, all lazy, wicked patience. His thumb strokes your mark again, and your whole body jolts, back arching beautifully off the velvet, nipples peaked, thighs slick. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and rich. “Know you can do better’n that. Gimme what I want.” His other hand slides between your legs, fingers ghosting over the soaked, swollen mess he’s made of you.

Barely touching. Barely giving.

You sob out a broken little sound, your hips chasing his hand, your body betraying how desperately you need him to touch, to fill, to take.

Remmick chuckles, a dark, filthy sound that rumbles deep in his chest. “You’re already cryin’ for it, aren’t ya?” he says, tapping your clit lightly with two fingers just to hear the whimper it wrings out of you. “Poor thing. Poor messy little bride. All knotted up and nowhere to go.”

You bite your lip, trembling.

And finally, finally, you find your voice. “Please,” you gasp. “Please, Remmick—please, I need you—”

His breath hitches. He feels it through the bond.

Your honesty. Your surrender. Your helpless, soaking, wrecked want.

His hand fists in your hair, tugging your head back to make you look at him. “Say it proper,” he growls, eyes glowing deep red in the dark. “Say what you want.”

You sob again, blinking up at him, undone and aching. “Please fuck me,” you whisper. “Please—fill me up—make me yours—” You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore.

You just mean it. You mean every breathless, desperate word.

Remmick’s whole body shudders. “Fuckin’ hell, you’re perfect.” He doesn’t make you wait after that. He grabs your hips, hauling you down the seat, lining himself up again with ruthless, hungry precision.

You feel the head of his cock slide against your entrance, hot and heavy and inevitable. You whimper, trying to push down onto him, but he holds you still.

“Easy, love,” he murmurs, voice thick and rough. “Gonna give it to ya. Gonna fuck ya slow. Deep. Like you deserve.”

You cry out, nails digging into the velvet, the anticipation unbearable. And then—

He pushes inside. All the way.

Inch by inch, deliberate and slow, stretching you open, filling you so completely you can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t be anything but his. Your head tips back, mouth open in a soundless moan, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes.

Remmick groans like he’s dying. “Christ, yer fuckin’ perfect inside,” he pants, hips rolling slow, deep, dragging against every tender, swollen place he touched before. “Tight little thing. Made to take me.”

You whimper under him, arms thrown around his shoulders, legs locked around his waist, pulling him deeper, begging without words for more, more, more—

“Shhh, I got ya,” he soothes, kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat where his bite still aches. “Gonna take care of ya, little bride. Gonna fuck ya full. Keep ya full. Never gonna let ya go.”

The bond hums louder. Hotter.

Closer.

You can feel yourself already climbing again, your body desperate to fall with him, for him, because of him.

And Remmick—

Remmick feels it too. Feels it through the bond, through your trembling body, through the desperate clench of your cunt around his cock. “That's it,” he groans, pace picking up, thrusts slow but brutal, deep enough you swear you feel him in your throat. “Milk me, love. Show me who ya belong to.” You don’t realize you’re crying again until his thumb brushes the tear slipping down your cheek.

Not hard. Not cruel.

Gentle. Tender.

Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s proud.

“Look at ya,” Remmick murmurs, still grinding deep inside you, the head of his cock dragging over that sensitive, aching place that makes your toes curl and your thighs shake. “Cryin’ so sweet for me.”

He kisses the tear away. Slow.

Lingering.

And then he pulls back just enough to watch your face as he thrusts deep again—slow and rough and devastating—the velvet seat creaking under you both.

You sob, hips rolling to meet him without even thinking, chasing the friction, the fullness, the ownership.

“That’s it,” he pants, voice ragged with pleasure. “Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl. Always knew you’d take me so pretty.”

You cling to him now—arms thrown around his neck, nails raking down his back, legs locked around his hips like your body’s trying to weld itself to his. The bond thrums, vibrating louder, hotter, tighter, until there’s nothing in the world but him—his cock splitting you open, his hands anchoring you down, his mouth whispering filthy worship against your throat.

“Yer built for me,” he growls, teeth scraping lightly against your skin. “Every inch of ya. Every little flutter of this sweet cunt—made to squeeze the life outta me.”

You keen high in your throat, mindless.

Gone.

And Remmick knows it. Knows he’s breaking you. Knows he’s ruining you.

And he loves it.

“You ain’t ever gonna want anyone else,” he murmurs, slowing his thrusts even more, dragging them out until each one feels like a lifetime. “Ain’t ever gonna even think about lettin’ another man touch ya. Not when I’ve already marked ya this deep.”

You whimper, nodding desperately, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Say it, love,” he urges, voice rough and sweet and brutal all at once. “Say yer mine.”

“I’m yours,” you sob, clenching around him so tight he curses under his breath. “I’m yours—I’m yours—only yours—”

He thrusts deeper, harder, driving you up the seat. “Good girl,” he growls, voice wrecked. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

Your climax builds again—fast and brutal—pleasure knotting behind your ribs, behind your spine, the bond squeezing tighter, ready to snap.

And he feels it. His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit with ruthless precision, thumb circling it in time with his deep, devastating thrusts. “Gimme another one, sweetheart,” he pants, hips snapping harder now, cock hitting so deep you swear you feel him in your fucking soul. “Wanna feel you fall apart around me. Wanna drown in it.”

You moan—high and desperate—and the pleasure crashes over you without warning.

You shatter. You scream.

Your body locks up tight, clamping around him, pulsing, milking, owning him as much as he owns you.

Remmick roars against your throat, hips jerking wildly, and then he’s spilling inside you again—hot and endless, filling you so deep you swear you can feel it leaking out around where you’re still clenching him tight.

He bites your shoulder this time—not hard enough to break skin, just hard enough to mark—and the bond howls in satisfaction, sealing it even deeper.

He doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t move.

He just lays there, trembling over you, cock still twitching inside your soaked, fluttering cunt, breath ragged against your skin.

“Mine,” he whispers again.

A vow. A sentence. A promise.

And you—You cling to him like you’ll never let go.

Because you won’t. Because you can’t. Because you’re his. Forever.

You wake in his bed.

You don't remember how you got there.

One moment, you were in the carriage, trembling and wrecked in his arms. The next, you were here—on soft linen sheets, the scent of smoke and leather and Remmick sinking into your skin with every breath you take.

It’s still dark outside. Still heavy.

Still thick with the weight of what’s been done.

The mark over your heart burns dully now, a steady throb like a brand set into your flesh. Not painful. Not exactly.

But constant.

A reminder. A tether.

You reach for him instinctively, seeking the heat of his body against yours—but find only cool sheets where he should be. You sit up, heart stuttering, chest tightening so fast and sharp it’s like you’ve been punched.

Because he’s gone.

He’s not in the bed. Not in the room.

And the bond—The bond screams.

The ache blooms under your ribs, a sick, gnawing hunger that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with absence.

You feel wrong without him. Empty. Fractured.

You clutch the sheet to your chest, trembling. “Remmick?” you whisper into the dark.

No answer. Just the slow crackle of the fireplace across the room.

Your thighs are sticky with the remnants of him. Your body aches in places you didn’t know could ache. And still—it’s not enough.

Your body wants him back. Needs him back.

You bite your lip, rocking slightly where you sit, trying to soothe the gnawing ache, the gnashing hunger spiraling tighter inside you.

And then—

You feel him.

Not physically. Psychically.

A thread tugging between you.

You squeeze your thighs together, trying to suppress the fresh wave of heat pooling low in your belly—but it’s no use. The mark flares hot.

You whimper.

Somewhere—wherever he is—you know he feels it too.

Because a voice curls into your mind. Low. Rough. Amused. "Miss me already, little bride?"

You gasp, hands flying to your chest, clutching the mark like it might stop the flood building under your skin. “Remmick,” you whisper, voice breaking.

His laugh—low and dangerous—echoes in your mind. "Can feel ya squirm from here."

You shudder violently.

He's not even touching you—and still, he unravels you with nothing but the bond. With nothing but his voice.

"Bet yer soaked again already." "Bet yer clenchin’ that sweet cunt, achin’ for me." "Bet you’d beg real nice if I told ya to."

You whimper, rocking helplessly on the bed, the sheet sliding down your body, baring your breasts to the cold night air. You squeeze your thighs tighter—but it only makes it worse. The bond thrums between your legs like a second heartbeat, cruel and constant.

And Remmick—

Remmick drinks it in.

"Touch yerself," he murmurs in your mind, voice thick with heat and wickedness. "C’mon, sweetheart. Let me feel it."

You shake your head, trembling.

You don’t want to. You can’t. But your hand is already sliding down your belly, shaking, betraying you.

The bond rejoices.

Your fingers trail lower. Soft. Tentative. Shaking.

You’re not thinking anymore. You’re feeling.

Feeling the mark pulsing hot against your ribs, feeling the bond pulling you forward like a hook in your chest, feeling Remmick’s presence wrapped around your mind like smoke.

You part your thighs slowly, the sheet falling away completely. The cool air brushes your skin.

Your slick heat clings to your thighs. You’re already soaked for him.

And he knows it.

"Tha’s it," he drawls into your mind, voice rich with wicked satisfaction. "Good girl. Show me how much ya miss me."

Your fingers slip between your folds, gathering the mess he left inside you.

You whimper. Just from the first touch.

It’s almost too much—too raw, too sensitive—but you can’t stop. Your body won’t let you. Not when the bond is throbbing so hard it feels like a second heartbeat inside your cunt.

You circle your clit with slow, trembling motions. Your back arches. Your breath shudders. “Remmick,” you moan into the empty room, thighs trembling. You swear you can feel him groan from wherever he is—like the sound of your pleasure punches through the bond and wrecks him too.

"Sound so fuckin’ sweet when ya moan for me," he murmurs, rough and reverent. "Could listen to ya all night, little bride."

Your fingers move faster, hips lifting off the bed, chasing the friction, chasing the edge. But it’s not enough.

You whimper helplessly, frustrated tears welling in your eyes. You need him. You need more.

And he feels your desperation.

"Poor thing," he croons. "Can’t even make yerself come without me now, can ya?"

You sob out a broken little “no.”

Because it’s true. The bond won't let you. You’re too tightly strung, too deeply tethered to him. You’re trapped in a pleasure you can’t finish without his touch. Without his voice coaxing you over the edge.

And Remmick? He sounds delighted.

"Good," he growls. "You shouldn’t be able to. Yer mine now, body and soul. Only come when I say so. Only break when I make ya."

Your fingers tremble between your legs, still circling, still trying.

And then—

His voice drops into a low, filthy purr.

"Tell me what you need, sweetheart." "Tell me what you’re beggin’ for."

You choke on a sob, panting. “I—I need you,” you cry. “Please, Remmick—I need you—inside me—on me—anything—please—”

The bond tightens, wrapping around you like iron and silk all at once.

And then you feel him move.

Not just through the tether. Physically.

Heavy, sure footsteps across the wooden floorboards.

You twist on the bed, gasping, heart hammering—

And there he is. Leaning against the doorframe.

Shirtless.

Trousers unbuttoned and slung low on his hips.

Eyes glowing deep red.

Cock already hard, leaking, ready.

He licks his lips slowly, predatorily, as he watches you spread out on his bed, hand between your thighs, body trembling with the need he’s been feeding from a distance. “Aw, sweetheart," he says out loud now, voice thick with hunger, accent curling around every syllable. "Look atcha. Fallin’ apart without me."

You shudder violently, reaching out toward him, tears spilling over.

“Please.”

Remmick’s grin turns sharp. Dark.

Triumphant.

“Don’t worry, love," he purrs, crossing the room in three slow, deliberate steps. "I’m gonna take real good care of ya.” The mattress dips under his weight as Remmick climbs onto the bed.

You tremble, thighs still parted, hand still slick and shaking where he caught you mid-plea, mid-fall. But the second his body covers yours—solid, hot, real—you sob with relief.

The bond sings. Bright and brutal.

Tightening like a velvet noose around your heart, your spine, your slick aching cunt.

He hovers over you for a moment, just looking—eyes burning, mouth parted, chest rising and falling with wrecked, hungry breaths. “So fuckin’ pretty when ya beg," he murmurs, voice low and gravelly, all wicked affection. "Could watch ya cry for my cock all night."

You arch up without thinking, hands grabbing at his hips, desperate for him to move, to fill, to own you again—

But Remmick just chuckles. Slow. Dark. Cruel.

"Nuh-uh," he says, catching your wrists easily in one hand and pinning them above your head. "You wanted me, little bride. Now you’re gonna take it."

You gasp, blinking up at him, helpless under the steady weight of his body, the heat of his cock dragging against your dripping folds, heavy and leaking and so close.

He shifts his hips, just enough to tease you—rubbing the head of his cock along your slick entrance, sliding through the mess he already made of you, pressing against your clit with maddening, lazy circles.

You cry out, hips jerking.

But he doesn’t give you what you need. Not yet.

He leans down, nose brushing yours, lips ghosting over your mouth. "Patience," he murmurs, soft and deadly. "Gonna make ya feel it."

And then he moves. Slow. Devastating.

He presses inside an inch. Then stops.

You sob under him, back arching, cunt fluttering helplessly around the stretch.

Remmick groans low in his chest, forehead pressing to yours. "Christ, love," he pants. "Yer still so fuckin’ tight for me."

He pushes deeper. Another inch. Another.

Your legs wrap around his waist automatically, desperate to pull him closer, to drag him deeper, but he only smirks against your skin.

"Greedy little thing," he murmurs. "Can feel it. The way yer suckin’ me in."

You whimper, blinking up at him through a haze of need and tears. "Please," you whisper, broken.

He kisses your forehead. Then your nose. Then your trembling mouth.

"Beg prettier," he growls against your lips.

You cry out, the bond pulling tighter, demanding. "Please, Remmick," you sob. "I—I need you—need all of you—please, please, fill me up—"

And that’s what does it.

His patience breaks. With a low, snarling groan, he slams the rest of the way inside you—burying himself to the hilt in one brutal, perfect thrust.

You scream—high and raw and wrecked—as he stretches you open all over again, thick and deep and claiming.

The bond flares.

Brighter. Hotter. Tighter.

You feel him everywhere.

And he doesn’t move at first—just holds you there, trembling around him, stuffed so full you swear you can feel his heartbeat through the walls of your cunt. "That’s it," he pants against your throat. "Take it. Take all of it."

You sob, clenching around him, desperate for more, for anything, for everything.

And Remmick—Remmick fucking smiles.

"Good girl," he breathes. "My good little bride."

He holds still for just a moment longer.

Lets you feel it. The stretch. The fullness. The way your cunt pulses helplessly around him, like your body’s already trying to keep him, even before he’s started moving.

Remmick’s breath fans hot across your cheek. “You feel that, sweetheart?” he whispers, voice low, reverent. “That’s what it means to be bound.”

You moan beneath him, tears slipping down your temples into your hairline as your fingers tighten around his arms—his name clinging to your tongue like prayer, like poison, like you’d die without it.

He begins to move. Slow.

Deep.

Each thrust rolls through you like thunder, like ritual, like a man grinding his soul into yours one inch at a time. He pulls back until only the tip remains inside—then sinks in again, long and devastating, pressing into every tender spot he’s already mapped with hands, teeth, and magic.

You cry out.

The sound is wrecked. Raw.

Remmick groans into your neck. “Fuck, you sound like heaven,” he pants, thrusting again—deeper, harder, making the bed creak beneath you both. “Takin’ me so fuckin’ good. Like you were made for this.”

You nod—wild, desperate.

Because you were. Because that’s what it feels like.

You were made for him.

The bond throbs between you, singing at every point where your skin meets his—breast to chest, hips to hips, heart to heart. It doesn’t just tether. It entwines.

You feel him inside you in ways that have nothing to do with flesh—his hunger, his need, his worship burning through the tether like fire licking silk.

“Never lettin’ you go,” he murmurs, fucking you deeper now, his rhythm building. “Gonna keep you right here—under me, around me—'til you can’t remember what breathin’ feels like without my cock inside ya.”

You sob—moaning, wrecked, grateful.

He lifts your leg over his shoulder without asking, pressing deeper, grinding his hips down to fill every inch of you, dragging another scream from your throat. “That’s it,” he growls. “Squeeze me, love. Just like that. Milk me dry.”

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb circling your clit with perfect, devastating pressure, like he’s already memorized how to tear you apart.

Your back arches, vision blurring.

You’re close. So close.

Remmick feels it. Through the bond. In your body. In the way your cunt flutters, begging to break again. “Come for me,” he rasps. “Come with me inside you. Let the whole fuckin’ world know who you belong to.”

You can’t stop it. You don’t even try.

You break.

Harder than before—clenching around him, crying out his name, the bond lighting up like a wildfire behind your eyes.

Remmick groans loud and possessive above you, hips snapping hard, fast, until he’s burying himself one last time and spilling into you with a sound you’ll never forget. “Mine,” he chokes out. “Fuck—mine. Mine—”

You don’t know who’s shaking more.

Your hands. His voice. The world.

He stays inside you. Doesn’t pull out.

Just holds you. Breathes you.

Like he needs to.

The bond simmers between you, satisfied and sealed, humming like a beast at rest. You reach up, hands trembling, and cup his face.

He leans into your touch like it hurts not to. “Y’feel it now?” he whispers, barely audible. “That ache when I’m gone?”

You nod, eyes wet.

“Good,” he says. “Because I fuckin’ feel it too.”

You wake up sore.

Sweetly. Brutally. Deep in the muscles of your thighs, between your ribs, in the soft swell of your cunt—filled and used and claimed. You shift under the heavy quilt, blinking into the low golden light of the fire across the room.

There’s birdsong. Faint. And the low simmering hum of the bond still thrumming in your chest like a second heartbeat.

It’s quiet here. Peaceful, almost.

Except for the ache between your legs and the warm, terrifying weight of him behind you.

Remmick.

He’s still there.

One arm curled heavy over your waist, bare chest pressed to your spine. You feel the slow, lazy drag of his breath against your shoulder—calm and even, like a man who’s slept deeply. Like he’s sated.

He doesn’t stir when you shift slightly.

But the bond does. It tightens, warm and low, like a pulse at the base of your spine. Like a hand slipping between your thighs. Like a warning.

Don’t move. Don’t leave. You’re his.

You lie there, heart pounding quietly under his hand.

And then—

His voice. Low. Rough with sleep. Slipping against your skin like silk over a bruise. “Where d’you think yer goin’, little bride?”

You freeze.

His fingers flex over your belly, lazy but firm, tugging you back against his chest until you feel the unmistakable weight of his cock, already thick and half-hard between your thighs. He presses his face into the crook of your neck, breathing you in like he’s starving again.

“I wasn’t,” you whisper. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”

A soft, dangerous hum in your ear. “Good.”

You stay still.

The silence stretches, warm and weighted, as his hand strokes lazy circles over your stomach. He’s not trying to arouse you—not yet. Just remind you. That he’s here. That he feels you. That he owns every flutter of your heartbeat before you even register it.

“You dream last night?” he murmurs.

You swallow hard. You had.

Dreamt of him. Of his hands. His mouth. The way your legs shook when he told you to beg. The way you liked it.

“I don’t remember,” you lie softly.

Remmick laughs against your throat, lips brushing the skin he bit just hours ago. “Liar.”

His hand slides lower. But slower now. Less demanding. More like he’s testing something. Watching how your body answers to his. How the bond hums in response to every breath between you.

“You’re thinkin’ too loud,” he says, nuzzling behind your ear. “I can feel it.”

You tense. Just slightly.

His hand stills over your hips. Then his voice, softer this time. “You scared of me, love?”

The question sinks into your ribs like a needle. You’re not sure how to answer.

Yes.

And no.

And not enough.

You don't answer right away. How could you?

Your throat is tight. Your body too sore, too raw. The ache between your legs still pulses in time with the bond, and Remmick’s presence behind you—his breath on your neck, his cock hardening slowly between your thighs—makes it worse.

Makes it better. Makes it everything.

And still, that question hangs in the air like smoke:

“You scared of me, love?”

He doesn’t say it cruelly. He doesn’t laugh after. He just waits.

His hand stills on your belly, fingers splayed wide over the skin he’s already touched with tongue and teeth and blood.

You swallow hard, voice soft, barely audible.

“Yes.”

Remmick doesn’t tense. He doesn’t growl. He doesn’t punish you.

He exhales slowly through his nose, like the answer had been expected. Maybe even hoped for. “Good,” he murmurs. “Y’should be.”

You blink—heart thudding once, hard, behind your glowing mark.

His thumb strokes your stomach, just above your navel. “You should be scared,” he says again, slower this time. “I’m not a man, sweetheart. I ain’t some boy who’ll kiss your hand and promise forever under a moon I don’t get to stand under.”

He kisses your shoulder instead. Soft. Lingering.

A contradiction to the words in his mouth.

“I’m what waits under the bed,” he breathes. “What knocks at the door when you pray it won’t. What takes instead of asks.”

You shiver. Not from cold.

From the way your body doesn’t recoil.

From the way your hips push back against him without thinking.

Remmick hums against your skin. “Scared of me,” he repeats, voice lowering to a hush, “but still so wet for me you’re stickin’ to my sheets.”

You whimper, cheeks burning.

And still—he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t rut into you. Doesn’t force.

He just holds you tighter. Because this is worse than violence. Worse than taking.

This is knowing.

He feels everything. Not just your body.

Your shame. Your desire. Your ache for him.

And he loves it.

“You think I don’t feel what that fear does to ya?” he murmurs. “How it curls low in your belly, how it sweetens the way you clench when I talk like this?”

His teeth graze your throat again. Gently this time. Carefully. “You’re scared,” he says, “and still, you’d let me put a baby in you if I told you to.”

Your breath catches.

Your body answers before your voice ever could—heat surging between your legs, thighs squeezing together around nothing, cunt fluttering at the idea of it.

He feels that too.

“Ohhh,” he groans, laughing low and pleased. “There she is.”

He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t flip you over. Doesn’t tear you open.

Doesn’t bare his teeth and fuck you through the mattress, even though you can feel how badly he wants to.

Instead—Remmick slips down your body slowly.

The quilt is pulled aside with a lazy flick of his wrist, exposing your bare skin to the cold air and to him. You shiver, more from anticipation than chill.

He kneels at the edge of the bed, dragging your hips to the edge like you’re something soft and sacred he’s about to set on fire. The bond buzzes between you, a hot, pulsing wire strung from your cunt to his mouth, taut and trembling.

You bite your lip. And you don’t dare move.

Because the look in his eyes—

Low. Hungry. Worshipful.

It pins you to the sheets like a hand to the throat.

“Still scared?” he murmurs, kissing the inside of your knee.

You nod. Barely.

He smiles. Slow. Honest. “Good. Don’t stop bein’.”

He kisses higher. The curve of your thigh. Then the crease.

Then—

Close.

Not touching. Not yet.

But watching you twitch. Watching your hips roll up in a silent, shameful plea.

Remmick groans softly. “You think that fear makes me less gentle?” he asks, voice hushed, like confession. “Nah, sweetheart. Makes me tender. Makes me want to ruin you slow.”

You gasp as he finally presses a kiss to your cunt.

Soft. Closed-mouth.

More reverent than filthy.

It’s worse than teasing. It’s adoration.

He parts you with careful fingers, breath ghosting over you until your legs shake from the not-touching, the almost, the please.

And then his tongue finds your clit.

Just once. A soft drag.

Then again. Slower. Wetter. More precise.

Your back arches off the bed.

Your hands reach for something to hold—sheets, the edge of the headboard, the carved wood posts—but Remmick grabs your thighs and holds you down.

“Mmm-mm,” he hums, tongue circling slowly. “Don’t run.”

You moan—loud, needy—and he groans in response, mouthing at you deeper, filthier, gentler.

“You taste scared,” he mutters between licks. “And it’s makin’ me hard enough to fuckin’ kill for it.”

Your legs twitch.

You’re soaked. He’s drinking you in. Taking his time, tongue slow and firm, lips wrapping around your clit like he’s savoring your fear, your sweetness, your surrender.

And still—

No rush. No cruelty. Just… devotion.

Monster-shaped.

Blood-warm.

Endless.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs against your cunt, voice almost broken. “Even when you’re shakin’. Even when you flinch. Even when you don’t fuckin’ understand what I’ve turned you into yet.”

You sob.

Because he’s right. You’re his.

Even in the fear.

Especially in the fear.

And when he sucks your clit slow and deep, the pressure spiraling out from your spine in white-hot coils, you don’t try to hide the tears.

You don’t want to anymore.

You break the second time he moans. Not from the sound alone—though it’s low and thick and filthy, vibrating through your cunt like a prayer that never belonged to God—but from the way he presses his tongue flat, dragging it slow and steady through your slick folds like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that’s ever tasted like salvation.

Your thighs tremble around his head.

You try to close them. He doesn’t let you.

Strong hands pin your legs open, thumbs digging into the meat of your thighs as he devours you—hungry, tender, relentless.

You sob. Tears spill freely now. Not from pain. Not even from overstimulation.

But from the unbearable, overwhelming worship.

He licks you like you’re sacred. He sucks your clit like it’s a rosary bead caught between his lips.

“Please—” you gasp, voice catching. “Please, I—I can’t—”

But you can. He knows you can.

“Y’can,” he growls into your cunt, mouth soaked, voice wrecked. “Y’will.”

His tongue flicks faster now, swirling pressure tight and perfect, designed to drag you toward the edge.

“Gonna come for me, little bride,” he murmurs, biting your inner thigh. “Gonna give it to me. Right fuckin’ now.”

And you do. You shatter.

The orgasm tears through you like lightning—white-hot, blinding, burning you open from the inside out. You scream his name, thighs locking around his head, body writhing, breaking.

Remmick groans like your pleasure’s feeding him, like it’s going to his head, to his cock, to the thing in him that isn’t human and never pretended to be.

You’re still shaking when he moves.

Rising up over you. Dragging his cock along your twitching folds, hard and slick and soaked with the mess you just made.

“You’re still scared,” he says, watching you with eyes too dark and too red to be anything but wrong.

You nod.

Because it’s true. Because it always will be.

And he smiles.

Soft. Loving. Terrifying.

“But you want me anyway,” he whispers, lining himself up.

Your lip trembles. “Yes.”

He kisses you.

Then pushes inside.

Not hard. Not brutal.

Just deep.

He sheaths himself in your still-pulsing cunt like he belongs there. Like the bond’s waiting to welcome him back.

You cry out, arms wrapping around his shoulders, clinging to him like you might fall through the bed otherwise.

Remmick groans, low and aching, forehead pressed to yours. “That’s my girl,” he breathes. “Takin’ me even when you’re scared. Clenchin’ like you don’t ever wanna let go.”

He starts to move.

Slow. Rhythmic. Ruinous.

And you sob against his mouth—not because it hurts. But because you’ve never felt so full of something you’ll never understand.

“Say it,” he pants, each thrust dragging a cry from your throat. “Say the fear don’t matter. Not if it’s me.”

You nod, dizzy and wrecked, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“It doesn’t,” you whisper. “Not if it’s you.”

Remmick groans, fucking into you harder now, the bond singing through your bones. “That’s it,” he growls. “That’s mine. All of it. All of you.”

You nod again.

You don’t fight. You don’t flinch. You give in.

You don’t know how long he stays inside you.

Could be minutes. Could be hours. Could be forever.

Time doesn’t work the same anymore. Not when your body is bonded to his. Not when your soul is stitched to something ancient and starving.

He holds you through every aftershock. His hands stroke your skin as if memorizing the shape of you, the feel of you, the way your body softened under his until it didn’t know where it ended and he began. Eventually, he moves—slowly, gently, as if reluctant to leave the heat of you even for a moment.

You expect him to pull out and clean you, maybe carry you to a bath, maybe tuck you against his chest again and fall into that peaceful quiet you’d been drifting in before.

But instead—He kneels between your thighs.

Again.

Eyes glowing in the low firelight. Expression unreadable. Mouth blood-red and reverent.

“Remmick?” you whisper.

And then you see it.

His knife.

The blade is old. Dark. Iron and bone. Etched with something that moves if you look too long.

He doesn’t raise it. Not yet.

He looks at you with the kind of stillness that makes you forget how to breathe. “I need to finish it,” he says.

You blink. “I thought we already did.”

He tilts his head, eyes trailing down your sweat-slick body, pausing at the faint glow of the mark over your heart. “Nah, love,” he says quietly. “We did the binding. The claiming. The taking.”

He presses the knife to his palm.

“But not the keeping.”

He slices. Clean. No flinch. Blood wells thick and slow from the cut, dark and rich and wrong.

You sit up slightly, heart pounding.

He holds his hand out to you. “Drink,” he says.

You stare. Then whisper, “Why?”

His voice doesn’t shake. It never does.

“Because this world don’t care what I’ve claimed.” “Because someone’ll try to take you from me.” “Because I need them to know you’re mine before they even open their mouth.”

Your breath catches. “Remmick…”

“They’ll smell it on ya. Feel it in your blood. The burn of me, buried under your skin. It’ll make ‘em hesitate. Make ‘em hurt when they touch you.”

You swallow hard.

Your legs are still trembling from his last claiming. You can feel his seed still dripping from you. You can feel his breath in your lungs, the bond in your spine, his mark over your heart.

And still—he wants more.

You crawl toward him. Hands shaking. And press your lips to his palm.

The taste is sharp. Sweet. Thick with something that isn’t just blood.

Power.

Magic.

Hunger older than this country, older than the woods, older than God.

Remmick groans low in his throat, watching you lap at the wound like you’re starved for it.

Maybe you are. Maybe you always have been.

When you’ve had your fill, he pulls you up into his lap, cradling you there like a bride carried across a threshold made of ash and bone. His mouth finds your throat again. Kisses it. “I’ll kill for you,” he whispers. “I’ll burn for you.”

You press your forehead to his. “I know.”

“I’ll never let you go.”

“I don’t want you to.”

His arms tighten around you. One hand slides over your belly. The mark is glowing again. Dimmer, but pulsing steady. “You’ll carry my blood now,” he says, voice soft and ruined. “One day you’ll carry more.”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

The bond answers for you.

You are his.

Forever.

Not because he took. But because you gave.

Because when the dark came knocking—when it whispered promises of pleasure and fear and ruin—

You opened the door. You bared your throat.

You said yes.

And now, when they speak of the bloodbound bride of the most dangerous vampire in the Delta, they won’t whisper in pity.

They’ll whisper in awe.

Because you didn’t run. You didn’t cry. You stayed.

And when they ask you why—if you’re ever foolish enough to speak to mortals again—you’ll say the only truth that matters anymore.

“I was scared.”

And then, with a smile, with teeth, with Remmick’s fire burning behind your ribs—

“But I loved him more.”

[lambilegs]

contains: nsft content (minors + ageless blogs dni), modern!au, "daddy" used as a title, reader receiving strap on + fingering from sevika, breeding kink, dirty talk, dom/sub dynamics, sevika teasing reader for being tight, reader's body is referred to with the terms: "pussy," "clit," "tits," kinda semi-public idk

best friend's older sister!sevika who you need to sneak around with because it's that hard to find a minute alone with her during your friend group's sleepover.

your friends are at your side every minute of the day, all of you sprawled together on the couches through the afternoon, then later helping each other get ready to head to the club. you don't even get a split second to show sevika how you look, for as soon as your outfit is patted in place by your friends, your uber is here and all of you are rushing out.

by the time you all return to your best friend's house, giggling and stumbling through the door, sevika is seated on the couch, typing away on her laptop. as you all pass the living room to head up the stairs, the two of you lock eyes, your stomach twisting and turning with excitement as her eyes scan over your body, her jaw clenching in what you can only hope is desire.

as all of your friends take turns hopping in and out of the shower, you jerk up from where you're lying down on the floor when your phone rings with a notification. the words immediately have your entire body prickling with anticipation, feeling as though the simple sentences have set you aflame.

When it's your turn to shower, text me. I'll meet you in the bathroom.

a painfully, agonizingly long forty minutes later, you carefully push the door open to the bathroom, gulping hard when you find sevika there, already topless and in a pair of basketball shorts. you've seen her in this state before, of course you have, but still, it makes your chest throb in a multitude of ways. both for the eagerness from knowing what's to come, and the domesticity of seeing her like this, casually half-nude and waiting for you in the bathroom. if you let yourself soften the moment with a tinge of daydreaming, you can almost picture how blissful it'd be years from now, doing your skincare routine as she lingers nearby, leaning on the wall and talking to you.

those tender ideas blur away when she faces you, your eyes immediately skipping down to the thick line of hair starting at her stomach and fluttering wider at the centre of her hips. you feel hungry for it, wanting to feel that bush of hair rub against yours as the two of you claw at each other for more touch, more words, more moans. more, more, more. you don't think you'll ever get enough of her.

and just an inch or two lower, and god, there's a bulge.

she leans against the counter, crossing her arms and a subtle smirk. "something caught your eye?"

her voice is low and quiet amidst the blaring fan in the bathroom, the cool touch of which sends goosebumps popping along your sweat-soaked back.

"I should be asking you that," you drawl, sauntering over to her to wrap your arms around her neck. "you're the one who asked me to meet here, remember?"

she wraps her arms around your waist, her rough hand sliding up your top as she pulls your body against the hard planes of hers. the scent of the coconut oil seeping through her hair infuses your nose, and you breathe it in deeply as her nose brushes against yours. "I do remember. but, do you want a verbal answer for that? or can I show you?"

with every article of clothing she peels off you, your skin is met with hot, wet kisses, her tongue lapping the sweat coating it and making your body arch in pleasure. when she tugs your top off, her hands are immediately groping your tits, mouth sucking eagerly on your nipples. she devours your body like a woman starved, soft, pink tongue swiping at the stiffened nubs and making you close your thighs together in sensitivity. it only worsens when she playfully skims the line of her teeth along them, her grey eyes carefully locked on your face, which heats up in response, knowing you must look incredibly glossed over and aroused right now. especially once your noises start joining the mix, a choked out gasp wrenching out of your throat when she takes turn sucking harshly on them, her mouth so rough that your chest keeps pumping out in her direction.

your hand flies to your mouth when a sharp knock is pounded against the door, your name loudly called. "bro, hurry up, I still reek of alcohol."

"s-sorry," you stutter out, nails digging into sevika's shoulders when her large hands cup your ass, fingers digging into the plush of it as she walks backwards in the direction of the shower.

after rubbing your aching pussy and spending a few minutes with two fingers plunging in and out of your hole, she has you cornered in the shower, the steam coating both your bodies in delicious, moist heat. her large chest is lodged right up against yours, her hand kneading at the back of your thigh as she coaxes you to lift one foot up on the ledge. an act with only gets her purple strap hitting even deeper in you, her sharp, measured thrusts making your eyes roll back.

as per usual, she's relentless, keeping you pinned to the wall as her hips snap against yours, creating wet-sounding smacks that only add to your arousal. in the heated, wet cube of the shower, you feel utterly surrounded by her, the two of your bodies intertwining as one as she fucks you hard and fast, the thick length of her drilling into you with such strength that it causes your back to keep sliding up and down the slippery tiles of the wall.

"you'd have thought that I would've loosened you up by now," she mutters against your jaw, her words barely audible from the rain of the shower. "but, no, just as tight as when I first fucked this pussy."

you moan loudly, eyes fluttering shut as your neck arches up. "god-- fuck, sevi--"

she immediately takes the bait in your movements, her teeth sinking into your skin as she sucks a harsh mark, the sting of it making your toes curl.

“you trying to get us caught or something?” she hisses, her tone sharp with discipline. “keep that mouth shut.”

your eyebrows scrunch together in pure, unadulterated pleasure, your pussy tightening when she plasters her prosthetic hand to your face, keeping you quiet as she continues pumping her cock into you. while you can barely tame and hold in your little squeaks and moans, sevika manages to get by, panting heavily as her gaze remains honed in on your face. you can tell all of this is starting to get to her more, her eyes ablaze and unfocused.

"you looked good," she whispers harshly, her nails digging harder into the plush of your thigh. "real good."

you bite your lip from behind the covering of her hand, a wide grin spilling onto your face.

sevika seems to notice it, her gaze shifting over your crinkled eyes, inciting a low chuckle of her own. her hand slides away from your mouth, which is immediately seized by her lips, her hips continue to rut up as her tongue laps softly at yours, wet and messy.

her hand squeezes your thigh one last time before resting on your stomach, pinching it lightly and inciting a soft squeal from you.

"gonna dump so much come in here," she murmurs quietly. "but, that's what you want, right? running in here so eagerly when you realized there’s a chance your cunt’s gonna get loaded. and right in the middle of a sleepover too.”

“daddy,” you gasp against her mouth, your hands reaching behind to dig your nails into her back.

“don’t you worry,” she rasps, the cool metal of her hand sending shivers down your spine as it cups your ass cheek and spreads you out. “I can tell when a slut needs to be taken care of.”

and taken care of is exactly how you feel once she's helping you climb out of the shower, legs wobbly and thighs deliciously achy.

when you two realize that your love-making took a very long, very accidental forty minutes, sevika watches with a bemused smirk as you stumble through the bathroom, rushing to wash your face and get your clothes back on. panic rushing through you, you slowly pinch the bathroom door open, your head snapping from side to side before hissing for sevika to get out, smacking her bare back frantically as you push her in the direction of her bedroom.

she's halfway across the hall when she pauses, her head whipping to the side. your breath catches in your throat, and face tightened into a premature wince, you turn to see someone in your friend group frozen in place, gawking at the two of you.

the three of you watch each other in stunned silence until you finally jolt into action, spluttering over the sight of sevika standing calmly out in the open, her chest bare. a hot fusion of embarrassment and anxiety whirs through you, and it propels you into actions, hands haphazardly scrambling to continue shoving sevika to her bedroom. your efforts double when your idiot girlfriend chooses to chuckle to herself, purposely placing her weight back on you to make your task even more difficult. 

as you two finally stumble through the threshold into her bedroom, you very pointedly ignore your friend’s laugh and victorious mutter of, “at least I get five dollars now."

[lxvebun]

spring rain

buns notes: this went from a 500 word drabble to a 3.2k word brainrot.

content: Sukuna x gender neutral reader. College au! Sunshine x grumpy trope. Yearning, FLUFF sickeningly sweet fluff. Sukuna had a lip piercing. Mention of smoking once or twice. Little rushed at certain parts, pookies this fic gave me so much eyestrain ejdj. Eng is not my first language let me know if there are any annoying mistakes!

You’re too sweet for someone like Sukuna Ryomen. Too bubbly, too full of color and kindness, like spring in human form compared to someone who seems like he was carved out of storm clouds and shattered glass. And everyone around you makes sure to remind you of that every time your eyes seem to wander off in search of him. Every time you try to catch a glimpse as he walks by or your head turns around at the sound of his voice.

"He's trouble." "He's rude." "He's all bite, no bark. Be careful."

They’re not wrong, necessarily. Almost everyone has either witnessed or been the recipient of his downright cruel insults and sharp tongue. And yeah, it's probably not the best idea to get involved with someone who seemingly gets agitated over the smallest things. Someone who threatens to punch someone's lights out whenever they look at him the wrong way. Someone who comes to lectures with a bloody broken nose and a split lip at least once a month. Someone rumored to be some underground fighter, someone for hire to do your dirty work, throwing punches for cash beneath flickering street lights.

And the thing you hear most often? “You’re too good for him. He’s only going to break your heart.”

Whether that's true or not, you're not really sure. But maybe it doesn't really matter when Sukuna of all people has the special ability to reduce you into a lovesick mess and make your heart feel all warm and fuzzy. When something as small as a brief glance your way or the sound of his voice are enough to errupt a plethora of butterflies in your stomach.

You once read a line at 2am while doomscrolling the night away after another failed attempt at sleeping. It carved itself into the walls of your mind and refused to leave ever since:

“In the right heaven-yellow light, anything looks holy enough to save you.”

You scribbled it in the margins of your notebook, circled it in red, then underlined it so many times the paper nearly tore. It felt like the only way to explain what Sukuna looked like to you in those fleeting golden moments, when the light catches on his lashes and softens the hard edges of his face, casting a halo where no one else seems to see one.

Yes, he’s cruel. He’s cold. He’s careless.

But sometimes, when you catch him in the soft sparkle of the morning sun or in the lull of twilight when everything feels a a little softer, a little more like a dream, he looks like he could be something else. Something warm, something sweet. Like the first crocus pushing through thawed earth, the first beam of sunlight after a cold harsh winter.

You keep this to yourself of course. Keep those thoughts tucked away between the lines of your notebooks, in the quiet corners of your mind. To dream about later when you go to sleep. Because as much as you like to daydream about this theoretical goodness inside of him, try to solve the puzzle that is Sukuna Ryomen, you're very much aware that these thoughts, this fixation on him stem from the puppy crush you’re harboring more than any objective, critical observation. Hell, you’ve barely interacted with him other than stolen glances and brushing past him in crowded hallways.

It's just a silly little crush. Something softer to fixate on than the endless stressful exams and exhausting all-nighters. Nothing more, nothing less and that’s okay. You're okay with that.

However, something begins to shift come spring. Things begin to bloom… a little differently.

ⓘMon march 24. 8:14 AM

Your morning unfolds like a series of unfortunate events. Your alarm, the one time you don't double-check it, betrays you, leaving you to be awakened by your body's internal clock in a haze of sleep and panic before rushing out the door. The air outside bites with an unexpected chill that you would have been more prepared for had you actually had some time this morning, and your favorite café, typically a haven, serves you a coffee so sweet it becomes undrinkable. By the time you reach the lecture hall, it's already brimming with students, each seat occupied or guarded by a strategically placed bag.

Your eyes scan the room, heart sinking, as every seat you gravitate towards has already been taken. Until they land on a solitary empty seat in the back row — beside him.

Sukuna Ryomen.

He’s claimed the seat closest to the pathway, which means that, if he’d let you, you’d have to scoot past him to reach the empty chair and that alone makes you debate whether the floor is really such a bad spot. Your back wins that argument, however.

He’s slouched, arms crossed, head tilted back like he’d rather be anywhere else. There's a bandage over the bridge of his nose and a scratch near his jaw that looks fresh. Angry and red against his skin. He doesn’t look at you when you approach. Doesn’t move his bag either.

“Hey…is that seat taken?” The words come out way more shy than you intended.

His eyes flick toward you. Brief. Sharp. Then away again before he speaks, gruff: “No.”

He doesn't move his bag but he does shift his legs slightly, giving you the space to squeeze past. It’s not an invitation, not really. But it’s not rejection either.

As you settle beside him, you try not to think about how close his leg is to yours, how his broad shoulders nearly bump into you and how despite sitting down he still manages to tower over most. He smells faintly like smoke and something coppery, blood most likely. His presence all in all should intimidate you more than it does. Instead, there's a strange comfort in the closeness (maybe that's just your heart beating a little stronger and convincing than the rational part in your mind). You try to focus on the lecture, on keeping your notes tidy and your mind grounded, but it’s hard when your thoughts are fluttering everywhere. Between the nerves, the curiosity, and the way your heart won’t settle, your handwriting comes out crooked, your fingers a little too unsteady..

When your pen eventually slips from your grasp, surprisingly, he retrieves it without so much as a sigh or a grunt, holding it out to you, his gaze never leaving the front of the room. You mumble something between a thank you and apology and he responds with a barely audible hum.

The rest of the lecture passes more smoothly after that, the flutter of nerves calming down as the minutes pass. Now and then, you can feel his eyes on you, fleeting, when you glance over, he’s already turned his attention back to the front, idly tugging at his lip piercing. You find yourself unintentionally fixated on the subtle glint of the silver metal, eyes lingering longer than they should. He notices, a quiet chuckle slipping past his lips, amused, maybe even a little flattered. You're quick to avert your eyes after that. Ignoring the racing of your heart as you try to tune back into whatever the professor was saying.

The lecture winds down without further incident, the professor’s voice finally trailing off into dismissal. Sukuna is out of his seat the instant it’s over, slinging his backpack over one shoulder and heading for the aisle.

You exhale, shoulders loosening slightly as the tension of the hour begins to dissolve. But before you can fully settle into the quiet, Sukuna pauses.

He turns back to you, eyes trailing over your form, Behind him, the tall windows rattle softly in their frames. Rain streaking down the glass in blurred rivers.

He glances at the storm, jaw tightening, then looks at you again. You fail to recognize the glint in his eyes. After a beat, he sighs, drops his bag to the floor, and shrugs off his leather jacket.

Without a word, he steps forward and holds it out to you.

You begin to shake your head, waving your hands frantically, the words "it's okay" barely make it past your lips before you're enveloped in something warm, heavy as he drapes the jacket around your shoulders.

"You can give it back tomorrow," he mutters, eyes avoiding yours, before turning and disappearing down the hallway, the echo of his footsteps swallowed by the rain.

Despite the hectic morning, despite the cold outside, something warm curls in your heart and stubbornly lingers long after he’s gone.

ⓘTue. March 25. 7:45 AM

You’re on time the next day, thankfully. The lecture hall is still quiet, touched with that early-morning calm, and best of all, it’s full of empty seats waiting to be claimed. You make your usual choice: fifth row, right in the middle. It’s the perfect spot—close enough to see the board without squinting, but not so close you feel exposed.

Sliding into your seat, you let yourself relax, Sukuna’s jacket resting on your lap, thumbing idly through your phone while the room slowly begins to fill. The murmur of arriving students builds little by little until—

A knee knocks into yours.

You blink, startled, and look up.

Sukuna.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just nods and settles in the empty seat beside you.

“Thank you, Sukuna,” you say, offering a small smile as you hand him his jacket back

He nods, then mutters, “Ryo is fine.”

He tosses the jacket into his lap with a careless flick of his wrist. You wait for the moment he’ll stand and retreat to his usual seat in the back. But instead, he makes himself comfortable, leans back into the stiff wooden chair, legs stretched out, head tilted back and eyes closed.

For the briefest second, he looks... calm.

Then the bell rings.

A substitute walks in, clipboard in hand, and that peace he once had evaporates instantly.

You notice the change instantly. Sukuna’s jaw tightens, and his whole body shifts, sighing, fidgeting, fingers twitching against the side of his jeans. So maybe one of the rumors was true: his patience...or lack of it.

He chews the end of his pen like it personally wronged him, expression locked in that ever-present scowl.

You try not to notice. Really, you do. You focus on the substitute, who seems nice enough, if a little scatterbrained. He stumbles through the material, backtracks, apologizes, and starts over again.

Sukuna doesn’t make it easy.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The eraser of his pencil hits the desk in sharp, uneven bursts.

Annoying. Erratic. Deliberate.

You glance over once. He’s staring ahead, eyes fixed, unblinking.

Twice. Now he’s looking at you, only from the corner of his eye, like he’s waiting for you to crack first. Daring you to say something

You fold.

"Did that pencil steal your lunch money or something?"

He turns toward you. For a second, nothing. Then the corners of his lips pull into an easy smile, He swings an arm around the back of your chair, respectful enough to not touch you, close enough that you can feel his body heat.

“Just thinking about stabbing it through my eye,” he says.

You blink. “ what a nice, normal thing to think about.”

He shrugs. “Better than listening to this guy. Pretty sure even he doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

You snort, quietly, before you can stop it.

It earns you another glance, this one softer. Curious, even.

He leans back again, pencil now resting against his bottom lip instead of tapping the desk.

Something shifts between you two. You both feel it. It’s not enough to name. But it’s something.

Enough to make you feel more at ease, leaning back in your chair more comfortably, not blinking in surprise or moving away when your knees touch nor when the arm around the back of your chair curls a little more around you.

ⓘThu. March 27. 21:13

The next time you see Sukuna is a few days after your last encounter. It's late—just past 9—after a long-overdue study session with a friend. You told her you'd stay a little longer, work a little more, you waved her off with a tired smile, insisting you'd be fine getting home on your own.

When you finally step out of the library, your eyes are heavy with sleep and your stomach twists begging for something more substantial than the coffee and vending machine snacks you've been surviving on. You descend the steps slowly, half-lost in your thoughts until you see him.

Ryomen.

Leaning against one of the stone pillars just outside, a half-smoked cigarette dangling between his lips, the soft glow of twilight and hazy streetlights casting golden shadows across his face. His helmet rests carelessly by his feet. There's a fresh bruise blooming along the edge of his jaw, and even in the dim lighting, you can make out dried blood and new cuts on his knuckles.

He hasn’t noticed you yet.

You hesitate. Would it be weird to just walk past him without saying anything? Would he even want to talk? It's hard to tell with him, his default expression always seems to hover somewhere between indifferent and vaguely pissed off.

Still, you speak.

“Hey, Ryo...”

Quiet enough to slip by unnoticed if he wants to ignore it. Open enough to invite a reply if he doesn't.

He glances over. Nods. Removes the cigarette from his lips and exhales the smoke sideways, deliberately away from you.

“You're out late.”

“Study session,” you reply, “Trying to piece together what the substitute was actually saying... you know?”

You’re not sure where the sudden courage to crack a half assed joke comes from, but it earns you a real smile from him, small but genuine, as he takes another drag.

“Good luck with that. Didn’t understand shit.”

There’s a beat of silence before you find yourself saying,

“Would you... I could text you my notes, if you want?”

He eyes you—an unreadable glint in his gaze. Playful? Curious? Something else entirely?

“You asking for my number?”

You freeze, caught somewhere between embarrassment and surprise. Before you can stammer out a reply, he chuckles—quiet and low—then fishes his phone out of his pocket and holds it out to you.

It's beat up, cracked at every corner, and struggles to register the taps of your fingers as you enter your number. Still, you manage.

When you hand it back, “Oh—my name is—”

“Y/N,” he says, cutting you off gently, “I know.”

You blink. “How do you know my name?”

He shrugs, eyes drifting toward the sky like he won’t elaborate. The silence that follows isn’t awkward, just… suspended. Like the moment is deciding what it wants to be.

He drops the cigarette to the ground and crushes it under his boot with a quiet scrape. Then, almost casually, he says, “You headed back to the dorms?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just a few blocks away.”

He considers that for a moment, then picks up his helmet “I’ll walk you.”

You blink again, thrown off. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he says simply, cutting off the protest before it can form. His voice is rough, but there's a strange softness beneath it—like the gesture isn't for show, like it matters to him in a way he won’t admit out loud.

You try to fall in step beside him as he starts walking, his strides easy, slows a little when he realises he's going too fast. The night hums around you wind tugging gently at your clothes, the few leaves that have begun sprouting rustling in the trees overhead, the occasional buzz of a streetlamp flickering to life. He breaks the silence after a while

“You always this reckless?”

You glance at him, confused. “Reckless?”

“Heading home alone this late.”

You roll your eyes lightly. “It’s not that late.”

He doesn’t argue, but you hear the faintest huff of disapproval.

Eventually, you reach the familiar path that leads to your dorm. You stop just at the edge, where the lights from the windows spill across the pavement in warm, golden patches. Sukuna slows beside you, eyes scanning the area before landing back on you.

He hesitates for a second—just long enough for you to notice—then nods once.

“Get some sleep,” he says. “You look like hell.”

You laugh under your breath. “Thanks. You’re not looking so great yourself.”

A ghost of a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

He turns without waiting for a reply, but you watch him for a few seconds longer as he walks away—helmet dangling from one hand, bloodied knuckles catching the light, his figure fading into the shadowed path beyond.

Warmth blooms in your chest again. Different from before. Not just butterflies now, but something steadier. Stronger.

And long after he’s gone, when you're back in the comfort of your dorm you still feel it.

ⓘfri. March 28. 18:37

The weekend has begun.

The hallways are quieter now, the last shuffle of feet fading into the distance as students leave the building, laughing in small clusters, huddling close against the oncoming chill. You linger, trailing your fingers along the railing as you descend the steps, the air thick and heavy with the scent of spring rain—fresh earth, damp bark, and something faintly sweet like budding flowers just beginning to stretch open. Everything smells clean, alive, as if the world has been waiting for this exact moment to breathe again.

You pause beneath the shelter outside the lecture hall, arms wrapped around your bag. A breeze dances past, and though it carries a lingering bite, it’s softened by the warmer undercurrent that always comes this time of year—the promise of growth, of things blooming again.

The rain begins slowly at first, a droplet here and there, before it turned into a drizzle, then into a cloudbreak. It hits the pavement hard, kicking up steam and a stronger wave of that earthy, green scent it's the kind of rain that feels like it’s rinsing the last frost of winter away.

You shrink back beneath the narrow shelter, clutching your bag a little tighter to your body, trying to avoid the areas where rain leaks through. Your umbrella? A long forgotten accessory still sitting on the floor of your dorm. You debate whether or not you should make a run for it or wait it out, although the rain doesn't seem like it's stopping anytime soon

Then you hear it. footsteps. Measured. Familiar.

Then, without looking at you:

He steps into your periphery, already damp, rain streaking down the curve of his neck, along the outlines of his tattoo and soaking into the fabric of his hoodie. Earbuds wrapped around his ears, dangling with each step. He doesn’t speak at first, just watches the storm with a sort of stillness that feels different than usual.

Softer.

“You waiting for it to flood, or…?”

You glance up at him, sheepish. “Didn’t think I’d need an umbrella today. Spring’s supposed to be kinder than this.”

A quiet huff of amusement, barely a laugh. He shifts his bag, pulls a weathered umbrella from inside, and opens it with one smooth flick of his wrist.

He hesitates just a beat.

Then, like it’s no big deal he holds his arm out to you, just slightly but you get the idea.

“Come on. I’ll walk you.”

You don't hesitate this time, curling a hand around his arm carefully as step beside him, close beneath the small arc of shelter. The umbrella’s not big and you're pretty sure his right shoulder is getting completely soaked but he doesnt" seem to care. The bruise on his jaw is healing, fading into his skin and the broken skin on his knuckles have turned into white little lines. His normal cologne, natural scent of smoke is softened by the sweet green notes still clinging to the rain.

“Thank you” you murmur.

He doesn’t look at you. Just says, quieter:

“Your books would’ve gotten ruined.”

There’s meaning tucked between the words, like always.

When you glance up at him, his ears are flushed faintly pink.

You smile. Something new and gentle stirs in your chest.

Maybe spring is kinder than you thought.

Maybe it just came in his shape.

[nowimjustastranger]

I saw this art and my unhelpful brain decided that it wanted to write something for this instead of finishing any of the several dozen wips that I have. But like, no regrets because I've been wanting to write an AU that's more on the creepier side and FrankenStan is the perfect medium for that.

So, without further ado... enjoy!

Stan scrutinized the haggard being in the mirror, his hands braced on the white countertop. They had been covered in grime last Stan saw them –much like the rest of him– but now they were squeaky clean. There wasn’t even dirt under his fingernails anymore. His newfound cleanliness came off as an attempt to erase the wear and tear of the last decade.

Stan still didn’t know how he felt about Ford washing him when he was a corpse.

His body, once an unmarked canvas that life had not yet touched, had become riddled with scars after he was kicked to the curb. And now he was a patchwork of stitches, the worst of the scarring removed with careful cuts before new skin was sewn into place. Each ugly reminder of what he’d survived was replaced with his brother’s handiwork, Ford literally piecing him back together.

Besides, Stan would rather be covered in scars from his brother than keep the marks from all of the unsavory characters that he’s had the misfortune of getting mixed up with over the years.

There was a y-shaped cut spanning nearly the entire length of his torso, stopping just above where the hem of his jeans would be if he hadn’t stripped down after turning the shower on. One of his hands left the counter to brush the pads of his fingers over the raised skin, and there was the distant sensation of what might be pain, but it was just an echo.

Stan’s fingers pressed down harder and curled into the wound, three of the stitches holding it shut tearing, blood gushing from the ragged hole that he had created. The curious digits sunk deeper with a wet sound, dull brown eyes blankly staring at his questing fingers through the mirror. His right eye was a familiar brown but the other was slightly off, the color just a few shades too light.

A timid knock at the door startled him, tearing his eyes away from the fingers buried to the hilt in his chest to the wooden obstruction. He blinked, clawing his way back to the surface, looking around once he was more present in his body. The sheer amount of blood covering both his front and the floor had him grimacing, though he couldn’t help but experimentally wiggle the fingers that he had stuffed into his own chest just to feel that not-quite-pain again.

“Stanley, I brought you a towel and some clothe–” Ford’s voice grew clearer as the door opened and he poked his head in, freezing with one foot in the bathroom. Stan found Ford’s eyes in the reflection, but he was staring at the fingers buried in Stan’s bloody wound, the color rapidly draining from his face. Ford’s grip on the neatly folded stack of fabric went slack and he closed the distance between them, reaching Stan before the pile even hit the ground in a messy heap.

“Stanley! What are you doing!?” Ford demanded, his voice the closest to shrill that his vocal cords could manage. Stan didn’t resist when Ford grabbed his wrist to carefully extract the digits from the gaping hole, blood pouring out unimpeded once his fingers were removed and there was nothing plugging it up anymore.

Ford made a wounded sound that had Stan’s insides clenching with guilt, turning his head away so he didn’t have to look at the devastation and terror on his brother’s face. Ford had yet to let go of Stan’s wrist, grip so tight that it should hurt, but it didn’t. Truthfully, Stan didn’t remember a time in his life where he wasn’t feeling some type of pain. From the sting of shallow cuts and splinters as an adventurous kid, to the ache of bumps and bruises as a stubborn teen, and finally to the burn of beatings and broken bones as a piece of shit adult.

“Stanley? Stanley, talk to me. Please?” Ford pleaded and Stan nearly gave himself whiplash with how fast his head turned to look at Ford, who hadn’t sounded that small and scared since his age hit the double digits.

He opened his mouth to say something –maybe a joke, maybe reassurances, even he didn’t know what would come out of him at this point– when he suddenly paused. A blood vessel in Ford’s right eye had burst, red creeping into white, and Stan abruptly found himself rooted in place. A chill crawled down Stan’s spine, fear settling heavy in his gut as his fight or flight instincts stirred.

Something was looking back at him.

Watching.

“Stanley?” Ford called, his tone less panicked and more wary now, and Stan soon realized why when he snapped out of his intense staring only to find that he had squared up against his brother. Stan stiffly took a step back, his body resisting with all the ferocity of a cornered animal as he forced it to relax into a less aggressive stance. He was losing it, he had to be. There was nothing staring at him from his brother’s eye, that was fucking crazy.

Ford should’ve just cut his losses and buried his corpse in a shallow grave out in the woods somewhere.

“Sorry. Jumpy.” Stan offered lamely, scrubbing a hand over his face as he shuffled further away to put more distance between them. He cringed when he realized that he was ass-naked in front of his brother, less ashamed and more worried about Ford’s sense of modesty or whatever. Ford had hated when Stan would walk around the house in his boxers as a teen, and now here Stan was with not a scrap of fabric on him in Ford’s house.

“Unusual side effects are only to be expected.” Ford grunted dismissively, seemingly letting it go as he marched over to the discarded towel and clothes to pick them up and brush them off before refolding them. He set them onto the countertop when he was done fussing, then he crouched down to grab a large first aid kit from the cabinet under the sink.

“I need to replace the stitches.” Ford murmured, beckoning Stan over with a sharp jerk of his head. Stan hesitated for a moment before ultimately shuffling over to him, though he kept a respectful gap between them since he didn’t think that Ford would like Stan’s bare skin brushing up against him. Ford had always been skittish about touch, sometimes he couldn’t stand it and sometimes it was like he needed it more than air.

Ford surprised Stan by closing the space between them, pressing a warm hand to Stan’s side to guide him to sit on the toilet lid. Ford would no doubt sanitize it later, along with the rest of the bathroom considering there was a significant amount of blood pooled on the floor where Stan had been standing. Stan tried not to feel guilty about it. Failed.

Stan felt that distant pang again as Ford removed the ripped stitches and replaced them, the pull of skin was all he registered. Ford’s hands were steady but his expression was pinched, his worry and guilt recognizable even with a decade of estrangement between them. Little did Ford know, Stan remembered what happened, though he had lied and said he didn’t when Ford had asked.

Ford had looked so scared when he brought up their lackluster reunion that Stan lied. He didn’t regret it though, not when Ford looked so relieved to hear that Stan didn't have any memory of Ford’s hostility and then their fight in the basement. Stan had felt like shit, the infected incision on his side pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

Being on the run with a kidney missing was… an experience, to say the least. One that he never wanted to repeat.

Stan remembered the feeling of Ford’s boot pressing against his chest, pushing him back. He remembered how his right shoulder erupted with white-hot agony, the scent of burning skin making his head spin. Then the foot was gone and Stan had slumped over onto the side that still had a kidney, his chest hurt and his stomach churned. He couldn’t seem to breathe properly either, black encroaching from the edges of his vision.

Then… nothing.

Stan assumes that he lost consciousness, but he’s still not sure how exactly he died. Ford was awfully tight-lipped on the matter too, visibly uncomfortable. So, against his better judgement, Stan let it lie for the time being. Ford had looked… bad. Worse than when Stan had initially come face to face with him. The dark circles darker and eyes wild, his hair an utter mess and the same clothes that he had been wearing when they reunited were now dirtied with dried blood.

Ford had yet to clean himself up and change since he insisted that Stan get the first shower, which led to the present where Ford was packing up the first aid kit, his brows furrowed like he wanted to ask a question but hesitated to do so for whatever reason. Ford had a habit of getting all up in his own head, overcomplicating things or needlessly worrying.

“Somethin’ wrong?” Stan prompted and Ford’s face smoothed out, his emotional shields slamming down in an instant. It was like highschool all over again, though Stan had no one but himself to blame for how that turned out. If he had just been a better son, a better brother, just… better. Things would’ve been different.

“You don’t need to worry, Stanley.” Ford grunted, putting the first aid kit away but otherwise making no move to make himself scarce. Stan couldn’t really blame him for his unwillingness to leave Stan to his own devices, especially after he found Stan fucking around with one of his stitched-up wounds. So Stan didn’t comment, opting to make his way to the shower and step under the steaming spray.

The hot water was blissful, warming Stan from the outside in. He left the curtain pulled open just enough that he was able to peek out every so often as he went through the process of washing himself, finding the bathroom empty but the door left wide open, Ford returning with rubber gloves on and a bucket of cleaning supplies within a few minutes.

Ford wiped down both the toilet and counter before starting on the floor, scrubbing the cold and sticky blood off the tile. Stan occasionally checked his progress, impressed and a little uneasy in equal measure about how much he seemed to know concerning proper clean-up. Stan himself had been a cleaner for Rico rather than a smuggler, he was less apprehensive about cleaning up a crime scene than potentially participating in human trafficking.

Still, he had eventually sent an anonymous tip to the authorities when he had been called to clean a family massacre. One of Rico’s men had been skimming off the top and Rico had made an example of him and his family. One of the mutilated bodies was a fucking six year old, and her death obviously hadn’t been fast or painless.

But Rico had half the precinct in his pocket and Stan was given a warning by way of ambushing him in his motel room, knocking him out with a blow to the head. He had woken up naked in a tub, his side hurting like a bitch and head throbbing. He was alone, his clothes neatly folded and pockets cleaned out, his possessions lined up on the counter.

When Stan struggled out of the tub with uncooperative limbs and lots of cursing, stumbling over to check his wallet first and then his phone, he found a text from Rico waiting. That’s when he realized just how deep he was, stuck in a cage that he had voluntarily walked into, even shutting the door behind him. He was an idiot to think that he could get involved with the cartel and not end up in a shallow grave.

So he ran.

“–ley. Stanley.” Ford said urgently, snapping Stan out of his trance. He blinked, the burbling drain coming into stark clarity. The water was lukewarm at best now, Ford’s hands a hot brand on his slick skin. And, judging by the distress written all over Ford’s face, he had been trying to get a response from Stan for longer than he was comfortable with.

“...sorry.” Stan mumbled, reaching for the knob only for Ford to gently knock his hand away to do it himself, the spray dying down to a rhythmic drip. Then Ford pulled the shower curtain open further, briefly stepping away to snag the fluffy towel, before returning to wrap it around Stan’s shoulders. He hovered as Stan stepped out of the tub, body moving on automatic.

Stan couldn’t find it in himself to protest when Ford took the towel and started carefully rubbing him down with it, starting with his hair and working downward. Thankfully, Ford skipped over Stan’s crotch and ass, simply passing Stan the towel once he was done with Stan’s calves so Stan could do it himself, Ford hurrying over to the counter to fetch the clean clothes.

The silence was oppressive, like a physical weight bearing down on Stan’s shoulders, but he had yet to scrounge up the courage to break it. But something had to give and, as the confrontational twin, Stan usually took it upon himself to crack open Ford’s hard outer shell. Stan didn’t even know if he could still reach the familiar boy who was hidden beneath layer upon layer of Ford’s protective walls.

But fuck if Stan wasn’t going to give it his best shot.

I T ' S A L I V E

click for better quality

[acosmicbee]

I think I’m cooking rn … so Yk how there’s all the discourse online abt child influencers?? So the Yandere in this situation is a “commentary” “video essay” YouTuber and one day they get an announcement suggesting to look into reader. See reader is a child influencer, trapped under their bad parents and forced to make videos for them and yan is immediately interested in making a video about them so he does and he notices it gets success so he continues to make videos about reader and it’s to the point where it’s low-key an obsession

do whatever u want with that au heheh 

Poison Words

500 Follower Celebration - Day 4

TWS: Mentions of creepy/implied inappropriate comments towards a minor (Y/N), Parental Neglect

"It's just some stupid kid who has nothing better to do than be jealous of others' success! Honestly, why can't he go play some video games or stick his nose into someone else's business?" You peeked out of the basement door, watching your mother pace the newly renovated modern kitchen.

Apparently, someone had been saying some lies online about your family. Not that you knew what was said, you weren’t allowed online. You were hardly allowed out of the house other than for filming videos or school.

"Honestly, this wouldn't have happened if Y/N would just behave instead of being a whiney crybaby on camera! Is it really that hard to just be quiet and smile?!" She continued. Her phone was pressed to her ear as she rhythmically paced back and forth. Her words stung, but you brushed them off. This was normal, hearing her talk about you like that.

"Y/N!" She suddenly noticed you, all her anger suddenly directed at you. "We raised you better than to eavesdrop on conversations that clearly aren't meant for you! Go back to your room right now!"

You could only nod, slinking back down the basement stairs. You had just wanted a snack, she'd forgotten to give you breakfast and lunch. Although, maybe it was less forgetfulness and more apathy towards you.

You only got fed when your parents randomly remembered you, or you were filming a video. You didn't mind filming the videos because your parents were always nicer when the camera was on. You wished the camera stayed on all the time sometimes, just so they'd hug you and tell you they loved you.

The room shown in your videos, the one that was colorful and full of toys and blankets and pillows, was merely a set you weren't allowed to actually sleep in. Your actual bedroom was a small room in the basement with a basic wooden bed frame, mattress and sheets.

You curled up on your bed, holding your pillow close as you thought about your mother's words. Someone posted a video about you...? It didn't sound positive from what your mother had said and you wondered what he had said. But there was no way for you to know... right?

. ₊ ⊹ . 📽.ᐟ

You glanced around the library nervously as you crept towards the computers. At school your class got 30 minutes of library time every day, but you had never dared to touch the computers before, always picking up a book.

You felt sick with anxiety as the search bar popped up and you typed in YouTube. Everything felt overstimulating on the homepage and you quickly located the search bar, typing in your channel name. Among the most recent videos from your own channel was one with a guy on the thumbnail next to a picture of your family with your face blurred out. Gingerly, you clicked on the video.

The video started with a man, maybe in his 20s staring into the camera. He looked serious, like something bad was happening. His hair was black but had some blue highlights in it which you found super cool.

"Todays video is going to be serious. We're going to be talking about the exploitation of children and family vlogging channels. Recently, a viewer brought a channel rising in popularity to my attention. This channel is run by a mother and father and mainly features their young child."

A few video clips were shown from your channel and in every one your face had been blurred. In any clips where your name was said a beep was played over it. It was strange to you, and almost made you close out the tab when he started to talk again.

"As you know, I don't believe children should have their faces and names on the internet. It's dangerous and you never know who could be using that to their advantage behind the scenes. Even though their parents lack the care to do so, I will be blurring their face and censoring their name during this video."

It was dangerous for your name and face to be out there? The concept was so foreign to you, your entire short life was practically on the internet. Nothing bad had happened to you so far.

You spent the rest of your library time watching the video. It made that sick anxiety feeling in your stomach even worse. Was it really that strange to be posted on the internet, for your name and face to be out there?

By the time your teacher called you all to be rounded back up you pushed down the feeling, vowing to never look him up again.

. ₊ ⊹ . 📽.ᐟ

Sky had expected the copyright striking and takedown requests on his last video. The parents from that family channel seemed like the controlling type who couldn't stand having valid criticism lobbied against them.

It didn't change anything, all the clips he had in his video were covered under fair use. Now he just had more fuel for the fire. He just felt bad for you. You were such a cute kid who didn't deserve what your parents had put you through.

He decided to look a little more into you, just to make sure you were in a safe situation, while he worked on filming his next video. After all, it would be horrible if his videos were leading to backlash towards you or a worsening of your situation.

. ₊ ⊹ . 📽.ᐟ

You lasted a week and a half before you went on the computer again. Your father and mother had been arguing over another video made about them. There had been multiple similar arguments but your mother had called this person in particular a 'blue headed freak' so you guessed who it was.

You made your way to his page, finding his newest video easily. It was similar to his last one in title and thumbnail, and you forced yourself to click on it. You had been thinking about some of the stuff he'd said in his last video and wanted to see what else he'd say.

"It seems some people are unable to learn a lesson or accept that they are wrong about certain things. Your child's personal information should not be accessible on the internet. Your child's location should not be accessible on the internet. Have you even read some of your comments?! Have you read the things creeps say about your child?!"

Your eyes widen at some of the comments that flash up on screen. You feel confused, anxious and sick. You shut the computer to head to the bathroom where your teacher later finds you sobbing and throwing up. Maybe... he was right. If people were saying those weird things about you, you didn't want to be filmed anymore.

Your mother took a long time to come get you and the second you got in the car the camera was already rolling. She was playing up the worried mother as she drove you home, talking into the camera about tucking you in and making you some soup.

Of course, none of that happened. You were sent down to your room as she talked to the camera about how she'd left you some soup and you didn't want to be filmed. She was a good liar, especially if that side of her was the only side you knew.

You curled up in your bed, closed your eyes and tried not to think too hard about the disgusting things people apparently said about you.

. ₊ ⊹ . 📽.ᐟ

It was surprisingly easy to find where you lived. Sky had already mapped out your neighborhood, which was easy considering your parents had carelessly shown your school's full name to the camera before.

They were lucky Sky was just looking out for you instead of looking to harm you.

He couldn't see anything from the outside, but that was fine. He wouldn't give up until you were safe. It was a good thing he'd booked a hotel for a while. He refused to give up on you, not when he knew he could be the savior you needed.

. ₊ ⊹ . 📽.ᐟ

You had overheard your mom talking the other night about some prank they wanted to pull. It was supposed to be a kidnapping prank, one where they'd send you out to run errands only to have some paid actor drag you into a car.

You didn't see how it was supposed to be funny, but at least you were aware. When you were told to go run to the store, you didn't protest, noticing the camera your mom had tried to hide quite easily.

The walk was peaceful, but even when you were expecting it, you still jumped when your arm was suddenly grabbed and you were pulled into a car. It wasn't until your fake kidnapper pulled out an actual syringe filled with something did you realize that maybe this was going a little off script.

The substance was injected into your neck before the person started to drive. As your vision went spotty you saw the person reach up, tugging off their hair to reveal... blue hair. Oh... so this was a real kidnapping then...

. ₊ ⊹ . 📽.ᐟ

"The search for missing child Y/N L/N is still ongoing. The child was taken while out running an errand for their parents in a situation many are calling barbaric. Allegedly, their parents paid someone to pretend to kidnap the child for a YouTube video only for the man to actually take the child away." A reporter said on the TV. Sky hummed as he sliced some strawberries.

"Y/N is 6 years old and was last seen wearing a white shirt and black bicycle shorts. They are about 3 and a half feet tall." The reporter continued as a picture of your face flashed on screen. "This disappearance has raised new scrutiny into the life of family vloggers and the potentially dangerous outcomes."

Sky placed down the knife, rummaging around in his fridge looking for some blueberries. The TV continued, "The argument is a long standing one in online spaces and has come up again and again. In fact, some people were trying to raise awareness about this family in particular before the kidnapping happened. I'd like to welcome Skylar Peyton, also known online as BlueHairedSky."

Sky grinned, pulling out a carton of blueberries. He poured some into a bowl to be washed as he turned up the TV. "Thank you for having me." His own voice said from the TV. "I really appreciate being given this kind of recognition to talk about such an important issue."

From upstairs he heard a dull thud. He frowned, setting down the bowl and making his way up, the TV still echoing through the house. "Many children are being exploited for personal gain instead of loved and treated like people. I made my first video because I felt that if no one was going to speak up for them and help them, then I would. Someone should."

Sky carefully unlocked the door to the first room beside his own with a smile. "Good morning, honey! You're already awake. Here, let me help you with that." He hummed as he carefully unlocked the padded handcuffs securing you to the bed.

"I was just making breakfast! Come on, lets get you some food." He said, ignoring the way you cowered from his touch. It was because of your old parents, not because you were scared of him. He was protecting you.

"While I hope Y/N turns up alive and well, I also hope that they'll be taken away and given to someone who will actually care for their wellbeing. This entire tragedy could've been avoided if their parents cared about anything besides money."

"Any last things you want the people watching to know?" The reporter asked. Sky set you down in a chair, placing the cut strawberries in front of you as he went back to washing the blueberries.

"I hope wherever they are... they're safe and happy."

Sky smiled. Of course you were safe and happy, you were with him of course! It had been a pleasure to be interviewed like that, even if he did have to sedate you so you didn't make noise while he was live with the reporter.

They wouldn't find you. Not now, not ever. Because Sky would never let anyone take you away from him. He had saved you, so you were his.

[fordiaz]

No Ties (Evan Buckley, Eddie Diaz) ౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪🎻

“Christopher deserves to have you close. But the life I’ve built here… the people I love, the career I’ve made, my roots — they’re here. You knew I couldn’t follow.” ༄˖°.🍂.ೃ࿔*:･

Synopsis: When Eddie makes plans to leave for El Paso without telling you, it feels like a betrayal you can’t ignore — so you walk away. The one person who stays is Buck, your best friend and quiet constant. As you help Eddie pack and say your final goodbye, you realize the future you once imagined might not be the one meant for you — and maybe, just maybe, love was waiting right beside you all along.

Genre: Angst, Comfort, Slowburn

AU: None

Pairing: Ex!Eddie Diaz x Afab!Reader, Evan Buckley x Afab!Reader

Warnings: None

Note: Based on a dream I had after a billion attempts to try to sleep because I kept waking up for some reason in the middle of the night, I can’t believe I’m already caught up with most of 911 and I’m not ready to let go of Bobby just yet. 😭 (P.S: This is my first fic with an epilogue because I felt generous, love you guys!)

Eddie hadn’t meant for it to happen like this.

It started with a listing. Then two. Then three. And before he knew it, his browser history and his iPad were full of El Paso real estate and bookmarked school districts.

No words. No announcement. Just a secret contingency plan growing like ivy in the background of his life in Los Angeles.

At first, it was just a maybe.

But the truth was that Christopher had been distant ever since the Marisol fallout. The kid didn’t talk much about it—he didn’t need to.

The disappointment had been loud in other ways: the sudden move to his abuelos’ house, the lack of text replies, the cold stares when Eddie dropped off dinner on weekends.

Eddie had cheated. And no matter how you justified it, the damage was done. What was worse was that Christopher had probably seen him differently since. Less hero. More stranger.

So, when the thought of El Paso came up, it made sense. Be near his son. Rebuild what he broke.

But he hadn’t planned on Buck finding out that day at his house.

Buck had shown up unannounced at Eddie’s door, flour smudged on his hoodie and a box of still-warm scones and other baked pastries in hand. He looked like he hadn’t slept, eyes a little too bright for someone who claimed to be “fine.”

“I almost relapsed and called Tommy,” he said, not even waiting for Eddie to ask what was wrong. “So I baked every speck of flour in the house. Here, eat a scone,”

Eddie raised an eyebrow but took the scone with a nod of gratitude.

“You good?”

Buck walked into the kitchen like he belonged there—which, in many ways, he did.

“Not really. But I will be. Eventually.”

As Eddie sat beside him, taking a bite, Buck’s gaze flicked to the table.

“Why’d you flip the tablet like that?” he asked, smirking. “Kinda suspicious, man.”

Eddie stiffened, reaching for the device—too slowly.

Buck beat him to it, fingers curling around the tablet as he turned it back over and tapped the screen to wake it. His grin faded the second the listing loaded.

“Wait… you’re looking for houses?” Buck frowned. “With your budget?”

Eddie hesitated. “They’re not in L.A., they’re in El Paso”

Buck stopped short and looked at Eddie as if he had dropped a nuclear bomb on him, before he clears his throat.

“Jesus, Eddie,” Buck breathed, his voice caught somewhere between disbelief and hurt. “You were gonna move and not tell anyone?”

That same night, you came over for dinner. You always did when Eddie had a night off and you both needed a little breather from work.

The meal was warm, filled with laughter and touches—like most nights were with Eddie. You thought things were steady, maybe even building toward something more permanent.

He was warm with you. Attentive. Hands brushing over your back when you passed by, lips pressed to your temple. Nothing about him screamed ‘I’m planning to disappear’.

After dinner, you went to grab your phone from where it had slid into the couch cushions—and noticed the iPad sitting face-up on the coffee table.

You didn’t mean to snoop. But when the screen lit up, it was still open to a listing. And then another. All of them in El Paso.

Your heart sank.

Eddie walked out of the kitchen with two glasses of wine, but he stopped when he saw your expression.

You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t accuse.

You just looked at him, tears in your eyes, and said, “Were you ever going to tell me?”

He paused, guilt spreading across his face. “I was going to. I just… didn’t know how.”

You stood up slowly. “You were going to move and never tell me?”

“It’s not like that—” he tried.

“It is like that,” you said, shaking your head.

“I get that Christopher is your priority as his father, and I respect that. I love that about you, Eddie. But you should’ve given me the decency of a heads-up, or I don’t know, you could’ve eased me into it by talking to me about moving.”

Eddie put the glasses down. His voice was low.

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“And instead you disrespected me, when you know damn well I’d never hold you back and would support you every step of the way.”

The quiet that followed was louder than any yelling could’ve been. You looked at the man in front of you, the one who’d made you feel safe—wanted. And now you felt like a temporary chapter in a story that had already moved on.

You grabbed your bag from the counter and headed for the door.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for in El Paso,” you said, voice trembling. “But I won’t be the one left behind without a goodbye or be the person to fix you and meet you halfway.”

You didn’t look back and just decided to go home.

The knock on Buck’s door came just past 9PM.

He wasn’t surprised to see you standing there, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, eyes already glossed with unshed tears you hadn’t given yourself permission to cry yet.

You didn’t say anything—just walked in when he stepped aside, like you’d done it a hundred times before.

“Kitchen’s open,” he said softly.

You gave him a tired smile, slipping off your shoes by the door. The scent of cinnamon hit you first, then the sound of something bubbling in the oven. He was barefoot, hair messy, flour dusting his black shirt.

There was a gentle domesticity to the scene that made your throat tighten.

“I figured you might need sugar therapy,” Buck joked, grabbing a spare mixing bowl. “Or, you know, an excuse to destroy the kitchen.”

“I needed somewhere to go,” you admitted, barely above a whisper. “Somewhere that wasn’t my apartment, where everything still smells like him.”

Buck didn’t push. He just handed you a whisk.

The two of you moved around the kitchen in comfortable rhythm—like you’d practiced this a hundred times before, even if you hadn’t.

You poured ingredients. He told you about a weird call from last week. You added vanilla extract. He made a joke about Ravi nearly setting the firehouse toaster on fire again.

You laughed for the first time that day.

“I can’t believe he was just going to leave,” you finally said, voice cracking as you sifted flour over the mixing bowl. “Not just L.A.—us. Me. Like it wouldn’t matter.”

Buck paused, hands still in the dough. He looked at you, really looked, and saw everything Eddie had failed to.

“You’d never hold him back,” he said gently.

“I wouldn’t,” you said, tears threatening again. “He should’ve just talked to me. That’s what you do when you’re partners. You make decisions together, or at the very least—”

“You’re honest,” Buck finished for you.

You nodded.

The silence was soft. Safe. Just the sound of the oven humming and a spoon clinking against glass.

“I didn’t expect it to hurt this much,” you added. “It’s not just the leaving. It’s how he didn’t even think I deserved a heads-up.”

Buck reached for your hand, sticky with dough. “He messed up. Big time.”

You looked down at your intertwined fingers, a little surprised by the comfort it brought you.

“I think I knew this version of him wasn’t forever. But I didn’t think I’d lose him like this.”

“You didn’t lose him,” Buck said, voice firm but kind. “You found out who he really is when it counts. And that’s not on you.”

You looked up at him, eyes wide and vulnerable. “Why does it feel like I wasn’t worth the truth?”

Buck’s gaze softened. “Because you gave him your heart. But that doesn’t mean he knew how to hold it.”

The timer went off, but neither of you moved to check the oven.

For a while, you just stood there, wrapped in the quiet, breathing in the cinnamon and the safety of the one person who’d always shown up when it mattered.

It was a slow day at the station, unusually quiet for once.

Everyone had scattered into their corners of routine — Chim fiddled with inventory, Hen was writing up incident reports, and Buck… Buck was entertaining Blaze, tossing the tennis ball across the bay with a kind of frantic energy that hadn’t gone unnoticed.

You sat nearby, head down as you double-checked the trauma kit, hands moving but mind far, far away. You hadn’t spoken to Eddie since that night.

Not beyond clipped sentences at work. Not since you stood in Buck’s loft, clinging to the last of your composure, admitting out loud that the man you trusted most had made a decision about his future without even thinking you deserved to be part of the conversation.

The bounce of the tennis ball against concrete was steady—until it wasn’t.

“You’re not the only one who knows how to leave, you know,” Buck said suddenly, loud enough for the words to cut through the room like a blade. His voice was tight, rough around the edges, a boiling point barely kept in check.

Everyone stilled.

Eddie turned from the lockers, his face drawn in confusion.

“What?”

Buck’s hands tightened around Blaze’s ball.

“I said, you’re not the only one who knows how to walk out when things get hard. You want to talk about leaving? Let’s talk about how you were ready to disappear without telling anyone—again.”

The words weren’t just meant for Eddie. They were for everyone in the room. Hen looked up. Chim’s pen stilled mid-signature.

Your chest tightened, fingers curling against the strap of the kit you were repacking.

“Buck,” Eddie warned quietly, glancing at you, then back to him. “This isn’t the time.”

“No?” Buck raised his brows, feigning surprise. “I figured since you didn’t have time to tell her you were moving, maybe now’s the perfect time for some honesty.”

Your heart pounded in your ears.

Eddie’s jaw clenched. “That’s between me and her.”

“Was it?” Buck asked. “Because it sure felt like it involved all of us when you decided this whole place didn’t matter anymore.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Silence fell again—crackling and tense. The kind that fills the air just before lightning strikes. You stood then, voice calm but cold as you crossed the room with the med kit slung over your shoulder.

“Cold shoulder today?” Eddie asked softly, trying to sound casual, like it was just another awkward shift between calls. But you saw the tightness in his mouth, the way his eyes flicked toward you for something—anything.

You didn’t give it.

“We’re still colleagues, Diaz,” you replied, tone neutral but firm. “I can’t let this get in the way of work.”

You stepped past him, the click of your boots echoing louder than the breath he seemed to lose when you stopped just short of the bay doors.

“And like you said,” you added, glancing over your shoulder, “you had no ties in California.”

The words were a scalpel. Clean. Precise. Cutting straight to the core.

Eddie didn’t chase after you. He just stood there, regret painting his features, his silence saying everything his words had failed to.

Buck watched him. For a second, neither of them spoke. Then Buck dropped the tennis ball.

“You really hurt her, man.”

Eddie swallowed. “I know.”

But the truth was — he hadn’t known how much until now. Until he saw you walk away without looking back.

The days after Buck’s public callout at the station were quiet. Not logistically — calls kept coming, the city never slept — but emotionally.

For Eddie, everything had dulled into a strange limbo.

The bay echoed a little louder, your laughter never rang through the common room like it used to, and Buck had taken up more space, not intentionally, but just by being who he was to you.

It wasn’t hard to notice the change in you. Eddie had always been good at reading people, and with you, it was impossible to miss.

You were still professional. You still responded to him during emergencies. Still stood beside him when lifting stretchers, still called out vitals clearly during triage. But it was the in-between moments that hurt the most — when your eyes slid right past him, or when your smile found Buck first.

And God, that smile.

Eddie hadn’t realized how much it meant to him until it was no longer his to see.

You’d been more withdrawn lately — not cold, not cruel, just distant. Like someone had hit the dimmer switch on your light and left you floating somewhere he couldn’t reach. He’d catch you zoning out in the rig sometimes, eyes on the city streets but not really seeing them.

Once, he swung by the loft to drop off something and saw you leaning over Buck’s kitchen island, flour in your hair and that familiar, easy expression on your face — the one Eddie used to think was reserved for him.

That image stuck with him longer than it should have.

But maybe, deep down, he knew.

You weren’t just seeking refuge in Buck because you were hurt. You went to Buck because you trusted him. Because Buck never would’ve blindsided you like Eddie had.

He had opened his loft to you like it was second nature — no questions, no conditions, just the kind of unwavering support that Eddie hadn’t thought to offer when you needed it most.

Jealousy wasn’t something Eddie liked to admit to, but it crept in nonetheless. In the glances you shared with Buck across the station.

The way you brought him coffee before anyone else. The way Buck’s hand lingered at your back in the smallest ways, protective, unspoken. The way you laughed again — not often, not yet fully — but when you did, it was around him.

Eddie didn’t blame you. Not really.

Because the truth — the part he’d never said out loud — was that he never would’ve met you if it weren’t for Buck.

It had been Buck who introduced you both, back when Eddie had first started letting people in again after the darkest corners of grief and therapy.

You were one of Buck’s longtime friends from before the tsunami — someone who had stuck through the messy aftermath of his recovery, someone who hadn’t been scared off by his highs and lows. He’d mentioned you more than once, in the way Buck did when he was proud of someone he loved.

And then one night after shift, Buck invited Eddie to a small get-together at his place.

You had walked in carrying a pan of enchiladas and laughing about the parking in his building, and Eddie swore the room tilted just a little.

You were bright. Grounded. Warm in a way that was quiet but deeply rooted. Not showy like the people Eddie had tried to love before.

Just real.

The first conversation had been easy — talking about food, Christopher, shared books. Buck had hovered nearby, excited like he’d accidentally set two puzzle pieces next to each other and realized they fit.

“He’s been through a lot,” Buck had told you when Eddie was in the kitchen grabbing a beer. “But he’s solid. And you… I think you’d be good for each other.”

And you were. For a while.

Eddie remembered thinking how rare it was to feel seen again. How your love didn’t come in fireworks, but rather in gentle mornings and shared silence that didn’t need filling.

You never asked him to be someone else. You never treated him like a project.

But Eddie had done what he always did. Pulled away when things got too heavy. Made decisions in isolation. Assumed you’d stay, even without offering the full truth.

Now, he watched from the edges as you poured yourself into someone who never made you question your place.

And Buck, for all his flaws, had always been there.

So yeah, Eddie was jealous. But more than that… he was ashamed. Because he’d had something good. Something real. And he’d thrown it away not out of malice — but out of fear. Out of habit.

Out of that old instinct to protect himself before anyone else.

Maybe this was just the part where he had to live with that.

Still, he couldn’t stop his eyes from lingering too long when you brushed shoulders with Buck in the hallway. Or when Buck made you laugh, really laugh, and Eddie could hear it all the way from the kitchen.

And maybe, just maybe, that would be the thing he regretted most when he left California behind.

Because no matter how close he got to Christopher in El Paso…

He had already pushed the best thing he’d had here — away.

That evening, Eddie paced his living room, nerves eating at him as he fluffed the throw pillows on his couch for the third time.

He didn’t like the idea of renting his house out to a stranger, but the move to El Paso had to be real. Permanent.

It wasn’t just about logistics — it was about Christopher, about putting down roots again where he could be the kind of father his son deserved.

Still, the idea of someone else living here — in this house where memories with you lingered in every corner — left a strange taste in his mouth.

A knock came at the door.

Eddie checked the peephole and sighed. Buck. Of course.

He opened the door, already exasperated. “Buck, listen — I’ve got a guy coming to view the place. He’s supposed to be here any second—”

But Buck was already brushing past him into the living room, eyes darting around like he owned the place.

“God, Buck, you’re so selfish,” Eddie snapped, louder than he meant.

“What is it now? I know this is about you, and I can’t make this any easier for myself, but you can’t make me choose between you and my son. Because if that’s the case, you’d lose every time.”

Buck froze mid-step, a bit stunned.

“W–What? No, Eddie— I get it, okay? I completely understand why you’d want to be with Christopher. I’m not here to argue that. I’m not trying to make this about me.”

But just as he tried to explain, another knock interrupted them.

Eddie groaned. “Get out. I can’t have you sabotaging this one again.”

Buck lifted a hand, voice pleading. “I promise, I won’t. Scout’s honor.”

Eddie narrowed his eyes and opened the front door — only to find Chimney, Hen, Bobby, and you standing on the porch.

He blinked. “What are you guys doing here? I have a renter coming over any second now—”

Chimney chuckled as he stepped inside. “You still haven’t told him?”

“Told me what?” Eddie asked, now fully thrown off.

Buck cleared his throat, sheepish. “So… not to make this all about me—”

“Oh my God,” Eddie muttered.

“—but it’s me. I’m your renter. I replied to your listing using a fake name.”

“You’re… Freddy?” Eddie looked at him like he’d grown a second head.

“Yep,” Buck nodded, hands behind his back. “Freddy Fakeman.”

Hen burst out laughing and Chimney nearly wheezed. “Freddy Fakeman? How’d you let that one slip by you?”

“It’s more obvious when you say it out loud, okay?” Eddie muttered.

“But—what about your loft?” he asked, baffled.

“It’s not mine anymore. I gave notice this morning,” Buck said simply.

“Now you don’t have to worry. The house will still be taken care of… by someone who already knows every squeaky floorboard.”

Eddie was silent for a moment, unsure what to feel. Buck, as always, had this way of showing up — chaotic, emotional, but somehow right on time.

Soon, the laughter faded and the team scattered around the house.

Chim and Hen went to check out the kitchen again, Bobby stepped out to take a call. Buck lingered by the window, quietly inspecting the curtains like he was already picturing them in his routine.

You wandered through the living room slowly, fingers trailing the walls, each step heavy with something unsaid. Eddie watched you — the curve of your shoulders, the quietness in your breath.

When the others stepped outside to give Buck some privacy, Eddie took his chance.

You turned when you felt his gaze, standing by the couch. His couch. The one you used to curl up on during long shifts, those rare mornings after staying the night.

“Hey,” Eddie said softly.

You nodded.

“I just…” he started, swallowing. “I know things haven’t been easy. And I know I deserve the cold shoulder.”

There was a beat before you looked up at him. You met his eyes then, but it didn’t soften the sting in your voice.

“We’re still colleagues at the end of the day, Eddie, and it’s not like I’m gonna give you the cold shoulder forever. Like you said — no ties in California, so, no hard feelings.”

That line hit harder than you’d expected. You saw it in the slight hitch in his breath.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he whispered.

You exhaled, folding your arms tightly.

“I know. But it’s what you said. And you didn’t even give me a chance, Eddie. You decided for both of us, and just… expected me to be okay with it.”

He didn’t argue. He just looked down, ashamed.

“I never wanted to hold you back,” you continued, voice smaller now.

“I would’ve supported the move. I would’ve understood. You just… didn’t give me a chance to show up for you. And that’s what hurt the most.”

Eddie stepped forward a little, heart in his throat.

“You’re right. I shut you out. I thought I was doing the right thing by not asking you first, because I thought I’d be telling you to uproot your life… but I realize now that maybe I should’ve come clean to you as a partner.”

Silence fell between you both — heavy, thick with everything unsaid.

You broke it first. “I shouldn’t have shut you out either. That wasn’t fair. I was hurt, and I let it dictate how I treated you. But I don’t want to carry that into whatever this next chapter is.”

Eddie nodded, something bittersweet in his expression.

“So… friends?” you offered, lifting your hand just a bit.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Friends.”

But even as the word left his mouth, Eddie couldn’t help but glance toward the window, where Buck stood talking to Bobby outside — Buck, who made you laugh again, who brought you comfort, who offered you his home when Eddie didn’t offer you a future.

Eddie shook the thought away, but it lingered at the back of his mind, unspoken.

Because as much as he told himself he was doing the right thing by leaving —

He couldn’t shake the possibility that maybe, just maybe…

He was leaving you behind too.

And this time, Buck might be the one waiting for you when the dust settled.

Later in the week, after another dinner (courtesy of Buck), once the rest of the team had trickled out and the noise of laughter and farewell hugs had faded into quiet, Eddie stood in the hallway of what used to be his house — now Buck’s.

The ownership had technically changed hands, but the emotional weight of the place still lingered in his chest.

He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed as he watched you and Buck in the kitchen, moving around each other like clockwork — the way your elbow gently bumped his as you passed him a mug, the way he instinctively shifted to give you space before you even asked for it.

There was a rhythm there. A familiarity.

And it wasn’t the first time Eddie noticed it.

He’d seen the shift after Maddie had gone missing — after that terrifying, silent stretch of time where everything felt like it was unraveling. That was when you and Buck had grown closer.

At first, Eddie had told himself it was just the trauma of it all, the need for comfort in a world that had briefly fallen apart. You were his best friend, after all. Who else would you lean on?

But now, standing there in the shadows of what used to be his home, Eddie saw it for what it was — energy. Something unspoken that buzzed between you both like a quiet static.

It wasn’t loud or obvious. It wasn’t romantic in the traditional sense, not yet. But it was something.

And it made something twist in Eddie’s chest. Not jealousy — not in the bitter, possessive way. It was more complicated than that. More human.

Because he knew you. Knew the way you loved, the way you gave without restraint. And he knew Buck too — the way his heart wore thin but big, how he crashed into things with everything he had.

He couldn’t blame either of you. He probably wouldn’t have met you if it weren’t for Buck in the first place.

It was Buck who introduced you to the 118 when you first moved to LA. Buck who dragged you to Eddie’s welcome-back barbecue after his recovery. Buck who always seemed to be orbiting your world in some shape or form.

Eddie blinked, pulling himself out of the spiral as you laughed at something Buck said — a soft, genuine sound that made Eddie’s chest ache.

He’d made peace with leaving.

But watching the way you looked at Buck — and more painfully, the way Buck looked at you — Eddie realized that some pieces of him weren’t coming with him to El Paso.

They were staying here.

In this house.

With you.

The soft hum of the air conditioning was the only sound filling the loft.

Jeeyun had finally gone down for the night — after a bedtime story that turned into two, and Buck pretending to be a very sleepy giraffe just to get her to laugh.

You watched the whole thing from the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed, smiling faintly.

It was oddly grounding — watching Buck care for her like that. Like he was made for softness in a world that never gave him enough of it.

Now, in the kitchen, you were helping him tuck leftovers into mismatched containers and wipe down counters while a sleepy calm settled between the two of you.

“You didn’t have to stay this long,” Buck said softly, elbowing you gently as he dried a plate. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“I wanted to,” you replied, eyes still on your hands as you sealed another container shut. “Didn’t feel like going home yet.”

He nodded, understanding. You always understood each other quietly like this.

After a beat, Buck cleared his throat. “So… remember how Tommy dumped me.”

You looked up, surprised by the sudden admission. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he breathed out, laughing without humor.

“Said he didn’t see forever with me after I asked him to move in. Said he wasn’t feeling like I wasn’t all in and that it would end in heartbreak.” He leaned back against the sink, eyes on the floor. “I really thought he’d be the last one.”

You didn’t mean to — but you let out a soft, bitter laugh.

“Yeah,” you muttered, pushing your hair behind your ear. “Me too. About Eddie, I mean.”

Buck looked at you then. “I’m sorry.”

“I am too,” you whispered. “It just… hurts, you know? Because I thought he saw me. I thought he knew what we were building.”

Buck put the towel down and stepped closer, his voice gentler now.

“You did everything right,” he said. “You didn’t deserve that.”

You looked at him, truly looked at him. And it struck you then — how many nights like this you’d had. How many times he’d been the one showing up, even when he was unraveling himself. How many times you’d felt safe here — not because of the place, but because of him.

“I was thinking,” you said slowly, “you and I… we’ve been the only real constants in each other’s lives. For years. Through chaos, breakups, breakdowns…”

He raised an eyebrow, cautious but open. “Yeah?”

“So maybe,” you continued, “we just try. And if it works, it works. And if it doesn’t…” you trailed off, letting the thought hang.

Buck stepped even closer, his eyes searching yours now, not with pressure, but with something tender — reverent even.

“We don’t let it ruin us,” he said, finishing your thought.

“Because you’re already home.”

Your breath hitched.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Because I already lost something I thought I’d have forever. I’m not losing my best friend too.”

And just like that, something shifted — not loud, not dramatic. Just quiet understanding. An old kind of love that had always been there, only now beginning to take shape.

Buck reached for your hand, his fingers warm over yours.

“We’ll take it slow,” he said. “No pressure. Just… honesty.”

“Okay,” you said, squeezing his hand. “Honesty.”

And in the soft light of the kitchen, surrounded by leftovers and a lullaby hum from the dishwasher, something new — and deeply familiar — quietly bloomed.

Eddie’s house was quieter than usual, stripped of almost everything that made it feel like him.

The walls were bare, the kitchen echoing, boxes stacked by the door.

You and Buck stood near the living room, watching as Eddie sealed the last box with a long strip of tape, his shoulders tensing slightly with the sound.

“Guess that’s it,” he said, trying not to meet your eyes.

You nodded, arms folded as Buck carried the last few bags outside to the truck. For a second, it was just the two of you again — the silence heavy with everything left unsaid.

“Thanks,” Eddie said, his voice low. “For coming. For helping.”

“You didn’t have to thank us,” you replied, your voice soft, but firm. “We were always going to help you. No matter how much it hurt.”

He finally looked at you then — like he was memorizing your face one last time. “I didn’t want it to end like this. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know,” you said. “But you did.”

He swallowed hard, and you stepped closer, not in anger, not even in pain — just in peace. Acceptance.

“I respect why you’re doing this,” you added, “Christopher deserves to have you close. But the life I’ve built here… the people I love, the career I’ve made, my roots — they’re here. You knew I couldn’t follow.”

Eddie nodded slowly, regret flickering in his eyes like a shadow.

“I thought I could let go of everything to start over. But watching you and Buck… I realized maybe I let go of the wrong thing too soon.”

You gave him a sad smile. “Maybe. Or maybe you just weren’t meant to hold on to us forever. Chris needs you, Eddie.”

Buck walked back in, wiping his hands on his jeans and sensing the finality in the air.

“You ready?” he asked Eddie.

Eddie gave one last glance around the home that no longer felt like his, then back at you — eyes lingering a moment too long.

“Yeah.”

You all walked out together, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the driveway. Buck loaded the last box into the truck, while you stood off to the side, the wind tugging gently at your jacket.

Eddie turned to face you one last time. “Be happy,” he said, voice cracking just slightly. “You deserve that.”

“I will,” you replied. “I hope you find peace in El Paso.”

He gave Buck a brief nod and a hug before climbing into the truck, and as the engine started, a weight settled over your chest — not grief, not longing… just closure.

Buck stepped beside you quietly, his hand brushing yours, and you leaned into him ever so slightly.

Eddie pulled away from the curb with a final wave, and just like that, he was gone.

But as Buck wrapped an arm gently around your shoulders and the cold wind from the rain lingered, you knew you were exactly where you needed to be.

Not chasing what was lost — but holding on to what stayed.

Epilogue:

Eddie Diaz wasn’t used to quiet.

El Paso was filled with it — the stillness of empty rooms, the hush of his broken air conditioning, the long silences between strained conversations.

There were moments the house didn’t feel like a home anymore, just a halfway point between what he wanted to fix and what he feared he’d already lost.

The move was supposed to be about healing. About Christopher. About starting over. But nothing had been as easy as he’d imagined.

He sat on the worn couch one late Friday night, still dressed in his usual hoodie and jeans, the soft hum of the TV in the background doing little to distract him. The iPad — the same one that once held his secret plans to leave L.A. — pinged with a FaceTime notification.

Buck (incoming call)

A small, tired smile crossed Eddie’s face as he accepted.

Buck’s grinning face appeared instantly. “Hey, man.”

“Hey,” Eddie replied, voice rough with fatigue. “Late night?”

“Jeeyun’s out like a light. Maddie and Chim left her with us again since the baby is coming soon,” Buck said, shifting the camera slightly. “But— someone wants to say hi.”

Eddie’s breath caught as you leaned into frame, cheeks flushed, hair slightly messy from what looked like a cozy night in.

You were wearing one of Buck’s oversized shirts — probably borrowed, maybe not. And then, with a bark and a blur of golden fur, a puppy popped into view, scrambling into your lap.

“Meet Rocket!” You laughed, trying to hold the squirming pup steady.

Buck chuckled offscreen. “She named him after Groot’s buddy.”

Eddie let out a short laugh, despite the weight in his chest. “Of course she did.”

You smiled warmly, not quite the same smile you used to give Eddie — this one was lighter, freer, filled with a kind of peace he hadn’t seen in you in weeks, maybe months.

“I keep meaning to send you a photo,” you said softly. “He’s got Buck wrapped around his little paw.”

Buck groaned. “I’m a softie, sue me.”

Eddie nodded, eyes fixed on the way your shoulder brushed Buck’s, how easily you fit together now, the domesticity of it all like a snapshot from the life he once thought he could have with you.

“He’s cute,” Eddie said, his voice quieter now. “You look happy.”

There was a beat of silence. You met his eyes through the screen.

“I am,” you said. “It took a while, but… yeah. We’re good now.”

Eddie swallowed hard. “That’s good. I’m—” He paused, unsure if he had the right to say it. “I’m glad you have him.”

Buck shifted the camera to focus more on the dog, giving you a moment. You stayed on screen, gaze soft but steady.

“I hope you’re okay, too,” you said gently.

Eddie let his head fall back against the couch.

“Some days are better than others. Chris… he’s still angry. Or maybe just hurt. And I get it, I do. I just wish I’d done it all differently.”

“You’re trying,” you said. “That counts for something.”

He didn’t answer right away. He just watched the way Buck laughed as Rocket barked at something in the kitchen, your hand resting comfortably on Buck’s knee, the kind of small affection that said everything words couldn’t.

You were his once. But the version of you on the screen now? That wasn’t the same person who had stood in his kitchen heartbroken weeks ago.

This was someone who had rebuilt. Reclaimed. Moved on.

“I keep wondering,” Eddie said finally, “if things would’ve been different. If I had just… stayed. Talked to you first. Let you in on the plan instead of shutting you out.”

You smiled, but it was tinged with something softer, sadder.

“Maybe,” you said. “But if you had… I might’ve never found this version of myself. And you? You might’ve never had the space to fix things with your son.”

Eddie nodded slowly, his throat thick. “I just… I miss you.”

“I know,” you whispered. “I miss you too, sometimes. But it’s not the same kind of missing anymore.”

He understood. It wasn’t a wound — it was a scar. Something healed, but not forgotten.

“I hope you find someone who makes you feel like you belong again,” you added, your voice kind.

And Eddie, ever the soldier, nodded once more. “I hope so too.”

As the screen dimmed after the call ended, Eddie sat in the silence again. But this time, it didn’t feel as hollow.

You were happy. Buck was there for you. And though the sting still lingered, he had peace knowing he hadn’t ruined you — only rerouted you to something real.

He glanced over at the half-packed box of Christopher’s old toys — things he was finally allowed to bring back into the main room again.

It wasn’t perfect. But maybe one day, it could be.

Meanwhile, the thing about losing people, Buck had learned, was that it didn’t always look like slammed doors or shouting matches.

Sometimes, it looked like letting go before you were ready — like watching someone drive away with the last piece of your heart and having to accept that they weren’t yours to keep.

That used to be the story of his life.

First his parents. Then Daniel. Then Abby. Then Tommy, and now, Eddie.

But not you.

You came into his life like you’d always been meant to be there — like you fit right between the cracks he thought no one could fill. It started quiet.

A knock on his door in the middle of the night. An “I can’t be alone right now” without needing to say it out loud. A slice of cake shared over talks about your messy shifts, the kind of silence that didn’t demand to be filled.

He didn’t mean to fall in love with you. He really didn’t.

But maybe it happened when you stole his favorite hoodie and never gave it back. Maybe it was the way you remembered his favorite cereal and kept buying it. Or maybe it was the way you said his name when the weight of the world was too much for him to carry alone.

The night you told him you’d ended things with Eddie, he didn’t expect you to look so… steady. Sad, yes. Hurt, yes. But grounded.

And it made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he could finally stop running from the idea that he didn’t deserve something lasting.

“I thought Tommy would be the one,” Buck had confessed that night, drying a plate while you put away leftovers. “He said I was too much. Didn’t know what I wanted. Said I might break his heart in the end.”

You leaned against the counter, turning to face him. “I thought Eddie was my last.”

“And now?”

You smiled softly. “Now I think… maybe it’s not about finding your last. Maybe it’s about choosing someone who never makes you feel like you’re too much.”

That sentence lodged in his chest like a cornerstone. You hadn’t just offered him a place in your life — you offered him the kind of love that stayed.

That’s when everything changed.

You stayed. Even when he had a bad day. Even when he overthought. Even when he accidentally set the toaster on fire (again). You stayed.

And when Eddie left for El Paso, you held Buck’s hand the whole time. Helped him tape up boxes. Laughed when Eddie grumbled about Buck’s ridiculous name on the rental application.

Buck never said it out loud — not to Eddie, not even to himself — but part of him felt guilty. Like he was standing in the space someone else had built. But then you kissed him for the first time, quietly, slowly, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And he knew then that this wasn’t stolen.

It was something new.

© fordiaz 25’ -. no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any manner without the permission from the publisher.

[aventurineswife]

Hi Kittiki!

What if the roles of the reader and the characters were the other way around? I mean the reader is a character from a video game (like Genshin) and the characters are a big fan of the reader. I think the idea is great ;)

(Please Aventurine, Blade, Mydei, Phainon and any other character You want.)

Between Pixels and Reality

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Blade x Reader, Phainon x Reader, Mydei x Reader, Character Adoration, Obsessive Love, Unrequited Love, Admiration, Self-Reflection.

Warnings: Obsessive Behavior, Unhealthy Obsession, Fixation on Fictional Character (aka the Reader), Character Introspection, Dark Themes.

A/N: This is a pretty good au ngl

Aventurine had made a career out of high-stakes gambles, but this—this was an entirely different game.

You, the enigmatic protagonist of a wildly popular strategy-based RPG, were his personal obsession. Not that he'd ever admit it in such simple terms. No, no. That would be boring.

He had every piece of in-game merchandise featuring you, from limited-edition figures to posters signed by the voice actors. He kept your theme song as his personal notification sound. He'd even researched your in-game stats, calculating optimal builds and team synergies.

"You're just a fictional character," he'd tell himself while reading through forums, scrolling past debates about your lore. But deep down, he envied the players who had unlocked your rarest voice lines, the ones where you broke your usual witty demeanor to reveal hidden depths.

There was something thrilling about playing the long game—about investing in something others might dismiss as trivial. He was always betting on the best outcome. And to him, you were the ultimate prize.

Blade had never been one for indulgences. But you? You were his one and only exception.

Your game, a dark fantasy soulslike where pain and perseverance were the core themes, spoke to him on a level he couldn’t explain. The way your character staggered back up after every devastating defeat, the way you carried a burden too heavy for one person to bear—it resonated.

Even Kafka had noticed.

"You're watching those cutscenes again?" she teased, leaning over his shoulder to watch you, bloodied and battered, facing down the final boss.

Blade grunted in response, eyes locked on the screen. There was something poetic about the way you fought, how your weapon—much like his own—was chipped and weathered, yet unyielding.

He didn't care about the game itself, only you. The way you refused to break. The way you endured.

And maybe, just maybe, the fact that he could see a little too much of himself in you.

Phainon’s room was a shrine dedicated to you.

Not in the creepy, obsessive way—no, no! He was a dedicated fan, not a lunatic. The difference was very, very important.

Ever since he'd played your game, an epic fantasy RPG centered around gods and heroes, he'd been entranced. You were his favorite character, the noble warrior fated to challenge the heavens themselves.

Your voice lines? Perfect.

Your battle theme? Divine.

Your tragic backstory? Heart-wrenching.

He spent hours grinding for your best gear, optimizing your stats, and writing essays on forums defending your in-game decisions. He debated lore theories and memorized every dialogue option.

And every time he replayed the game, it wasn’t for the different endings. It was for you.

Even knowing how the story would unfold, he kept coming back. Because no matter how many times he watched your journey, his admiration never wavered.

Mydei had never lost a battle—except, perhaps, against himself.

And you.

He first encountered your game through sheer accident, a turn-based RPG where the protagonist, you, was an undefeated champion searching for a worthy opponent. It was a ridiculous premise, but one that intrigued him.

No matter how many hours he put in, he couldn’t beat you.

It wasn’t about difficulty; it was about strategy. You predicted his every move, countered his every attack, adapted to his every playstyle.

At first, he was furious. How could a fictional character best him? But then, his frustration gave way to admiration. He began studying your animations, your fighting stance, your AI’s decision-making. It became an obsession, a goal—to finally defeat you.

The day he did—after hundreds of battles—he put his controller down and let out a slow breath.

And yet… victory didn’t feel as sweet as he thought it would.

Because now, without you to challenge him, he was lost.

Perhaps he had never wanted to win.

Perhaps he had only ever wanted to fight you forever.

[aquarius-johnny]

“stress relief” | johnny suh

𝜗𝜚 genre: smut | wc: 5.3k | au: husband! johnny 𝜗𝜚 pairing: johnny suh x afab! reader 𝜗𝜚 warnings: doctor! + dom! johnny, stay-at-home wife! reader, established relationship, domesticity, comfort, free use kink, oral (m! receiving), talking through it, edging, counting down, overstimulation, recording, rough sex, piv, praising, possessiveness, breeding kink, use of vibrator, cock warming, creampie, aftercare, positions — cowgirl/prone/missionary, pet names — baby/sweetheart 𝜗𝜚 summary: johnny comes home after a tough and frustrating day, you — his very loving and doting wife — takes care of him in the best way you can… after all, he does so much for you. 𝜗𝜚 aimee's thoughts 💭 : there’s something about the idea of being johnny’s stay-at-home wife makes my insides tingle. also, this era of johnny is what i imagined he would look like in this fic... do what you want with that info.

As you step out of your bedroom, you hear the front door open then shut, followed by a deep sigh. You peek your head from the hallway to see Johnny undoing his tie before burying his face in his hands, clearly frustrated and overwhelmed.

“Tough day at work?” You ask, leaning your shoulder against the archway. Your voice catches him by surprise and his features soften at the sight of you. “Were your patients mean to you?” You tease.

“A little,” he admits, a tiny smile threatening to pull from the corner of his lips. Removing his tie, he lets the fabric hang on the backrest of a nearby dining chair. He makes his way to you before stopping himself, looking down at his clothes. “I should probably shower before hugging you, just in case.”

“That hasn’t stopped you before,” you cock your head to the side, confused at the sudden concern before pushing it aside. “But I was just about to hop into the shower. Wanna join me?” 

He nods and a relieved smile dances on his lips. 

You both head into the bathroom and you turn the shower’s dial to the temperature comfortable for both you and Johnny — dialing back on the heat since you like it a little hotter than he does.

“What happened at work today?” You ask Johnny as you squeeze his body wash into the wet washcloth before telling him to turn around so you could wash his back. 

He shakes his head. “Nothing out of the ordinary,” he lies.

“You don’t always come home frustrated like this.” 

You feel his shoulders tense up before relaxing, letting you know he’s about to tell you what happened. When he does, you listen intently, offering him little hums as you signal him to turn around so you could wash his chest. 

“So, are you thinking about leaving that hospital?” You wonder, handing him the washcloth to have him wash the rest of his body. 

“Obviously it’s something I hope we could talk about,” he softly lets out. “The position at the other hospital pays more, but the one I’m working at now is only 20 minutes away from here.” 

“Money hasn’t been an issue before,” you scrunch your eyebrows when you look up at him before switching positions, having him under the shower head to rinse off while you begin to wash your own body with another washcloth. 

“Yeah I know,” he sighs. “But I don’t know, what if something happens. I wanna make sure we’re prepared.” 

“What would happen?” 

“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “What if one of us is hospitalized or if we decide to have kids? What if one of our cars breaks down or one of us gets into an accident?” 

You place your soapy hand on his glistening chest. “I get it,” you huff out a tiny laugh. “If this is an issue, then maybe I should start working again.” 

He takes your hand and lowers it before signaling you to turn around. Taking the washcloth you’re using, he begins to wash your back for you. “When we got married, I promised I would take care of you.” He reminds you and you replay the conversation you both had when you finally had the opportunity to quit the god-awful job you worked while Johnny worked towards the goal that got him where he is now. “I intend on keeping that promise.” 

“But not at the expense of you feeling like this,” you retort. “Do you want to take the other position because you want to or is it for the money?”

“It also has really great benefits,” he chuckles.

“Okay, would your workload lighten?” You question.

“Only slightly,” he giggles, handing you your washcloth and holding out a hand for you to help balance yourself as you wash the rest of your body. “A doctor’s workload doesn’t lighten no matter where you go.”

You look up at him, playfully rolling your eyes at his response.

“It’ll also be closer to my parents,” he softly admits, switching places with you again.

“Is that why you wanna move?” You allow the warm water to rise off your back as you await Johnny's answer. 

“Part of the reason.” 

You lift your hand to Johnny’s cheek, stroking it with your thumb. “I think that’s enough of a reason,” you reassure.

“You’re sure? I feel bad that I’ve been dragging you everywhere because of work.” 

“At least this time it’s closer to where you grew up.” You  turn to rinse off the last bits of suds on your body. “Plus, your parents love me. They’ll be happy to have their daughter in law closer to them and they can stop nagging you about us visiting them.”

Johnny lets out a laugh as he wraps his arms around your shoulders, bringing your back into his chest. “I love you,” he whispers. “Thank you for being open and understanding.” 

You turn to face him, your bare chest pressing against his as he hugs you. Peering up through your wet lashes, you notice how he slicks back his hair away from his forehead and a droplet of water rolls from the tips of his hair down his neck. 

“If the roles were reversed, I know you would do the same for me,” you reply. “I intend on taking care of you, too, in any way I can.”

After showering, you find yourself and your husband in bed. You listen to Johnny pour out his other frustrations regarding work. With a towel wrapped around your body and a towel wrapped around his waist, you sit on your knees as you rub your moisturizer onto your face and down your neck as he speaks. 

“Yeah, I can definitely see why you’re frustrated,” you quietly let out, rubbing the excess moisturizer on your hands. “When do you think you’ll send in your resignation?”

“Maybe in a few months, six months tops. It’ll give us time to go apartment shopping before we move.” 

You nod in agreement before reaching over Johnny to place your moisturizer on your bedside table. “Anything I can do to help you relax after the hectic day you had?” You question, straddling his lap as your hands rub against his shoulders. “I can give you a massage,” you pause. “Or do other things, if you’d like.”

Taking your hands into his, he entwines his fingers between yours. “What do you have in mind?” He questions with a slight lift of his brow and a tilt of his head. 

“Something along the lines of you using me however you want,” you grin. “With a little bratiness thrown in here and there because I wouldn’t be your wife without it.” You pause for a second to give him a less explicit option. “Or I can make your favorite comfort meal. It’s up to you.”

With the way his lips lift into a smirk and the way he pulls your towel loose, you know his decision. 

You place yourself between his thighs, untucking the towel that’s wrapped around his waist. Without further instruction or objection, you grab a hold of his cock and lay your head against his toned abdomen. 

You use your tongue to lick against his shaft before pecking kisses against his reddened tip, feeling his cock harden at the touch of your lips. Swirling your tongue over his slit, he gathers your hair to one side and away from your face so he’s able to enjoy the view of his wife’s service. 

He pets your cheek endearingly, silently encouraging you to take more of him. When you do, it’s just his tip your lips wrap around. You use your hand to stroke the rest of his length and he lets out a satisfied sigh. 

“Stick your tongue out,” Johnny softly orders, grabbing a hold of the base of his hardened length. You obediently follow his command and he slaps his shaft against your tongue. The sight of you is so enticing, you see him grinning from ear to ear. 

You take hold of his shaft and you suck on his tip. He lets out a small moan before his head lolls back from pleasure. His hips buck up into you ever so slightly, pushing further into your mouth. 

“Impatient aren’t we?” You smirk as you use your thumb to circle his leaking tip. You peck tender kisses against his shaft, teasing him. “Want me to take all of it already?”

He nods and you see his pupils dilate at the sight of you. Gathering your hair into a makeshift ponytail, you reposition your lips against his cock’s head before engulfing him down your throat.

He sharply inhales before muttering ‘oh fuck’ under his breath at the feeling of your warm mouth around his length. Holding your head in place with your hair that’s fisted between his knuckles, he bucks his hips up into you and watches your lips meet the base of his shaft — soaking in the glorious sight of his lengthy cock disappearing into your mouth as you bob your head up and down.

Your gags bounce off the four walls of your shared bedroom. You slurp up your drool before spitting it back onto his cock and spreading it with your hands, knowing he’s a sucker for your sloppy head. 

Using your mouth as his personal toy, he guides your head up and down before holding you in place as you gag. 

“Breathe through your nose, baby,” he instructs and watches as you follow suit, smiling at how well you follow his directions. “That’s it, good job.” He chuckles in amusement as he lifts your head up again before guiding your mouth back down his shaft. “Good girl,” he deeply groans as he feels you swallow around his tip before hollowing your cheeks. 

When he lifts your head by your hair, he roughly brings your lips to his while you position yourself with his length between your wet folds and pressing against your aroused clit. 

You pull away from his kiss and plant your hands onto his chest, rocking your hips back and forth and mixing your wetness with the saliva coated around his cock. He sees a string of his precum follow your clit when you rub his tip against you. 

His eyes are glued to your movements. One hand rests on your thigh while the other frantically searches for his phone on the bedside table. When he gets a hold of it, he quickly opens up his camera and the little ding coming from his phone tells you he’s recording a video.

As you continue teasing him, you feel him throb under you and his breathing suddenly deepens. He’s watching you through his phone screen and his eyes light up with lust. You notice how the protruding bump of his adam’s apple bobs up and down when he swallows and how his lips part, as if he’s thirsting for more. 

“Slide it in,” he instructs, waiting for you to follow his words. He’s taken aback when you swiftly grab a hold of his phone and dodge his attempt to grab it back. 

“Beg for it,” you smile sweetly as the image on him fills up his phone screen. 

“Please stick it in, I wanna feel you around me.” He lets out but the lack of desperation in his voice causes you to shake your head. 

You take a hold of his cheeks with your hand, forcing him to look directly into the camera you’re holding in front of him. Tilting your head to the side while moving your hips back and forth, you give him a disappointed, and exaggerated, sigh. 

“I bet Dr. Suh is used to people following his instructions, huh?” You taunt. “It must really annoy you when your wife isn’t one of them.” 

A wicked grin appears before he tries to take the phone from you once more, only for you to swiftly pull it back and away from him. When you push his chest back down, you bring the camera in his line of vision again.

“Come on, all you have to do is beg a little.” You giggle, dragging your thumb gently along his bottom lip before running it down the column of his throat. “I wanna hear how badly you want me.” 

In that moment, you see his eyes darken and he makes direct eye contact with his phone’s camera, knowing you’re looking at his screen. 

“Please let me fuck you,” he smirks. “Let me show you exactly who you belong to.” He pauses, bringing his hand up to the wrist of the hand you’re holding the phone in. He squeezes it slightly to prevent you from pulling away. “Let me fucking ruin you tonight, baby.”

His words ignite a fire in the pit of your stomach before he shoves his phone out of your hand and onto the other side of the bed. 

Snaking his hand behind your neck, he frantically pulls you down to his lips before delving his tongue into your mouth, rolling it over yours before taking your bottom lip between his teeth. 

“You want that, huh?” He speaks against your lips. “You want me to ruin you, over and over again.” 

You mindlessly nod your head, quickly submitting to his previous words without needing to say it again. You lift your hips to give you enough room to maneuver his tip against your entrance before sinking onto his shaft, your needy cunt swallowing him effortlessly while your walls quickly mold to his size as he whispers ‘good girl’ against your lips. 

He squeezes his hands against your hips, keeping you in place before lifting his hips to penetrate deeply into you — feeling his mushroom tip presses against your sweet spot.

You sit up, planting your palms against his warm chest with your fingers splayed out. Your nails leave crescent shaped indents as you dig them into him with every satisfying thrust.

His hands slide up your body and up to the sides of your neck and his thumb slips between your lips and against your tongue. Without being told, you begin sucking. 

With one hand still planted on your neck, he halts his thrusts. He swiftly uses the thumb you sucked on to circle against your aching clit.

“Look at me,” his voice deepens as he stares into your eyes, flickering between them. 

You’re squirming on top of him with the way his thumb works your ball of nerves. He taps the pad of his thumb against your clit, causing you to shudder and your velvety walls involuntarily pulse around his cock.

You try to muffle your noises with the way you’re pressing your lips together, only for a moan to slip out and opening the floodgates of noises he needs to hear from you. 

“Get loud,” he teases. “A noise complaint won’t hurt.” 

You press the palm of your hand against his mouth, silencing him. Just by the look in his eyes, you know it was a mistake. You feel him smirk against your palm right before his thumb picks up its pace. 

Just as he expected, you bite down on your bottom lip as you’re grinding on top of him. He feels your walls tighten before you slide your hand down to his chest, bracing yourself for your orgasm.

“You’re gonna cum, aren’t you?” He taunts and you rapidly nod your head. “That’s too bad, actually. No you’re not.” He chuckles as he continues to circle your clit, confusing you. “You’re not gonna cum until I get to number one. If you think about looking away, I’m starting over. If you cum before I get to one, I’m putting you on a sex ban.”

He begins counting backwards from 10. By the time he reaches 8, your nails are clawing into his chest. When he reaches 5, the muscles in your body begin to hurt from how hard you’re tensing up. By 4, your toes are curling, your calves burning, and your tears begin to brim your waterline. 

“3… 2…” he lingers before saying the last number until you let out a desperate wimper followed by a quiet ‘please’ to which he smiles. “1.” 

Within a second, you allow yourself to let go and have your orgasm hit you. You shut your eyes and whimpers spill out from your lips as your body freezes from the shockwaves that course through your body. His thumb doesn’t waver and he’s rubbing your swollen clit until you’re begging him to stop. 

You twitch upon his touch as his thumb taps against your overstimulated clit. A squeal is heard and you push his hand away from you, weakly pinning it against the mattress. Every muscle in your body relaxes and causes you to fall onto your husband’s chest. 

“You’re so mean,” you tiriedly laugh as Johnny slides his finger up and down your bare spine.

“But that tone tells me you enjoyed it,” he teases before bucking into you again, causing you to jerk upwards. “C’mon, you’re not done.” He taps your thigh before instructing you to get onto your stomach. 

Patting around the bed, he finds his phone and stops the previous recording before starting a new one. With your legs between his thighs, he gives your ass a nice, playful smack before placing the phone in your hand.

You hold his phone at arms length in front of you, ensuring both you and Johnny were in frame.

“Keep your eyes on the screen,” he grins before sliding himself into your entrance and your jaw drops at the sudden feeling of fullness. “Look away and I’m stopping, do you understand?”

You nod, looking at the screen like he instructed. Your eyes are glazed over and you see streaks of dried up tears against your face. He leans forward, caging you under him with his arms before his lips meet the shell of your ear, playfully tugging it between his teeth. 

“Use your words,” he whispers. 

“Yes, I understand.” you correct yourself, obediently.

“Yes what?” He smirks, looking at you through the screen before harshly thrusting into you. “Say my name.”

“Yes Johnny,” you whisper, jaw slacked open from his slow and hungry movements. Your eyes attempt to close, only for Johnny to remind you of his rules. 

“You want me to stop?” He questions harshly, almost in disbelief.

You quickly shake your head, looking at him through the phone screen. “I’m sorry,” you let out. “Please don’t stop. You give him a pout. “I promise I’ll follow your instructions.” 

Your begs cause him to grin against your cheek before planting a gentle kiss on your skin. Your eyes stay locked on Johnny who lifts himself to thrust into you. His hands push against your lower back and he uses you for his own pleasure.

His strokes are deep — harsh even — as if he’s taking out all his frustrations on your poor innocent cunt. His rough movements are accompanied by deep, guttural groans — almost animalistic and feral. 

His fingers dig into your hips, pulling you down his shaft as he penetrates into you, hitting your sensitive spot. You see his eyes lift to make sure you’re following the rules he placed upon you and to his surprise, you are — with your brows furrowed and your jaw dropped from the immense pleasure you’re feeling.

You’ve bunched up the sheets under your chin to bite on as he gives you his cock oh so well and in turn, it helps muffle your screams of pleasure so you’re not too loud. 

“Lift your hips,” he orders and you follow through. He slides his hand under you, placing itself between your thighs. Your eyes widen, already knowing what he’s about to do.

He leans forward again, placing open kisses against your shoulder and setting his lips against the back of head. Johnny’s skilled fingers circle around your overly sensitive, swollen, and aching clit and your hips twitch up and into him from the sensitivity. 

“You’re so pretty like this,” he coos. “So fucking pretty and all mine,” he mutters against your hair. “Don’t you think?” 

All you do is nod, mind filled with nothing but haze as you’re focused on the pleasure he’s giving you. 

“Say it.” You feel a devilish smile appear on his face. “Look in the camera and say who you belong to.”

You do as he says. “I’m yours.” You mumble.

“Uh uh,” he quietly and playfully scolds. “Say my name.”

“I’m Johnny’s.” Your cheeks flush with heat, embarrassed he’s making you talk as if someone else will be watching this video. 

“Good girl,” he growls, punctuating every word with a deep and harsh thrust. “I love making love to your pretty little cunt.” He groans. “It’s mine, isn’t it?”

“Y-yes.”

“I can use it however the fuck I want. You love when I fill you up, don’t you? You love when I mark you up from the inside with my cum, hm?” 

His obscene words cause your heart to skip a beat and your stomach flutters before the muscles in your stomach tightens, feeling a build up of pleasure. 

You rapidly nod your head at his words while your nails dig into the bed sheets that are already peeling off the corners of your mattress. 

“I love when you cum inside of me, Johnny.” You whine, allowing your jaw to fall open as his hips harshly thrust into you, slapping of skin filling the room. 

“Yeah?” He slyly chuckles. “What better way to show people you’re mine than to fuck my baby into my pretty wife?” He grins at the sight of you biting down on the bed sheets, your walls clenching around his shaft as you hear his words.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you whine. “I’m gonna cum,” you warn as your eyes watch his hips slap against your ass, your skin rippling with every rough stroke.

Johnny’s finger maintains the pace on your clit while you tremble underneath him. “Cum for me, baby.” He whispers into your ear and just like the obedient wife you are, you’re cumming on his cock for the second time that night. You sob into your sheets, muffled cries of his name could be heard before your hand releases your grip on his phone.

He feels you tighten around him while he fucks you through your orgasm and your inner thighs begin to tremble from the intensity. Slowing his movements, he reaches over to grab his phone, holding it in front of you. 

“Look at how fucked out you look, sweetheart.” His voice drips with a hint of a condescending tone. He forces you to look at yourself when he takes a hold of your cheeks. “Beautiful, aren’t you?”

He forces your head up and down to nod before you give him a cockdrunk smile — eyes glazed over and your lips swollen and raw from how hard you’re biting down when you cum. 

“You’re not done yet, are you?” You question, turning your head to look at him. His lips are inches away from yours. 

“Not a chance,” he grins, allowing his phone to fall face front into the mattress. “Get on your back for me.” 

You do as he says before he pulls your legs to drag you to the edge of the bed where he’s standing. He dips his tip into your sopping cunt eagerly and you swallow him with ease, making it easier to bottom out into you. 

His thumb finds its way to your mouth again, watching you suck on it before letting your jaw hang open when you feel his cock’s tip bullying your g-spot. 

With every thrust, he jerks you up the bed. His movements earn him loud and obscene noises that part your lips before his large hands grip onto your shoulders. He pulls you down in tandem with every jerk of his hips. 

You place your hand against his stomach, attempting to slow his movements only to have him pin your hands against your mouth, muffling your noises. 

He pants as his hips rut back and forth before he chuckles to himself, watching your thighs tremble. His thumb finds your clit again, carefully circling it as he watches your reaction. It’s clear you’re still reeling from the stimulation caused by your second orgasm, but Johnny loves it.

“I think I have a better idea,” he huffs, halting his movements. 

He lowers his hands before opening the drawer of his bedside table. He pulls out your tiny battery powered vibrator. 

“My thumb might not be enough this time,” he smirks. “Tell me no if you don’t want me to use it.”

You stay silent and Johnny takes that as an okay to continue. He slowly begins thrusting his hips again.

“Let’s start off slow, hm?” 

You let out a tiny chuckle. “Going soft on me?” You taunt, wrapping your legs around his waist. “I’m surprised.”

He looks at you, amused by your words. “The highest it is, then.” 

Your eyes widen right before the intense vibrations pulse against your sensitive clit. You open your mouth to say something only for a moan to come out instead. 

“Cat got your tongue, baby?” He chuckles, erratically thrusting his hips into you.

“Ph-phone,” you manage to let out.

“You want me to record this?” Johnny smirks and you simply nod your head. He obliges, reaching over to grab his phone before starting a new recording. 

Slowly lifting your hand, you take a hold of his camera before taking over the recording. You aim the camera to where the vibrator is — watching him penetrate into you while dragging your vibrator up and down your wet slit, focusing on your swollen clit. 

Your hands are trembling as you’re watching him fuck you through the phone screen before you decide to end the recording and throw his phone to the side. 

He leans into your neck, sucking on your favorite spot while your orgasm creeps up. Your hand tries to lighten the pressure he has on your clit, only for Johnny to pin his free hand over yours when he pulls away from your neck. 

You tuck your bottom lip between your teeth and Johnny grins. “Is this gonna be your third orgasm, baby?” He asks, tilting his head to the side.

“Mhm,” you hum. “I’m so close.”

“Hold on, not yet.” He huffs before letting out a laugh. You know he’s going to start his countdown, painfully edging you. 

“Please,” you beg. “I can’t h-hold it for 10 seconds.”

“Yes you can,” he smiles at you sweetly. “Now you know the rules.” 

He begins counting down while he thrusts into you and you keep your eyes locked on his. By 7, your aching clit throbs — making you painfully aware of how desperately you need to cum. By 6, your visions begin to go hazy. When he reaches 4, your eyes begin to water from holding in your orgasm.

“3… 2…” he smirks. “…1.”

You scream out in pleasure as your orgasm hits you hard. Johnny doesn’t stop fucking you through your orgasm, but he does turn off your vibrator before cupping the sides of your face and giving you well deserved kisses against your lips.

“That’s my girl,” he praises. “Good job, I knew you could do it.” He softly chuckles, wiping away your tears with his thumbs before capturing your lips with his.

You feel every muscle in your body melt when you finally come down from your high. 

“Wrap your arms around me,” Johnny instructs. 

You do as he asks, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and keeping your legs around your waist. In one quick and swift move, you’re on top of him. 

“I’m close,” he whispers. “Let me take it from here.” 

You weakly nod your head as you rest against his chest. His tip pushes into your entrance once again, burying itself between your soaking walls. He thrusts his hips up and into you while you enjoy being used by your husband. His arms pin your body against him, keeping you as close to him as possible. 

“I’m gonna cum,” Johnny warns.

You muster the strength to sit yourself up and you grind your hips against him, helping him reach his high quickly. His hands grip your waist when he cums inside of you, letting out a strangled groan when you quickly jerk your hips back and forth, milking every drop from him. 

His tense body relaxes, telling you he’s emptied himself into your cunt. “C’mere,” he whispers, pulling you back down to his chest.

“Don’t pull it out yet,” you softly mumble as you peck kisses against his blushed chest. 

“I won’t,” he chuckles, wrapping his arm around your waist while the other cups the back of your head. “You okay? It was a little intense.” 

“I’m more than okay,” you giggle. “I’m still on cloud nine.” 

Johnny places a gentle, loving kiss against your forehead. His hand rubs circles against your lower back before rubbing your quivering thighs.

He shifts under you. “Give me a second to grab water,” he softly says and you slowly lift yourself off him. He returns with two plastic bottled waters and a container of prewashed green grapes. 

Your eyes light up when you see the container, both of you knowing how often you’ve been eating them these past couple of weeks. 

He cracks open the top of the water bottle and hands it to you, making sure you’re hydrated after your intense back to back orgasms. 

“Thank you,” you smile before drinking nearly half of the bottle in one go. You lift a grape and place it into your mouth, enjoying the sweetness when you chew.

Johnny mimics your movements before he looks at you. “You know I’ll take care of you and our child if we were to have kids, right?” He suddenly lets out. 

“I mean, you take care of me when we don’t have kids.” You grin, popping another grape into your mouth. “There’s no doubt in my mind you’ll extend that care to our child. Why are you suddenly bringing this up?”

“With the whole marking you from the inside and fucking my baby into you talk,” he shrugs. “I just wanna make sure you know.”

You lift your hand to comb through his disheveled hair. “Thank you,” you smile. “Like I said, there’s no doubt in my mind you’ll take care of us.”

He nods before suggesting to use the bathroom and to wash your bodies once more before bed. When you agree, you both step into the shower and quickly wash your bodies, ridding your body from the sweat that came with your intense love making session. 

Johnny quickly strips and replaces the bed sheets while you gather the leftovers from the night before for tonight’s dinner and his favorite snacks to further comfort him after the stressful day he’s had. 

Just as he’s done, you place the tray of food and snacks on the bed and you both excitedly hop into bed with you snuggled into his side as you watch a movie of his choice. He feeds you bites of his snacks after dinner while his thumb mindlessly brushes your waist from under your sleep shirt.

Once the movie ends, you attempt to throw away the packaging of his snacks you both finished. Your husband stops you, keeping you cuddled next to him. 

“Thank you for taking care of me after work today.”

“It’s no problem,” you yawn. “You do so much, it’s the least I can do.”  

Johnny doesn’t respond, but he squeezes you as he pulls you closer into his side.

“Is there anything you wanna talk about before we call it a night?”

You hear Johnny hum. 

Sitting up, you look at your husband who moves a strand of fallen hair from your face and tucking it behind your ear. He laces his fingers between yours as he holds it.

“Can we talk about the positive pregnancy test I saw in the bathroom trash this morning?”

[ittybittyfanblog]

Error 404: Spin-off

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. Update: Sylus went ahead and got himself mortalized (That's it, that's the plot). Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, suggestive language, slight crack (literally. lmao, you’ll see), FLUFF! A/N: Finally starting the spin-off! Hello again 🙂‍↕️🫶🏼 I’ve got a rough outline for the flow and a few key chapters mapped out, but I’m keeping it flexible for the most part. This isn’t gonna be a full structured story, so think more like vignettes of their life, w/ some world-building here and there (laying some groundwork for future chapters hehe). Come thru if you wanna see what error!Sylus and our lil player are up to post-reality jump 🙂‍↕️🙏🏼 Also: no posting schedule! I’m treating this like a chill side project I can pick up whenever, so not every part’s gonna be lengthy/that polished hehe. Mostly short snippets, unless the chapter calls for a longer one. (P.S. Just send a DM if you want to be taken off the taglist lol. I just assumed you guys would still want to follow along, but no pressure at all if you don’t! 💕)

Pt 1

You keep waiting to wake up.

For the sound of your phone alarm to blare somewhere beneath the covers, forcing you to fish it out at seven-thirty-something in the morning. For this absolutely wonderful, absolute mindfuck of a dream, to end—and for the real world to set in. 

For another uneventful day to begin, the way it usually does after a short reprieve from the hustle and the bustle of life.

From behind the bathroom door, the sound of the shower cuts off.

You scramble to open the cupboard overhead, grabbing the pepper shaker from the first shelf. You do four rotations over the half-cooked omelette before flipping it over with a rubber spatula, trying not to lose your cool. Or what’s left of it.

Three days. It’s been three days since Sylus crossed the threshold, through a tiny, impossible fissure in the fabric of reality, just to get to this dimension. Your dimension.

Three days since you locked eyes with the other half of your soul across a room, no screen separating the two of you for once. No physical barrier to stop him from catching you as you ran toward him past the counter, just as twilight kissed the sky goodnight, sobbing at the first touch of his skin—electric against yours. The taste of his lips, the bittersweet notes of extant longing and pure bliss blooming on your tongue as he captured your mouth in his; the two of you lost in each other, uncaring of anything beyond that precious, shared moment. 

And three days for your mind to finally catch up to the sheer impossibility of it all.

As far as your Sundays go, you’d say this one takes the cake.

He’s been staying in a modest little rental just a couple of blocks away from you. Nothing extravagant – just a transient house he’s leased for the week. Not that you’ve technically been inside to know; he only pointed it out once, the single-storey residential from across the main street, as the two of you were heading back home—your home. To your little studio apartment.

Him. Sylus. In your condo. You can’t even begin to wrap your head around it.

You know that he’d just arrived in town two days before that fateful encounter at the bistro. That he’d already done his research to know exactly where you were going to be during that hour, and that he’s been here, on Earth, for quite some time now. Even before meeting you.

But past this knowledge, you haven’t actually covered much of anything, really. Just this little awkward dancing around you’ve been doing since you’ve been together.

And you know you should ask, probe, have him break down the hows of his existence to you, a clearer timeline of exactly when he popped into this world, what he’s been up to in all the time he’s been here… and why he’s even waited so long to come to you directly.

You’re painfully aware that it’s just you who’s keeping yourself from getting the answers you want. You’re the one making this harder than it needs to be. You can’t help it.

There’s no manual to tell you how to deal with your emotions when your virtual lover appears in front of you, in the flesh, miraculously defying all laws of physics in the process. No handbook telling you what to do next when something you’ve been wishing for every night before going to bed – for the past two years – actually manifests into being. 

Someone you’ve always longed for, staked deep within the confines of your heart, but never truly imagined the consequences of until your wishful thinking bled into reality.

And now he’s here.

All things considered, you think you’ve done an okay job at acting like everything’s normal. Mostly. Probably.

(You haven’t.)

The day after he showed up at your proverbial doorstep, you almost couldn’t believe everything that had transpired a mere twenty hours ago was even real. That maybe your brain had just gotten creative enough to invent a Hallmark-worthy scene to win you a one-way trip to your therapist—and that, maybe, you’d conjured him up simply because you missed him and you’re so down bad, your mind decided to start playing tricks on you.

...which nearly had your soul catapulting out of your body at the sight of the—extremely corporeal, extremely attractive—raven-haired (!) man moving through your kitchen the first morning he stayed over, wearing a black V-neck and a pair of grey sweatpants, ambling barefoot like he already knew the place by heart.

You suppose he does, you allow cautiously, an odd sort of warmth blooming in your chest at the thought. Of course he would. 

Still. It didn’t erase the surrealness of seeing Sylus, the Sylus—mortal, perfect, wonderfully alive—brewing you a cup of coffee at nine in the morning, your brain failing to fully comprehend the image of his towering figure working your faulty, secondhand De’Longhi like a pro.

"Are you," he started, eyes zooming in on the spot between your thumb and forefinger, mouth twitching like he's trying not to laugh, "pinching yourself?"

You had quickly withdrawn your hand, schooling your face into a poor attempt at nonchalance as you reached for the steaming blue mug he was holding out to you. "...No."

You can't help but hover around him, like some weird satellite desperate for orbit. You find yourself sneaking glances every five seconds—and more often than not, he meets your gaze with a wayward look of his own.

He never calls you out on it; he just gives you an infuriatingly impish smirk that sends your heart into overdrive, making you feel younger than you are. 

You’re still stewing over the events of the past few days, absentmindedly worrying whether the eggs needed more salt, when you hear the bathroom door open.

You whip your head around, and all systems crash to a stop.

Oh god. Oh fuck. 

He’s standing there—all six-foot-five of pure, lean muscle, like sin sculpted out of marble and left to walk your unvacuumed parquet wood floor without so much as a care for the cluttered little living space he’s in, looking completely at ease. Fresh from the shower, steam rising lazily from every inch of bare skin laid out in front of you, and it’s like The Neuron™ in your brain activates. The towel slung low across his hips leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination, reducing your thoughts monosyllabic, like some half-evolved primate ready for mating season or whatever. Hot man. Hot man shirtless. Involuntarily, your eyes track a stray rivulet sliding down; right where the faintest suggestion of a happy trail (!!!) begins and ends… and you’re gone. Lost in some kind of trance. 

Utterly hypnotised, you watch as it soaks into the edge of the borrowed sage green terry cotton, faintly wondering if what’s beneath it could soak you the same way, shit—

A strangled noise slips past your lips. 

It’s terrible. You sound like a dying cow. Hot man’s fault. Bad.  

A snort breaks you out of your shameless ogling. 

Your head jerks up like you’ve been caught red-handed doing something you're not supposed to, guiltily meeting his eyes. You see Sylus already watching you wryly, the heavy drag of his half-lidded stare rooting you in place. 

Your face starts to flush red with embarrassment, heat climbing all the way up to your ears. 

He’s leaning a shoulder against the doorframe; arms crossed loosely over his chest, completely relaxed, and clearly getting a kick out of whatever expression you’ve got at the moment. His gaze doesn't waver, stuck on you like glue, drinking in every flustered reaction with quiet amusement. 

You swallow nervously. His eyes flicker down, tracing the movement of your throat, and his lips tug up into a semblance of a smile.

Fuuuuck.

"You already started on breakfast without me, sweetie?" He tuts in mock-disapproval. "I told you it’d take me less than twenty minutes to shower."

You don’t manage much in response, just a dumb, garbled, "mhm, s’okay."

You're completely blanked out at this point—bluescreen dead if you will—except for one panicked thought flashing through your brain: Holy shit, he's practically naked. Sylus Qin from Love and Deepspace is practically naked in my house. 

Then, not long after, a chorus of, “oh my god oh my god oh my god” starts looping in your head, overriding what little composure you had left like some raunchy PSA warning you about the dangerous rise of moisture down south.  

Sylus cocks his head slightly, sending you a sly, knowing look—one that says he knows exactly what's going on in that overstimulated little brain of yours.

Slowly, he pushes himself off and saunters closer to where you are, taking his time crossing the distance with easy, measured steps. As if he’s in no rush at all to get to you. As if he’s merely curious whether you’ll combust just from him shortening the proximity between your bodies. 

(You think you just might.)

And when he’s standing barely a few inches away – close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him – Sylus leans down, effectively trapping you between the counter and the solid wall of his chest. Between granite and sinew. 

You lose all capacity to speak.

Without breaking eye contact, he reaches out a hand to shut off the burner stove behind you with an easy flick of his wrist, the brief brush of his arm sending a shiver down your spine. Then, with maddening tenderness, he pinches your cheek between two fingers—his thumb caressing the spot right after.

In a voice filled with faux sympathy, he coos, “What’s got you all distracted, poppet?”

He’s teasing. You know he’s teasing. 

He’s done nothing but tease you with his devastatingly good looks, his overwhelming presence, and syrupy words spoken so sinfully in that low cadence of his voice, ever since he arrived. And, oh, you’re not sure whether to scream or kiss the smug look off his face silly.

You’re so bad at being subtle. You always have been, especially when it comes to him. And you know you can’t hide anything from Sylus – from the smallest flicker of microexpression on your face, down to the shortness of your breath. Both of you know this. Both of you painfully aware of the effect he has on you.

And just as much, you know he’s been holding himself back—that no matter how flirtatious he gets, he’s still keeping enough control to pull away whenever you start to get too overwhelmed.

Despite his provocations, Sylus never pushes. He waits, patiently. Giving you the space to volley back if you want to. And if you don’t, he backs off in a second, with the same effortless ease he uses to tease you. Leaving you room to breathe again. 

Rinse, repeat. 

It’s almost as if you two are playing a game with poorly drawn rules. You don’t know who’s winning.

The little spell breaks when you feel a disgruntled meow against your shin; it's immediately followed by a cat headbutting you, twice in succession, with a surprising amount of aggression.

"Not used to sharing your mother, are you?" Sylus sighs, pulling back from where he’d been caging you in—his movements slow, reluctant. 

A warning hiss rises from below. He raises his hands in mock surrender, stepping back to a safer distance, just out of swiping range. 

"Yes, yes. You win,” he grumbles in acquiescence at the testy feline, a comically put-upon look on his face. “For now.”  

You pull your eyes away from his bicep—look, you're just a girl, okay—to blink down at the temperamental little creature who’s now self-appointed himself as your personal foot guard. 

He’s making some vague, cryptic noises, something between a purr and a growl, while keeping his eyes locked firmly on Sylus’ leg. 

"He–um, he might just be hungry," you manage to mutter. A quick glance at the food bowl says otherwise. "...or not."

Sylus huffs under his breath, a low sound, equal parts understanding and mildly affronted. He tilts his head – eyes narrowing at the untouched kibble, then to the small furry menace claiming your feet like a jilted lover.

Unfortunately, Maru’s reception to the new person has been... less than cordial.

From the moment Sylus walked in the apartment, Maru had hissed at him as if to say: There is no reason for a Man to be here, before darting beneath the coffee table – tail lashing with all the theatrics of a petulant child. The churlish product of a mother who's been single for far too long, that he’s decided he’s the only boy she’ll ever need. 

It strikes you as a little odd. He never usually gets antsy around guests, and you'd even thought he and Sylus got along—or at least, back when the man in question was confined to mere pixels on screen. 

Maybe you shouldn’t have counted on that.

Sylus, to his credit, hasn't once tried to close the distance or force a peace treaty. Amused, definitely; the way his eyes glint whenever Maru glares at him could almost qualify as charmed. But since stepping into your home, he’s been mindful about giving the creature a wide berth, moving with the quiet understanding that respect here is sacrosanct, something to be earned. That he’s the one imposing, and the truce between him and the (true) man of the house is a fragile, delicate thing. 

You honestly haven’t decided if Maru’s behaviour is because he’s protective... or just pissed that someone else is hogging your attention.

"It’s alright, sweetie," Sylus—your son’s chosen rival—soothed you reassuringly; his hand rubbing a slow, comforting circle over the small of your back when he caught the slightly crestfallen look on your face. "He’s just feeling territorial about his space right now. Give it some time."

“I’ll get dressed,” Sylus murmurs. “Don’t start on the coffee without me.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, then another between your brows; the casual, freely-given affection leaves you warm and gooey inside. He turns toward your vanity, where his black duffel bag rests on the small plastic saddle chair.

You watch his retreating figure for a few seconds—long enough for him to glance back over his shoulder, one brow lifted in lazy inquiry. And the look is so familiar; so painfully reminiscent of the one he gives you in-game, right after you’d deliver a ‘slap’ to his ass, that it knocks you a little off-kilter. 

… Which might explain why you don’t react fast enough when his eyes flash with mischief, and he casually undoes the knot of his towel.

The fabric drops.

You catch a glimpse—more than a glimpse, hello—of the perkiest butt you’ve ever seen in your life, and you spin around so fast you slam your elbow into something undoubtedly solid in the process.

A half-pained, half-mortified wheeze escapes your throat.

"Careful," he calls out to you—and though amusement colors his voice, there's a real thread of worry beneath it, enough to make you want to slam your head against the counter for some inexplicable reason. "Don’t feel the need to grant me modesty on my behalf, kitten."

"Kitten’s about to kill herself," you lament with a whine. 

It earns you an unimpressed scoff.

“I just got here, my love,” he deadpans without missing a beat. “Daddy’s gonna have to ask you to hold on a little longer.”

You choke on nothing but air. Critical system failure. 

Buffering… buffering… buffering…

You inhale sharply.

"Okay, pause," you beg, a slightly hysterical edge to your tone as you claw your way back from a full-blown breakdown. In an attempt to divert the topic, “D’you–uh, do you want anything on your eggs? I’ve got ketchup, hot sauce... barbecue sauce..."

"A proper chef now, are you?" And oh, the next thing you know, he’s right behind you again. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric of your shirt. 

He smells faintly like your body wash, like Dove nourishing coconut and your calendula shampoo, a heady mix of something sweet and herbal.

The thought of him—of the both of you—smelling the same, actually makes you feel giddy. 

What a stupidly trivial, novel thing to find joy in. 

Snap the fuck out of it, it’s just soap, you chide to yourself. 

You don’t even notice you’re trembling until Sylus curls a large hand around yours; steadying the shaky fingers reaching for the bottle of Cholula on the condiment tray, while his other hand gently cradles your hurt elbow. 

Your breath hitches when he presses a kiss to your temple.

"Oh, sweetie," he murmurs, and it’s the way he says it—low and unbearably fond—that loosens some of the tension on your shoulders. "You’ve wound yourself up."

"I'm good," you mumble, though your voice betrays you, thinner than you mean it to sound.

"It's just me," he says, his tone as gentle as the breeze slipping through the open window, ruffling the choppy bangs that frame your face. "Nothing so different from how it’s always been, hmm?"

And you know he’s right. It's just him. Just Sylus. Your Sylus. No different from the one from two years ago.

"I know," you sigh, finally turning to face him, having to crane your neck slightly to meet his eyes. 

His expression is softer now, the type of softness reserved solely for you, something that never fails to make you ache. The teasing is gone, tucked away for the time being. 

"I just need a little time to wrap my head around this," you admit, voice quieter now. "Is that... is that okay?"

The greys of his eyes melt into something silvery, moonlit—impossibly tender. 

In one smooth motion, he lifts you onto the kitchen counter and steps between your legs, closing what little space remains between you. You yelp in surprise, but before you can react, he’s already leaning in, stealing a kiss from your lips. Just a quick one, like he couldn’t help himself, like he needed a taste to hold him over. He chuckles when he sees your wide-eyed look.

"Of course, my love," he says, voice wrought with promise—in love with the way your lips part, bitten pink and unsure, as he lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to the back of it. "We’ll go as slow as you want. Forever, if that’s what you need." Forever, as what you two have. 

… 

For over a year, you’ve learned how to enjoy the small things alone. And you did—enjoy it, you mean. Once, almost a lifetime ago, you took for granted the slow, quiet joys of a slower life. But you learned to take it day by day. One hour at a time, minute after minute. 

It made room for reflection, and it moulded you into something stronger, and softer, all at once.  

But this—with him—brings you back to another time. A sweeter time; the dog-day summer of your life. 

The morning hums with a kind of quiet normalcy you’ve grown accustomed to. You’re used to the sunlight spilling through the linen curtains, lining the floor with streaks of honey-gold, soft as a happy memory. Used to the noise of the outside world bleeding through the walls, a constant presence you’ve long since accepted as a permanent fixture in this tiny apartment, like a second heartbeat.

He’s right, in a way. 

This isn’t so different from the mornings you once shared with the same man—back when he wore a different face and led an extraordinarily polarized life, completely at odds with yours. The ones spent laughing into a screen, your fingers ghosting across glass, desperate to grasp something you never could. 

That life feels like it belonged to someone else now. Someone lonelier. 

So, no. Maybe not quite the same – maybe not even close.

–

You finally allow yourself to give in; to sink into the warmth of him, folding yourself smaller in his embrace like a tired bird nestling into a safer sky, your heart fluttering wild and restless against your ribs. Too big for your body, too full to contain. Here – tangled together in this sliver of morning light – everything that has hurt you feels small in comparison. You were never alone to begin with. But with Sylus in your arms, the world feels brighter than you ever remembered it could be.

Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim @goldenbirdiee @amerti @angstylittleb1tch @reiofsuns2001 @j4mergy @touya-apologist @gladiolus-mamacitia @btszn @wrimaira @writingmyladsdelusions @borkunlimited @magnoliaswriteatsunset

[dandylovesturtles]

so this is not technically something I wrote fresh, but something I've never posted publicly. this grew out of some "AU within an AU' talks about what would have happened if Donnie and Leo had a "twin sense" during the events of the room fic.

I'm posting this today for @whumpay 's first supernatural prompt, "Psychic Link"

cw: starvation and kidnapping mentioned

---

When Leo’s connection first disappeared, Donnie hadn’t been too worried. Sometimes, especially times like these, when he felt like the world was against him, Leo portaled somewhere far away, where their “twin sense” (as he insisted on calling it) didn’t reach. In ways, the quiet was nice, and Donnie got some work done.

And then he didn’t come back. And the quiet was no longer nice.

———

It comes back at the same time the Rockies come into view on the horizon.

It starts as a faint pulse, the vague suggestion of someone’s else’s feelings. The way it used to be back before they fully awakened their powers, when Donnie still denied the “twin sense” even existed. But it grows, slow at first, then increasing exponentially, until it cracks through into full, startling clarity.

Donnie gasps, and the wheel in his hands jerks.

In hindsight, he should have stopped driving the moment he felt it.

“Dee!” yells April, and then someone is hitting something, and “AUTOPILOT” flashes bright red on screen, and he can barely register what it means because he can’t focus on anything right now but

cold

hungry

exhausted

scared

exposed

alone alone alone 

“No!” he shouts. Hands grab him and pull him out of the chair and away from the dash. “No! I’m here, Leo, we’re here!”

People are talking and shouting around him. The tank slows and stops and no no no, they have to keep going, they have to get there right now-

“Here, Donnie.”

Someone is holding something out to him. He takes it in his hands, belatedly recognizing it as his hoodie. Cold, so cold his teeth keep chattering. Exposed, they’re looking at him, watching him.

He yanks the hoodie on and wraps his arms tight around himself. He’s sitting on the floor and he rocks back and forth.

“Donnie, talk to us,” says a voice. Raph’s voice? “What’s wrong?”

Donnie laughs once, high and hysterical. What isn’t wrong?

“Come on, Dee. We’re here, just talk to us.”

Donnie scrubs at his eyes. He’s crying. He doesn’t know whose tears they are.

“H-he’s cold,” Donnie explains. “Leo.”

“Okay,” says Mikey’s voice somewhere above him. “What else?”

Donnie swallows hard. “Scared. H-hungry. Really hungry.”

“…Do you think,” says Mikey softly, tinged with hope, “he got out? And he’s lost in the mountains somewhere?”

“No,” says Donnie quickly, shaking his head. “Watching him, watching me, exposed, trapped-“

“He’s still trapped,” Raph repeats. “They still have him.”

Donnie nods quickly. It’s not an actual thought, that’s not how it works, they can’t talk to each other. But he knows that if Leo had escaped, these feelings would be different.

“Okay.” Raph lets out a deeply held breath, then asks, “Would eating help? We can get you a snack.”

Donnie nods again, sharp. It won’t fix things for Leo, won’t nourish his body. But it might bring him some relief, if only for a little while.

They move him to the bench seat. Wrap a blanket around him. Press a big bag of trail mix into his hands. He eats it fast and greedy - he hasn’t been keeping up with three meals a day since Leo went missing, but now he makes up for it, now he’ll eat as much as he can if it helps Leo feel better for even one minute.

And he presses these feelings back through the connection.

warm

full

safe 

covered

together together together

He doesn’t know if it gets through. Leo’s misery is a deep abyss, trying to pull them both down. But he reaches through it to take Leo’s hand, and pulls.

[wazzi2ya]

Stolitz AU where instead of arranging his marriage since youth, Paimon waits until Stolas is of age and organizes an event where the winner will get his hand in marriage.

Blitzø originally didn't know what the fuck this whole thing was about but he weaseled his way in amongst the crowd of royals to try and take off with something valuable. But then he sees Stolas standing there while Paimon gives his speech and thinks maybe he can stay a bit longer; you know, just to see how shit goes down. No other reason.

Meanwhile Stolas is just trying to ignore everything going on around him, sad and dejected at having to deal with Paimon's brilliant idea to get him a worthy partner. At some point he manages to focus enough to tune in to Paimon claiming whoever finished all tasks would be the victor—

And suddenly an extremely loud voice starts shouting from the crowd.

"Who the FUCK is this Victor and WHO does he think he is to try and beat ME?!"

Stolas, startled by the sudden chaos, can't help the hooting laugh that bursts from his beak. It's the first time he's laughed for real in months.

He keeps staring after the rowdy imp being dragged away by security, and wonders if maybe Paimon's idea wasn't so bad.

[ppixienous]

YOUR BIGGEST FAN, joe burrow

pairings ➸ onlyfans!joe burrow x roommate!reader

warnings ➸ au, sex working, mentions of twitter, light smut, joe being a bit of a perv (?), roommate!reader's nickname is angel, joe with another woman (spookyyy).

a/n ➸ pleaseeee realize and understand that this a AU (alternative universe) where joe is a OF star, this fictional work has nothing to do with how joe acts and/or does irl. so please don’t start 😭 i just thought this would be cute and fun to write (which it was !) bon appetit! let me know if you would like to be tagged on future works! (ohh and much love to @raveszn for fueling my writing juices! MUAH!)

tags ➸ @raveszn

✮ onlyfans!joe who just happened to be bored and curious one day, and wondered what it was like to have an active onlyfans. 

✮ onlyfans!joe got a rush from the attention his first video received, quickly blowing up to a trending topic on of.

✮ onlyfans!joe who never once showed his face in that (or any) video(s), but people couldn’t get enough of him. besides maybe 2 or 3 videos, he was normally by himself. his fans love how intimate his videos are, how desperate he sounds asking “can i cum?”, and how gorgeous his sweat-soaked body looked underneath the warm pink lights.

✮ onlyfans!joe who can’t help but to imagine his pretty roommate everytime he pleases himself on and off camera.  

✮ onlyfans!joe whose mind is his greatest enemy (and biggest supporter) when it came to his roommate. “good morning, joey,” angel says sweetly with a smiling painting her face. 

“good morning, angel,” his eyes lazily ran along her body. the curve of her ass going into the dip of her legs. the things he would do to have those legs wrapped around his head. the cold air surrounding the kitchen causing her nipples to poke through her already thin shirt met his eyes. 

✮ onlyfans!joe who imagined what it would be like if his tongue ran against her nipples. what it would be like when he sucked against them, his lips wrapping on top of her skin. what it would be like having her sweet moans captured on his camera. 

✮ onlyfans!joe who slipped up one night during a shoot and muttered angel’s name as one hand slid over his tip and the other occupied his mouth, his teeth biting down on his finger, so he wouldn’t wake her. 

✮ onlyfans!joe who smiled down at his phone seeing the love and praise he got from his biggest supporter, swxxtangel. there was something quite familiar and warm about this supporter. they’ve only conversed through chats and comments, though never seeing each other over the phone, joe enjoyed every little interaction he had with her. 

✮ onlyfans!joe who didn’t know his favorite supporter was the same exact person that lived 10 steps down from his door. 

weeks ago, angel tossed and turned in her bed, unable to get her usual midday nap. her mind kept replaying her memory of joe earlier in the day. fresh out the shower, damp hair clinging to the bottom of his forehead, a white linen towel hanging dangerously low off of his hips. that same towel hugging the silhouette of his dick. the more he walked, the more his towel shifted down, she felt. 

she’s scrolled on tiktok, watched mindless reality tv, attempted to do push ups (with no athletic bone in her body), even reading a toji fic on tumblr (that was useless, it just made her hornier). 

angel whined as her clit throbbed against her pink cotton panties. her fingers found a their way to twitter, an app she swore to give up for good. scrolling and scrolling, she felt like she couldn’t find any good videos. irksome moaning, painful looking sex, and just downright sloppy (and not in the good way). starting to feel like her attempts were futile, one last swipe she stumbled upon a video of a couple.

their room looks so familiar. odd…

their bodies meshed together almost perfectly, almost. the man kept his palms on the cusp of the woman’s ass as he brought her up and slowly brought her down. you could hear small noises of them kissing, him humming against her lips as her moans bounced off the walls of the room. “i feel you baby. give it all to me, cum on my dick.”

her body shook against his body as he slid his hands around her waist, holding her close, “i got you baby, i got you.” as the same time as the woman, angel came undone. her breathing uneven as she pulled her hand out of her panties, softly grazing the wet spot she left in them. the way the man spoke to and fucked the woman had angel imaging that it was her. the couple kissed once more in the video, content with what they created. angel’s eyes fluttering, she wished that it was her lips and body against his own. there was something about him…

✮ onlyfans!joe who heard angel’s soft moans from the living room. he felt like such a perv stroking his cock to it, but to him it was like music to his ears. he couldn’t help but imagine what she was doing to herself. he didn’t hear a soft buzz come from her room, so he knew it wasn’t her rose toy she kept tucked away in her bottom drawer. oh how he wished it was his fingers circling her clit instead of hers.

✮ onlyfans!joe who quickly got himself together after hearing her door slowly creak open. he didn’t get to finish before she opened her door, he was left with a hard dick that painfully poked against his sweats, a pillow on top of it and his heart beating outside of his chest. angel, with the smile that drove joe insane, walked out and decided to sit next to him, unbeknownst to what was underneath the decorative pillow. “i thought you would be taking a nap by now,” joe breathed out, the heaviness of his balls and her tight tank top leaving nothing to the imagination driving him insane.

angel shrugged and looked at him, “guess i’m not tired anymore, joey. let’s watch a movie, hmm?”

✮ onlyfans!joe who knew that one day or the other angel was going to be his.

[dipperpepper77]

The Good Timeline

Dipper Delusions

Tags: FLUFF. Another lifetime AU.

Sylus: The cigarette that perched on his lips was roughly taken away. He already knew who it was, your scent lodged in his bones. "Dear? I said I'd quit after this case..." It only earned him a peck on the lips- "and... your spouse said now." You showed him the sparkling ring on your finger. The usual banter leaving smile lines on your faces. The promise of showing how great of a life you two had in the future when you're old and gray.

Sylus worked as a detective in the Red light district. Meeting his beautiful spouse on a particularly rough day. He went over files as Luke and Kieran called from University. Sylus made it a point to send the twins to pursue education this time around. "Yeah... I can see the notes you're writing. Luke... didn't I say to work on your penmanship? Kieran isn't absolved from this too. You're assignment was late. I spoke to your professor." He felt a soft tap. Seeing your eyes looking down on him, lips pursed to ask a question. "I have no interest in solicitation." He reaches for his wallet. "Solicitation? I... you're hiring for an assistant position..." His face went red. "Oh... yeah. I am". The rest was history.

Your fingers scooped some gel. Applying it evenly in thin coats to slick his hair back a bit. Small kisses landed to the back of his neck earning you a hoarse laugh. "My dear assistant is being unprofessional." You rolled your eyes, "Your 'assistant' is the reason you crack as many cases as you do, dear...". He could only laugh. "Noted. My beautiful spouse has a tude this morning. How do we fix it?" A kiss. Two kisses. His tongue dragged on your bottom lip, only to hear the loudest CAW known to man. Mephisto reminding you both that he was in the room. "Right... right. Sorry Mephie." Man... he loved this lifetime.

Rafayel: A paintbrush hurled its way towards Rafayel's head. Who else would he call other than his spouse? The only problem is... are you busy with court? "Love? Are you busy?" You spoke quietly. The halls of the court making your voice echo. "Not really. The judge isn't here but I'm ready to go. What's wrong?" He sighed. "My beautiful and hardworking lawyer. AND WHAT'S WRONG?! A DAMN KID THREW A PAINTBRUSH AT ME". You tried... SO hard to not laugh. Your poor husband isn't having a great first day as a elementary school art teacher.

You came home earlier than him. Preparing dinner, stirring the noodles occasionally when the door opened. There he stood- looking like the loser of a paintball competition. Blue streaks on his cheek, pink on his arm, yellow on his leg, a muddy combination of colors on his hair. He refused to shower alone that afternoon. Your hands threading his strands trying to get the dried paint out. "What would I do without you?" You smiled. Kissing his lips gently. "Crash and burn".

You're about to sleep. His arms wrapped around your waist- as his phone lights up. You hear Grayson, the school principal, yelling. "Rafayel... WHERE DID YOU LEAVE THE PAINTBRUSHES?" You looked at Rafayel. "Raf... you did NOT." His face was beet red. "... I threw them in the lake." Thank goodness that his spouse was a lawyer. This seemed to be a pickle only YOU could get him out of. Your price? He had to clean and cook for the entire month. Which he did gladly. Coming home to see him in a little apron to show off he's committed to this bit.

Xavier: Office romance is REALLY hard to hide. Especially when your husband is so damn clingy. You turned in your cubicle, holding to the arms of your chair to crack your back. "That's not good... I'll crack your back for you at home." He said it SO loud. "Xavier... I'll write you up with HR." It was a tease, more of a 'hey! shut up.' He looked at you with a blank expression. "HR? For cracking my spouse’s back?" Great. Now everyone was buzzing with life. The new thing was your marriage to Xavier.

You both ate in his car- your fingers unwrapping the foil of your burrito. "You did that on purpose didn't you?" He smirked. You feel the disturbance to your spousal instincts. Closing your eyes- you put the pointer and middle finger of both hands to your temple. "If I turn... and you're laughing- I'll tickle you." You opened your eyes to see him opening the driver's side door to run. Thats how you both came to the office with mud stained clothing. Spitting out grass and leaves.

Xavier's favorite threat? "I'm going to cook tonight". That made your face go sheet white. But, you got home a bit after Xavier to see the table prepared with so much food that ACTUALLY looked edible. You sent messages to your loved ones saying your 'I love you's' incase you didn't make it out after dinner. You took a cautious bite... it was REALLY good. After you felt like a stuffed turkey- you went to the kitchen to do the dishes. Seeing empty bags of multiple take out places... right. Of course, you should've known. Your eye twitched. Looking back to see Xavier making a run for it.

Zayne: You did medical research. But, want to know you most reoccurring resource? Your husband. So it's always known... 4pm is when you'll waddle into the hospital. You came a little after 4:30 this day, however. Feeling hands twirl you around to make you face him. "You're late, my brain." You could only smile. "Traffic got really hectic, my hands." The nickname came from an interviewer. Saying that Zayne was the hands on spouse while you were the brain. Your research proposing many alternatives to medicine or explaining the true severity to different diagnosis’.

Your feet laid on Zayne's lap as he rubbed your heels. "I feel like I'm going through a loop. There is proof. I triple checked my statistics, the validity to my claims... hell! I even did a trial myself with my money!." He offered you a listening ear. "So, the problem is that the board isn't listening?" The next week you found the board looking... afraid of you. Signing off on documents to let you propose and do actual research on your claim. You knew in your gut who made it happen... Zayne. He believed in you more than anyone in the world.

At home he held you close to his chest in the bath. "I know what you did. Thank you." You looked up at him, laying your chin on his hard chest. He smiled at you. His eyes looking at you like you were a rare jewel. "Not a problem... not for my brain." The chuckle that left your lips made his heart jumpstart all over again. Your wet hand intertwined in his. "In this life... let's do this everyday." He nods. Kissing the top of your head. "Everyday... I can do that."

Caleb: He married his first love. His childhood best friend. He wouldn't trade it for anything in the world. You sat between his legs as he combed out your hair, making it neat and presentable for work. "After we land let's go to the breakfast place we saw in Paris?" You nodded gently. Eyes closed in bliss as he took his time. Landing occasional kisses behind your ear. "Lovely... beautiful... all the adjectives to say you look like a dream this morning." You scrunched your nose a bit. "You big sap."

You entered the cockpit to ask him if there would be any delays, per the request of a traveler. He looked up when he saw you. Cue the cheesy husband he was. "Mayday! Mayday! A smoking hottie walking in the cockpit. Evacuate immediately!" You rolled your eyes. "Delays? Traveler is insistent on getting to Paris as quickly as the plane allows us." He shook his head gently. "That information is classified. If only my spouse... gives me five minutes. Then I'll tell you." So there you were. Sat on his lap as he pointed to the different areas of the earth to tell you where was were. He placed a kiss on your lips after five minutes. "No delays. Just a husband wanting to land quickly to take his spouse to tourist spots."

When you got to the hotel in Paris he was all over you. Oiling your scalp like always as he gathered everything you needed for a spa day. Which led to you giving him a well deserved massage for being the worlds best husband. You kissed his cheek. "Remember when we were kids and you peed your pants on a big ride?" Oh that does it... he rolled over. Pinning you to the bed as he tickled you. "You said you'd stop teasing me about that!" You laughed hysterically. "Mercy! Mercy! The oil! Baby!!"

Dip speaks: Thanks for reading! But, next might be ANGST. I'm going to get ya. 🚬 🐺

[cryinggirlnamedhelen]

CODES OF CONDUCT - S. HARUKA

codes of conduct masterpost codes of conduct playlist

cw ; afab!reader, swearing, semi-canon au, all characters are aged up (sakura and reader are 19-20), sort of wind breaker spoilers(?), mentions of sex, alcohol, mentions of drugs, thank you @aquazero for the amazing black n white dividers🫶

@x3nafix @neeeooon @narcjsistx @ohagiyoo @levihanmyotp @yorubl1d3 here ya go babes🫶

chapter one ; parties

word count ; 2.2k

you really hated this.

april had only just started recently, and yet your school year had already begun. something that sounded like a mix of a sigh and a groan drawled out of your throat and lips, your chin in the palm of your hand as your elbow rested on the counter of cafe pothos.

the sound of eggs and oil sizzling in a pan absolutely failed to console you, but the moment the smell of omelette rice entered through your nose, your eyes lit up. “thanks, kotoha!” you exclaimed, picking up the spoon set next to the plate of freshly made omelette rice. kotoha smiled, gazing at you as you shoved the omelette rice down your throat.

“yeah, no problem. you looked ready to faint during lecture today.” kotoha hummed. “did you skip breakfast again?” your face reddened, an embarrassed smile making way to your lips.

“well, no way was i going to be late again, right?” you remarked. kotoha's lips pressed into a thin line, raising an eyebrow at you as you continued to scarf down the plate of omelette rice in front of you.

“mhm. whatever you say.”

the moment you finished your food, kotoha took the plate away and washed the ceramic until it gleamed a pristine white. your eyes lingered on her as she did so; you really admired kotoha. she was amazing, majoring in both education and psychology while still having enough free time to work at the cafe and go to parties and social events.

unlike you, she's been in makochi since childhood. you only came to makochi last year to attend university here. you could have gone to tokyo university, especially since you were accepted there, but you rapidly realized that there was no way in hell you'd be able to live in an entirely different and heavily populated city with expensive tourist scams left and right. well, maybe you could go there for medical school. you majored in psychology anyways.

“i know this is really sudden, but there's going to be a party later at shiroko's house. you know, the one who's majoring in business and is so rich that he wipes his tears with lots and lots of cash.” kotoha began. “i know that you don't really like parties and socializing too much, but y'know, it's your sophomore year now, and i don't want you to be as lonely as you were last year, especially since we're not roommates anymore.”

for a moment, you stopped eating, meeting kotoha's hazel eyes. as embarrassing as it was, she was right. you didn't have any friends other than her, and you were too nervous to socialize. but not that you've moved out of the university dorms--the very reason you met kotoha in the first place--, you would really be seeing kotoha way less.

and you didn't know if anyone else would ever be kind enough to invite you.

you bit into the inside of your cheek before managing a shaky smile. “yeah, uh, sure. send me the address and i'll try to go. i don't think i have a shift at the library today.” that wasn't a lie. your part time job at the library indeed didn't happen to take place today. kotoha grinned, tucking a few strands of hair behind her ears.

“great! it starts at nine. i'll see you there, okay?”

you nodded, finishing your plate of food and sliding it to kotoha. you left the cafe, walking back to your apartment while scanning the streets to see if there were any new stores or restaurants. your eyes lingered at the front of the town, where a large sign stood. it changed every week, advertising different stores from around town. but the locals--including kotoha--always looked at it with what seemed to be grief.

but whenever you asked, they always replied with something similar to or the exact response of “you'll understand when you get to know about bofurin.”

you've never heard much about bofurin, but when you did hear something about it, it was never good. usually the words “violent” or “ruthless” would be muttered under someone's breath whenever they spoke of bofurin. at least, the people who weren't the locals who spoke of it. the locals always seemed so uncomfortable when bofurin or furin are brought up. but you knew that furin was one of the old high schools in makochi that was torn down and rebuilt a few years ago in favor of a new hospital.

stepping into your apartment, you nearly fell face first into your futon, a long groan exiting your lips. finally, you could rest, even if it’s just for a little bit. god, how you fucking hated lecture. your apartment was miniscule and run-down, but it was livable. it had air conditioning and heaters after all.

you leaned over to your table, taking your computer out to complete your homework as quickly as you could. but your mind began to wander elsewhere as you researched about mental disorders, and before you could stop yourself, you opened a new tab and typed “bofurin” inside of the search bar, eyes unblinking as the page loaded.

nothing. truly nothing appeared in the search results.

frustrated, you typed in “furin”. this time, a few results appeared, though most of them were either about how the school was once extremely violent a few years ago or it was about the school being torn down and rebuilt into a hospital, though all of those articles had little--if any--views. after a bit too long of doom scrolling, you found a single article about how furin was being shut down. but that article was from over three years ago. it probably wasn’t even of much use anymore.

annoyed, you closed the tab and began your daily dose of doom scrolling on tiktok. liking videos here and there, giggling at an edit of gojo here and there, just the usual. of course, you couldn’t abandon your homework completely, researching a bit more every time you reached the “liking too frequently. try again later” mark on tiktok.

before you knew it, it already reached eight fifteen. shiroko’s house was, if you remember correctly, thirty five minutes away by foot. makochi was safe after dark, and you didn’t want to spend your scarce amount of money on an uber, so you might as well just walk there.

at eight thirty, after throwing on a cardigan and some jeans, you stepped out of your apartment, your heartbeat in your throat. you still really didn’t want to go in the least. loud music from the speaks made you nervous, and the heavy smell of alcohol mixed with drugs and vape made you feel nauseated. you also didn’t want to go to another singular room and walk into a couple in the process of making out.

but you know what, it’s okay. everyone had to step out of their comfort zone, right? and you didn’t want kotoha to worry about you anymore. she had to balance work, being a double major, and caring for the elderly in the town. she had enough on her plate already, and worrying about you would only make her life so much harder than it’s supposed to be.

but there were more reasons than just that. kotoha was definitely hiding something from you. you didn’t know if she was hiding some sort of secret boyfriend or if she was talking shit about you behind your back--not that you think that she’s the type of person to do that, but things happen--or if she just doesn’t even like you that much and is only friends with you out of pity. but you needed to know. you had to know.

the night was chillier than you would have expected, the gooseflesh crawling up your arms when you stepped into the inky night full of dots of stars. it was april, it usually wasn’t this cold. oh, whatever. you wouldn’t even be staying at the party for too long anyways.

after the long thirty-five minute walk, you arrived at the largest mansion in the town. neon lights illuminated through the curtains, and you stepped in stiffly. instantly, you were hit with waves of heat and far too loud music screeching in your ears. already, you wanted to leave. but no way you were that weak. you had to stay. for the sake of your pride and curiosity.

you awkwardly snaked around the house to the kitchen, a group of juniors drinking beer together. you weren’t old enough to drink yet, and you wanted to save your first drink for your twentieth birthday. fuck it, you came here to socialize, and yet you’re hiding in the kitchen like a coward. you should be out in the living room talking to the hot senior girl who was laughing with her friends or something.

after a few minutes of negotiation with your brain and your heart, you finally decided to walk to the living room. but before you could even take a step, you felt a large hand on your back, and the reek of alcohol contaminated your senses.

shit.

turning around rapidly, you saw a man standing in front of you, red faced and stupid. he was definitely drunk, from what you could tell. you’ve seen him around campus before. he was a senior. “hey, you’re pretty cute. wanna come with me upstairs and--”

“uh, no thanks!” you exclaimed, stepping away from the situation nearly instantly. you slithered your way to the front door, holding your breath the entire way there. this was like one of those horror games on roblox, where you don’t wanna get jumpscared.

finally, you reached the front door and shoved it open. you would have to apologize to kotoha later, but your concerns were valid. you really fucking hated this. when you gulped in the cold night air, you thought you were safe. but the moment the reek of beer stung your senses again, it was almost as if shards of ice were slipping down your throat.

shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit! thank you mom for giving birth to me and raising me. thank you dad for raising me. thank you--

“hey pretty, don’t be such a bore. come on over here and we can--”

you began to walk away rapidly, pulling out your phone to call the police. did this guy not know how to take a goddamn fucking hint? big ass footsteps stomped behind you, and you could feel the white hot heat bubbling in your chest. god, why was he so fucking annoying? you really needed to file a restraining order.

but eventually, all of your irritated thoughts vanished as the footsteps got closer and closer. your stomach twisted and turned into knots, and before you heard a swish in the air. you were dead. you were definitely dead after this one. you prepared yourself for the impact, whether it would be a hand on your shoulder or a hand clasped over your mouth. you raised your hands to your face and shut your eyes close, begging for the impact to be not too painful.

but the impact never came.

“take a hint. can’t you see that she clearly doesn’t want to talk to you? you’re pissing me off.”

you heard a loud crack along with the sound of a hit, along with something falling on the dark road. you squinted an eye open, and slowly, you dropped your arms. a figure stood in front of you, and in front of the figure stood the guy who had been following you, laying on the concrete with a bloody nose.

for a few moments, all you could do was stare at the figure in front of you. the person who had saved you. your savior. “i, uh…thank you.” you stumbled over your words, eyes blinking furiously and palms sweaty.

they remained silent, but you could feel a sudden wave of heat radiating off of them. “uh…uhhhhhh, i-it’s nothing. he was just-- just pissing me off. nothing else.” their back was still turned to you, and you could see that their hair was two different colors. even if it was dyed, it was still gorgeous.

before you could process their words, they suddenly seemed to turn unbelievably irritated. “why are you walking in the dark streets alone at night, and as a girl? don’t you know how dangerous it is?!” they exclaimed, finally turning to face you. they had different colored eyes as well. how pretty.

“you’re alone too.” you pointed out, albeit still undeniably grateful for them.

“well i’m a guy, which lowers my chances, and i know how to fight. clearly, you don’t.”

as thankful as you were for your savior, you were definitely getting a little bit pissed off. you brushed the topic off. “well still, thank you. is there anything that i can do for you?” you asked, already taking out your phone once more to enter your bank account. you had little money, but it was the thought that counts, right?

you expected money. maybe to treat him to a meal. maybe to give him a home for a few days. who knows. but instead, your eyebrows raised at his request.

“take me to cafe pothos.”

[littlerequiem]

LEVI/F!READER/ERWIN | ROYALTY AU | P. 1 OF 2

Having had enough of your father pushing suitor after suitor on you, you make a vow: before the night is over, you will experience pleasure on your own terms. But as the saying goes, forbidden fruit is the sweetest—and no fruit is more tempting than the one your two knights have to offer.

> Crossposted on AO3

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 - Levi Ackerman / Female Reader / Erwin Smith (Attack on Titan)

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 - Rated Explicit (18+) - Royalty AU, Inspired by HOTD, Attempted Assault (not by Erwin/Levi!), Period-Typical Sexism, Swearing, Hurt/Comfort, Drinking, Pining, Eventual Smut, Threesome, First Time (WC: 5.5k)

"Princess Reiss, her Royal Highness, First of her Name, and Heir to the Throne of Paradis!"

The attendant bellows out your many titles, the sound of which echoes in the great halls of your forefathers. 

In the distance, a crowd has amassed where your father sits on the throne. All eyes turn as you step in, and you realize there was a reason behind your lady's maid fretting over your hair this morning.

Your eye twitches. 

Another day, another suitor.

"This is Floch Forster, your Highness," the Hand of the King declares. He bows, gesturing towards your father's latest pick. "Lord of Utopia."

The man—Floch—runs a hand through his hair as you set your gaze on him.

He's tall, you suppose, and handsome enough, with a serious face and a firm posture. But he looks at you like some trifling prize to be won, and that makes your jaw tight. You will be Queen of the Realm one day—someone he owes allegiance to, not the other way around.

He won't do.

The meeting does not go well, and you send this Floch character on his way. You can tell he's displeased, what with the way he bristles and huffs like a peacock, glares at the floor like it had personally insulted him. You don’t care; you can't imagine a union with a man like him—someone who'd never see you as his equal, but try to undermine your influence and power every step of the way.

In truth, the prospect of marriage has never appealed to you. If it were up to you, you’d ascend the throne by yourself, and rule without the presence of some man who'd expect you to push babe after babe from your womb. But, of course, as a woman, you have royal duties to uphold.

"I will not tolerate you not marrying, daughter," the King warns later on.

You're now dining with your father in the main halls—alone, aside from the presence of knights and servants. You pay neither your father nor them any mind, digging into your vegetables solemnly.

"Do you have nothing to say?" your father grumbles. "Nothing to apologize for? This is the third match you send away! Soon, the realm will run out of suitors."

You lift your cool gaze at him. You know your father means well by introducing you to suitors, that he loves you in his own way. But the way he keeps on pushing man after man on you is simply suffocating. If you were to ever marry, you would much prefer for it to be with someone you actually cared about. You'd want for things to happen naturally.

But the future of the realm, of securing a bloodline, waits for no one, least of all for you. 

"I don’t see the issue here," you say all the same. “I will marry when I find the right candidate.”

"Yes, and when will that be? When I am dead and buried underground?"

You roll your eyes. "Really, must you be so dramatic, father?"

“You are the reason your father is so dramatic!” Now he stands. No longer is the look he sends one a father gives his daughter—no, this is the look that a king gives his subject. “My advisors tell me I am too lenient with you, but long have I ignored their plights. Now, I see that I have been blind.”

“And what of my plights, Father?" you hiss. "Do I have no say in my future? What if I wished to rule alone?”

“Your plights are of no consequence to the realm, foolish girl. A woman cannot rule alone.” Your father’s jaw locks, tight as a bowstring. “You will marry before this year is over. Is that understood?”

You scoff. "You cannot possibly—"

“Oh, but I can because I am your king and when I speak, my word is law,” he snarls, slamming a fist on the table. A jug of water tips over—neither of you pay attention to it. A servant scurries to handle the mess. “You either listen to me now, or I will force you down the aisle myself until you produce heirs of your own.”

His threat hang in the air. You feel its weight on you, like physical chains summoned around your wrists. It makes you grit your teeth, setting your glare onto your curled fists laid out on your laps.

The tension could be cut open.

You push your chair back, the feet rattling against the stone ground, and stand up. “Fine,” you sneer as you turn away, “breed me like a brooding mare, if that’s all you care about.” 

Your father grates out your first name. "And where do you think you're going? We aren't done."

"But we are!" You swerve your attention back on him, shooting him a look of absolute vitriol. You don't remember the last time you had such an argument with him. "I'm going back to my books, while I still have the liberty to read freely."

"Daughter—"

“—or will you take that right away now, too?"

At your words, your father's eyes gleam furiously; his voice is cold as ice. "This is not the end of this. You will marry, and if you don't make a choice soon, I will make it for you."

You say nothing in return, letting the echo of your scattered footsteps be the answer to your father’s penance.

As you exit the halls that night, you don't see the worried looks your two guards exchange as they follow you out. 

You’ve already got a plan brewing.  

You do not go back to your books.

As soon as you’re inside your chambers, you lock the door shut, only to hurl a nearby vase across the room. It shatters in a hundred pieces, but it gives you none of the relief you thought it might. With blood pumping through your veins; you heave like you just escaped an apex predator’s claws.

You grit your teeth. 

It’s all so unfair. That your father expects you to fall back into line, to do as he says, simply because he commands it. Has he forgotten the child you once were, or does he simply refuse to see the real you?

Damn him. Damn this whole system that cursed you the moment you were born. Another princess might have wept or accepted her fate, but not you. 

Tonight, you’ll break free. 

“Princess?” a concerned voice comes from the other side of the thick wooden door.

It is soon followed by two knocks, slow and firm. The voice belongs to one man, the knocks to another. Your guards.

"Leave me,” you tell them. “I do not wish to be disturbed,"

The two men, Erwin Smith and Levi Ackerman, have known you since childhood . They understand you well enough to recognize that you're not actually fine, but thankfully, they seem to respect your need for privacy. Erwin lets you know they’re just outside the door if you need anything. You already know you won’t call for them. 

Not tonight. 

No, tonight, they can’t follow you down this path. Despite being lifelong friends, this journey is one you must make alone.

You eye the corner of your chambers. 

There is a secret passage just behind the bookcase of your bedroom. It is not known by many—just you and your guards. It is the same passageway you would often take to meet Levi and Erwin in secret, to watch them spar on the training field, to talk about books and dreams when all still seemed within your grasp.

It seems you must grasp one more dream for yourself.

The streets of Mitras are lively in the evenings.

Filled with jesters and children, dancers and sell-swords, merchants and entertainers, there is much that is happening tonight. The thick stench of sweat and mud, the taste of tart pie and mead, the sound of songs and gossip. It paints a study in the everyday lives of common folks.

On any other day, you might have stopped to observe your future subjects, but not tonight. As you make your way further down the web of the city, you feel equal parts thrilled and anxious. This is the first time you’re out without your guards, after all; you can’t help but feel bare without them. It makes you glance over your shoulders. Clad in a cloak with a dagger and bag strapped to your hip, you know to remain prudent. 

You’re on a mission, after all, one that is personal, and you do not wish to be stopped.

Sex.

The concept isn’t foreign to you. You know what coupling is; you’ve seen peaks of it in stories, behind closed doors. You know that sex isn’t simply something that people do to procreate, but that it is immense pleasure. Men and women do it, but also men and men, women and women, and all genders that come in between.

You think that this is what pushed you to step out of the comfort of your room tonight. Pleasure, with someone who would be willing to do it for you—not because you must, but because you both want to.

Only now that you’re here, you falter. The Perfumed Quarters, where you now stand, carry the finest brothels. You’re certain that with the coin you carry, you might find one that would be discreet enough to give you the pleasures you desire. Man or woman, you would have your pick.

But are you really daring enough to do this?

You close your eyes, fidgeting with your hands as you eye the entrance door. You had a glass of whiskey before leaving—some liquid courage for the road—but now, you suddenly wish you’d taken the entire bottle with you.

"Hullo there, pretty thin’," slurs a voice close to your ears. The stench of alcohol that permeates makes your stomach wrench. You glance up, meeting the face of a man gazing at you with clear interest. "My, y'ar quite the sight. Skin like velvet..."

He reaches out to touch your face, but you flinch back. 

"Dressed so prettily too, under that cloak... Are ya one of the whores working here, hm? An escaped rabbit from her cage?"

Your brows knit together. "You misunderstand, sire. I'm not a working woman. I simply—"

The man does not listen, seizing one of your wrists. Your brows scrunch low, and with your free hand, you grab the dagger, showing him you're no helpless thing. 

A callous bark rumbles out of him. “Is’tis part of the act, hah? The little rabbit has fangs, and I get to eat ya whole?”

Before you have a chance to show him just how real your fangs are, your peripheral catches a flash of silver. Before you realize it, a long blade, cutting the space between the two of you, brands a path dangerously close to the man’s throat. 

"Get your filthy hands off of her."

Your body freezes; you recognize that baritone tone. 

Sure enough, no later than a second after, your peripheral catches sight of Levi and his golden cloak. He’s the one delivering the threat, though you soon realize he’s not alone: Erwin, to his right, assesses the situation with a sharp gaze. 

Your lips part, eyes rounding at the sight of them. How they found you, you know not, but you know that you're in for one a hell of a talk.

"Golden cloaked guards from the palace." The stranger's eyes are wide with fear as he stares back at you. "But that means, you must be..."

"No one you need to concern yourself with," Levi says dryly, stepping in between you and the man, "now, I won't repeat myself, if you wanna live—scram."

The knot in the man's throat bobs uncertainly, but he seizes his chance while he still can—he scurries away. You scowl, watching his retreating form. You know Levi only let him go to avoid stirring attention, but that criminal deserved a lot worse than what he got. Under your rule, you'll make sure the people working these streets receive better protection from people like him.

You do not get time to consider this matter for very long, however, because you’re soon reminded of your guards' presences. You turn towards them, face devoid of emotions. 

Levi's eyes narrow. "Explain." 

“Not here.” Erwin steps closer to you as well, looking over his shoulder. “We’re drawing unwanted attention.”

Levi sheathes back his sword, his glare still directed at you. “Fine. Let’s go then.”

Despite their words, you stay rooted to your spot.

“It wasn’t a request.” Levi turns, clearly exasperated. He grabs your wrist.

You grit your teeth, glaring at him. You know better than to argue with either of them right now, but you don't appreciate him manhandling you like a piece of meat. 

“I will once you unhand me,” you hiss.

Levi’s gaze levels with you, looking at you like you were glass. He finally released you, but not without his own flair; he crosses his arms over his chest, staring at you like he expects you to make a run for it, to fight him on this.

You roll your eyes; how dramatic. Even if you could somehow outrun them, your bravado for tonight has all but vanished. 

And so, you diligently follow them, with Erwin leading, while Levi walks behind you. Both of them are quiet on the walk back, the sound of their armors clinking through the cobblestone streets of the city. Neither wish to attract attention to the fact that they were escorting the future queen of the realm, heading straight into the castle's back way passage.

It is the calm before the storm.

"What the hell were you thinking, Princess?" is the first thing Levi says the moment he ceremoniously drags you into your chambers, hand firmly attached to your elbow.

Levi forces the cloak and weapon off of you, a glint in his eyes that makes it clear he's pissed.

You glare at him, ripping your arm away from him.

Out of your two guards, Levi Ackerman is always the one quickest to rile up. You think he has a bad temper and a mouth that ought to be washed with soap. For this reason, you often bicker with him, partly because you're often too prideful to admit defeat, but also because you secretly enjoy the banter.

Tonight, however, you do not have the will to fight.

"I do not know, Levi." You sigh, heading towards your vanity to place down your bag. "I just wished to wander by myself, I suppose." 

"Into the Perfumed Quarters? Don't you know what business goes on in that part of town?"

You whip your head around. "Of course I know. I'm not an idiot."

"Really?" Levi sneers. "Could've fooled me, Princess."

He pops the p in your title, just the way he knows you hate it. Your eyes narrow. 

"Let her regain her breath, Levi," Erwin interrupts, effectively breaking apart this building feud. He's made sure to close every door, every window, shut. He sidesteps the broken vase, the pieces of which are still scattered by the entrance. "I'm sure there's a perfectly good explanation for all of this."

Erwin observes you, seeking to understand. He's different from Levi in that way. He's more patient, more calm than his counterpart. Still, under that mask of stillness lurks a cleverness that you've learned not to take lightly.

You hate this—hate that you've ended up caught red-handed by these two men, by your friends. How did they even notice you were missing? You thought you were being discreet.

Knowing them, they probably defied your orders and checked on you, only to discover your treachery. You sigh, cursing yourself inwardly. Out of everyone who might have caught you, why did it have to be them? This feels like a cruel joke from the Gods. 

The three of you grew up together. First as a girl and two young squires, later as a princess and her two knights. Yours is a relationship forged in friendship, in trust, in loyalty. Where the princess goes, so does her two guards. There is no one she trusts more.

You've heard the whispers over the years. The words that rivals in court like to spin—those who'd rather slit their throats than see a woman like you sit on the throne. A whore, the little birds whisper. A princess that dared to lower herself by opening her legs not to one, but to both her guards.

None of it is true, of course.

But perhaps it is the spirit from earlier that emboldens you, but you find yourself wishing it were, to at least have this part of yourself that would be yours.

"Earth to the princess of the realm," Levi's chastising voice echoes in your ears. One of your eye twitches. "What the hell were you doing tonight? Don't you know what those places offer?"

“Of course I know, Levi. Did you ever consider that I sought such an establishment for that exact purpose?”

“...What?”

It is no secret that Levi’s mother was a prostitute. You know he doesn’t see the job of a working woman or man as lesser, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t look down on people who take advantage of workers and enable establishments from profiting off their labor. 

It must bother him, your words.

You try to soften the blow, because you don't want to lose his good opinion of you, whatever it may be. "I did my research, Levi. I picked one run by a woman, one that treats its workers fairly, with good compensations and living conditions."

"But, why the hell are you looking to... to go to a brothel? You've never… your chasteness—"

"Fuck my chasteness."

Levi’s brows knit together, though the rest of his face looks more in a stupor than anything else. You, on the other hand, are now filled with explosive emotions.

"Why did you seek such a place, your Highness?" Erwin finally speaks up, his smooth voice easing some of the tension in your shoulders. "Why not talk to us about it first?"

Your eyes flicker towards him. There's Erwin. Level-headed, calm, clever Erwin. Always asking just the question you most wished he didn't.

"Because…” you hesitate, “because I wish to know what it is like. I wish for things to be my decision for once, to decide how and where I..."

You close your mouth, feeling yourself growing hot. You know you shouldn't say these words to them. A princess shouldn't want pleasure. A princess shouldn't sneak off to seek a brothel. And a princess should especially not discuss such matters with her two male guards.

They both fall silent, which only renders the situation more awkward.

"You could have at least asked one of us to accompany you," Erwin suggests.

"Would you?" Your gaze is that of tepid coolness. "Would you have let me go?"

At that, both your guards seem a little torn. Levi's eternal frown hasn't wavered, while Erwin's eyes are intently on you, as if you were some puzzle needing to be solved.

You swallow, sitting at the edge of your bed, interlacing your fingers into a knot.

"You heard my father earlier. Soon, I will have no choice. I will marry. And I know it is my duty, I know it. But the idea of someone forcibly taking this part of myself before I am ready to give it up makes me ill. So yes, I went into town. Because I wanted to find this side of myself on my own."

Silence falls. You feel their gaze on you, heated and intense. You look at them. Their expressions tell you enough.

"You see," you say bitterly, "even if I had told you, you would have stopped me." 

Steps usher towards you. In a heartbeat, Erwin is kneeling in front of you, eye-level with you. His gaze speaks of compassion, of soft understanding. "It is because we worry for you, your Highness. We've known each other since all three of us were children. We do not wish to see you harmed at the hands of a stranger."

For some reason, Erwin's words make you glance at Levi. You wish to know if Erwin's words ring true. 

Levi clears his throat, a pout forming on his lips. "Princess, not every lover is created equal. You should... you deserve to know someone who pleases you."

Something heavy fills in your chest.

“And a brothel wouldn’t give that to me?” you ask in a crestfallen tone. “Aren’t they trained in the art of love-making?”

“That is not for us to say, or to judge,” Erwin answers. “But it doesn’t stop us from worrying.”

You stare at your bare hands, reeling them into a fist over your lap. This whole situation feels so deeply unfair.

“Tell me, why must my body be used for breeding grounds?” you ask, more to yourself than to anyone else. “Why must my value only be placed for what’s between my legs?”

Erwin stands back up, his presence a warm shadow on your side. To your surprise, both he and Levi take a seat next to you, with you in between them. 

"Princess, it is not for us to voice what is right or wrong." Erwin places a hand over yours; it sends jitters straight to your stomach. "But we wish for you to be safe."

Next to you, Levi interlaces his fingers on his laps. You can't help but notice how clean and well-trimmed his nails are, compared to even your own. How gentle his fingers look, amidst a sea of armor. You wish he'd place one of his hands on top of yours, just to feel both his and Erwin's touch at the same time. 

"You have known me since I was young,” you say. “Don't you grieve for who I used to be? Who I could have become? Why must I let some stranger do what he likes with me—”

You stop talking, feeling nausea churning in your belly. Clearly, you’re saying things you shouldn’t.

But this is Levi and Erwin. Somehow, with them, words always come out easier. With them, things have always come easier. Natural.

“Princess.” Erwin squeezes your hand. You still don’t look at him, but you admire his broad fingers, filled with scars that speak of past battles. “You know we will defend you no matter what. If your future husband forces you—”

"But what if I never want him? What if I want you both instead—"

You don't finish your sentence. Sandwiched between them, their breaths caressing your bare skin like silk, it's hard to think. 

To your surprise, Levi is the first one to speak up, "Finish what you were about to say."

Your eyes flicker to him. He's close. His gray eyes are relentless and charged, defying you to speak, like a great storm gathering in the distance. And his lips—

Are moving.

"Tell us," Levi says again, grating out your name. 

But you've never been one to say what you want directly—you've never been allowed to. Now that Levi is asking you to tell him, you hesitate. You raise a hand to your face, concealing your shame. "I'm sorry. I know that the two of you are, well, together. I don't know what's gotten into me. I don't know why I'm saying these things to you."

You know what the two of them are. Lovers. You know it to be true, because you see the way they look at one another, the way they talk. You’ve long felt envy in your heart—not at one of them in particular, but wishing you could be a part of it. Wishing that they would embrace you with open arms.

The truth is, you love them. You’ve loved them for a long, long time.

And you suddenly wonder: was this what you were seeking to find tonight? Did you simply search for them in others?

"Princess, we've both—" Erwin's voice beckons you back to the present. Your gaze falls on him. He tilts his head, smiling softly. "We have long known how we both feel about you. If duties and titles were shirked away, don't you know what we would have done by now?"

It is a bold thing he is saying—what a guard is saying to his princess. He could be exiled for such a statement, or worse. But Erwin has always been a bold man, one that takes gambles.

You just never thought you'd actually see the day where he would take a chance on you.

Before you can move, fingers slip between your own, filled with questions. You watch as Erwin carefully runs his thumb over your knuckles, gently turns your hand on his lap.

Instinctively, your head turns towards Levi, afraid that you'll find betrayal on his face for the way his lover is touching you. 

Wrong.

Instead, Levi's eyelids are half-lidded, an intensity to his expression as he assesses your every movement. It turns the spikes in your belly to butterflies.

"I..."

"Just say it." Levi says your first name again, like it was a prayer that would bring absolution to his sins. "Just give us the command."

But you do not wish for this to be a princess' command. You wish for it to be a woman and two men, bound in pleasure and feelings.

"I wish for your touch," you hesitate, "but not because I command it, but because you wish for it. Otherwise, let us never speak of this again. We can forget and—"

You mean to stand back up.

But a warm hand—Erwin's—snakes up to the back of your neck, forcing you to turn in his direction. 

And then his lips meet yours.

He kisses you. 

He kisses you... and your mouth parts in surprise, feeling a buzz of energy vibrate across your body, a path of tingling sensation scattering upwards like dozens of tiny birds flapping their wings. Erwin's kiss is chaste and innocent, like a schoolboy kisses a crush. Soon enough, he leans away, vibrant blue eyes gauging your reaction, and when you stare at him, slightly disoriented, he smiles.

He should have known you’d want more. You’re a spoiled thing, after all, used to the finer things.

Which is why you grab him by the collar and demand another kiss.

Erwin's chest vibrates as he chuckles, and his hands gently fall on your waist as he reciprocates the kiss. His lips open up to you, like a flower blooming under the sun. His thumb fumbles with the thick of your dress, a gentle sigh escaping his lips as you lean away.

A lopsided grin graces his lips and you can't help but return it.

"Forgetting about me, already?" comes a drawl from behind. 

You turn to Levi, amused at his impatience. He's got a brow raised, staring at both of you with a slight pout on his lips. The sight makes you stare back fondly. 

"I would never," you say.  

Levi’s flicker to your lips. Where Erwin was bold and self-assured, Levi is more prudent, like he thought you might catch on fire if you touch him. 

And so, you make sure to set you both ablaze by pressing your lips to his. 

For a moment, nothing happens, Levi just sits there, frozen.

And then, like a switch happening in his mind, Levi's hands fall to your jaw, his fingers winding into your hair, along your scalp. His restraint slips past him as he slides his tongue into your mouth, warm and alive. Your mind reels from the sensation, so different to Erwin’s softness. Levi tastes like black tea, the kind you always see him drink each morning. Levi pushes into you, making you bump against Erwin’s broad chest, and your heartbeat soars the moment you feel Erwin’s steady hands on your shoulders.

Who knew that kissing could feel so lovely, so intoxicating? Who knew what it would be like to feel the embrace of two lovers, of the two people your heart has yearned for?

Levi groans against your lips, his fingers cupping the valleys of your cheeks. Your movement pushes you further onto Erwin, forcing him to lie down as the bed creaks under your combined weight.

When Erwin chuckles, his husky voice vibrates against the back of your skull.

"Ngh —s-slow down, Levi," you huff. "I'm suffocating." 

"Can you blame him?" Erwin says languidly, the back of his fingers brushing across your exposed forearms. "You're a delight."

Levi finally slides away, his blown-out pupils taking in the sight. You, all disheveled, resting against Erwin, whose eyes gleam with knowing pride, with love. The knot in Levi's throat bobs. What a sight he has in front of him, for only him. 

With a swift hand, Levi undoes his cravat, neatly folding it and placing it on the nightstand. When he comes back at the end of the edge of your bed, he stands there, assessing you with hawk-like seriousness.

Shyly, you offer him your hand.

He takes it.

Without saying a word, you guide him back to his seat, nudging Erwin upright with your other hand. Slowly, you intertwine their fingers together, overlapping them on your lap. You watch with evident admiration at the marvel of golden, calloused skin blending with slender pale fingers, the expanse of their knuckles filled with scars that's a testament to their pledges as your knights.

A smile creeps on your face. Both your lovers watch as you lean back, propping yourself on your elbows while they stay seated upright at the edge of your bed.

"Now it's your turn," you tell them, “… if you want."

Understanding flashes on their faces, though it manifests differently for each of them. On Levi, it comes across as perplexed hesitation, looking from you to Erwin, like he didn’t think you'd want to witness this. Erwin, however, seems to have seen this coming, because his mouth twitches as he bends down to capture Levi's lips with complete confidence.

Levi outright melts into Erwin's touch.

You'd long imagined the two of them like this, kissing. Hands exploring one and another, lips moving in perfect accordion, eyes fluttering shut.

But seeing it now , shared with you… it’s something else.

You love them. You love them so very much.

Because there’s so much adoration, respect, and mutual understanding to be seen here. Erwin’s patience, taking and enjoying, contrasted with Levi’s desire to be filled and devoured, all in the span of this little shared space that now belongs to the three of you.

When they break apart, you are certain your eyes are hazy with desire.

"We got a bit carried away," Levi mutters.

You hum. "I liked it." 

You swear a hint of pink kisses his cheeks.

"So we're really doing this?" Levi grumbles. His eyes gleam on you, dark and heady. "It is a sacrilege, what you are doing, Princess. You are debasing yourselves with two people who are far beneath your station. We are not worthy to defile you."

You frown, looking from him to Erwin, searching for an answer on how to make it right. Erwin’s face is blank, and you understand it is up to you to convince Levi, not him.

You reach out for his hand.

"Levi," you say softly, sliding up next to him. Behind, Erwin's fingers brush the nape of your neck, as if to praise you for this step. You look into Levi’s eyes, earnest and true. "In this life, there are not many things that will be mine to pick. So, please... would you be mine?"

Levi melts at your platitude, He takes in the rest of you. You, with swollen lips and hearts in your eyes, must look like quite the delight.

“The two of you are the same,” Levi says, leaning closer with vibrant eyes. “So damn corny.”

You let out a chortle that sounds more disbelief than it does laughter. Levi and his wild mouth. You still think it ought to be washed by soap, though you suppose that it’s got its charms. 

Levi leans back, removing his shoes. Next to him, Erwin chuckles, reaching to unclasp his own armor. Like a giddy young girl, you help them, picking up each piece of worn leather and laying it at the base of the bed, making sure it is all neatly ordered for them to easily dress afterward. Once finished, the two men then take their turns disrobing the outer layer of your dress, with Levi grumbling, “how do you even breathe in this thing?” until you are clad in nothing but your chemise.

You shiver. This is the barest you've ever been in their presence, a vulnerability that feels both thrilling and intimate. 

For safe measure, you lock the doors—this time, you know no one will interrupt. Only you, Erwin, and Levi have a set of keys.

When you turn back around, Erwin and Levi are both gazing at you, their eyes charged with an intensity that makes your chest lock. They inspect you like you inspect them, their eyes sweeping over your form. A lifetime of knowledge, of love, of duty, and honor, hangs behind this moment, this relationship. It pulses in the air, a recognition that this, right now, is a turning point for all three of you.

Because tonight changes everything. 

And you’re prepared to let it.

Next (and final) part coming next Thursday (:

— Masterlist / Fic Playlist / Taglist

[the-winter-spider]

Yours, Always | Part Twenty-Four

Bucky x reader AU

Word Count: 7k

Warning: Light smut ?? lol nothing descriptive

A/N: Two in a row, trying to edit and wrap this up for yall, still a few more parts left!!!

p.s i dont remember if i wrote the scene about buckys flashback with his arm before and if i didnt no i didnt LOL i was not going back and rereading to find out lol according to my google docs layout i havent buuuuut idk LOL <3

Masterpost

-----

You’re already sweating when you step away from the fire. Your plastic cup is nearly empty, and the warmth from the cheap vodka is curling in your chest like a smirk. The music is too loud, and someone’s yelling about where to find the marshmallows, but all you’re focused on is the trek toward the cooler near the fence line. You pass by kids you half-know, half-like, all of them sunk into the grass, drunk off their faces. You dodge a couple making out against a tree.

That’s when you hear it.

“No, I’m serious! He won’t let me touch him…like, at all.”

You slow your steps instinctively.

“I tried everything. I even gave him a chance to hook up in his truck and he pulled away. Like literally pulled back and said he wasn’t in the mood. What guy says that?”

It’s Bucky’s girlfriend. Her voice is sharp with frustration, teetering on humiliation. Her friends giggle, one of them says, “Maybe he’s gay.”

You choke mid-sip.

The beer fizzes up into your nose, and you cough violently, bending over with one hand braced on your thigh, your cup sloshing in the other. You’re so caught off guard you don’t realize they’re staring at you until the coughing dies down.

“Hey,” one of the girls says, eyes narrowing. “Aren’t you Bucky’s best friend?”

You wipe your mouth and nod, already regretting everything.

“So… is something wrong with him?” Leah, his girlfriend asks, arms crossed tight over her chest like a shield. “Because he’ll make out with me but that’s it. He doesn’t even want to touch my boobs unless I, like, move his hands there. That’s not normal.”

You blink at her. The burn in your throat hasn’t even faded yet. You’re tipsy, your head buzzing, and you’re tired of pretending. “Maybe,” you say slowly, smiling a little too wide, “he just doesn’t want you like that, I wouldn't blame him.”

Her friends gasp and then she slaps you.

Hard.

The impact isn’t as shocking as the sound. A crack, like someone snapping a stick in two. Your head jerks sideways and the cup tumbles from your hand. Everyone hears it, even over the music. A ripple spreads through the party like a wave and then a moment of silence.

You press your palm to your cheek, skin already stinging, and… you laugh.

Not a cruel laugh. Not a broken one either. Just something dry and sharp that bubbles up from your chest like the only logical response. You’re not even mad. Because she has no idea that Bucky and you took each other's virginities last summer in the bed of his truck. Under the stars and the cicadas screaming. She doesn’t know you’ve already had the thing she’s begging for.

There’s movement in the crowd, Bucky pushing his way through bodies. His face is a storm, wild and searching. He’s breathless when he gets to you.

“What’s going on?” he asks, eyes flicking from you to her.

“She was being mean to me!” Leah blurts out, clutching her chest like she’s in a soap opera as she latches onto his arm like a sloth looking for its favourite branch.

Bucky’s eyes shift back to you, and for a second he looks confused, like this doesn’t track. Because it doesn’t. You’ve never been cruel. Never been careless with anyone, especially not someone he was dating. 

But this time you had but he doesn’t know that, he wouldn't believe it. You’re about to brush it off, let it slide like it means nothing, when he sees it.

The red blooming across your cheekbone. The outline of her hand and his whole expression changes.

He steps around her without a word and reaches for you, his fingers grazing your jaw, gentle and trembling. “What happened?” he whispers, so quiet only you hear it.

You don’t answer, you don’t need to. His jaw tightens, his hands fall to his sides. He turns back to her, voice louder now, sharper. “We’re done.”

Gasps echo behind you.

Her mouth falls open. “What?! You can’t break up with me! Why?”

Bucky’s voice doesn’t shake. “You hit my girl.”

“I thought I was your girl!”

He lets out a humorless laugh, runs a hand through his hair like it might settle the fire in his chest. “You were never my anything.”

You don’t even wait for the explosion that follows. You just grab his hand and tug him with you, away from the fire, away from the whispers.

The stars are smeared above you like paint on water. You walk in silence for a while, the dry grass crunching under your shoes.

“Sorry,” you say eventually, your cheek still throbbing.

“For what?” he asks. “She was dead weight.”

You glance at him. “Then why were you with her?”

He shrugs. “Stupid teenage boy thing, I guess. Killing time while I wait for my soulmate.”

Your heart stutters. “You think you’ve got a soulmate out there?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe I think I already found her.”

You pretend not to hear that last part. You keep your eyes on the moonlit path ahead.

“We really gotta stop coming to these parties,” you say, bumping his shoulder with yours. “Somehow we always end up causing a scene.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I think we might actually be the problem.”

You both laugh, the sound of it softer than the wind. The firelight fades behind you. The party disappears. It’s just the two of you now, always finding each other in the mess.

 -----

You don’t say much on the walk back from the café. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, not anymore. It stretches between you like something sacred, a thread tugging gently at both of you, keeping you close even when your hands aren’t touching.

The streets are still warm from the afternoon sun, though the breeze has cooled, brushing against your skin and catching in your hair. Bucky’s walking just slightly slower than usual, his arm brushing yours, close enough to feel him but not quite holding. You glance at him once and catch him already looking at you, his mouth curved into the softest, smallest smile. You don’t say anything. You just smile back and keep walking.

By the time you reach the hotel, there’s a quietness settled between you. Inside, Bucky tosses his key card on the nightstand and shrugs off his jacket. You toe off your shoes, stretching your toes into the plush carpet. The lamp on the nightstand casts a golden glow across the room, warm and soft, like it’s trying to match the mood.

“What do you wanna eat?” he asks, already reaching for the room service menu.

You curl your legs beneath you on the edge of the bed and shrug, your eyes skimming the list like it’s in another language. “Anything. I just want fries.”

He huffs a laugh. “Shocking.”

You smile as he picks up the phone to order burgers, two orders of fries, and a slice of chocolate cake. You raise your brows at him when he hangs up, and he just says, “It’s for you. I know you’ll want it later.”

You don’t correct him. He’s right, he usually is.

The bed dips as he sits beside you, and you both lean back slowly until you’re stretched out side by side, your shoulders touching, eyes turned toward the TV.

You scroll through the channels aimlessly before you land on a movie that makes you both freeze. It’s one of those childhood staples, the kind with bad dialogue, familiar one-liners, and a soundtrack that instantly transports you.

“You remember this?” you murmur.

Bucky chuckles. “We watched it in your basement, like, a hundred times.”

“And you cried at the ending every single time.”

“I did not cry,” he says, grinning as he turns to face you, propping himself up on one elbow.

“You definitely cried,” you insist, nudging his shoulder.

The movie plays, the food arrives. The fries are too hot and the burgers are too greasy, and it’s perfect. Bucky moans dramatically after the first bite and you laugh until your stomach hurts. He catches a fry mid-air when you throw one at him and nearly chokes from laughing too hard. You wipe ketchup from his chin. He eats the last bite of your burger when you pretend to be full, then steals a bite of cake and feeds you the rest.

It’s dumb and easy and warm in the way only home ever was.

Eventually, the movie ends, and your playlist begins, songs you chose just for him. 

“I’ve been working on this for awhile,” you say, unlocking your phone and handing it to him. “I saved songs that made me think of you. Stuff you missed, stuff I think you’d like.”

He scrolls through slowly. “You made me a playlist?”

Your voice is quiet. “Of course I did.”

He smiles without saying anything, tapping the first song.

“Iris” by the Goo Goo Dolls fills the space, soft, aching, familiar.

You turn your head to watch him, the way his eyes go soft at the chorus, the way his lips press into a line and then slowly part like he’s breathing the song in. He doesn’t say anything. He just listens.

Then comes “Super Trouper.” You both laugh when it starts, the way it always made you laugh, even when you were kids and had no idea what heartbreak really felt like.

And then “Mr. Brightside.” And Bucky groans, flopping back onto the pillows like he’s been betrayed. “This damn song I had it on repeat when I was deployed.”

“I knew you’d say that,” you grin.

You lie there in silence for a while after that, letting the music hum in the background, the lights low, the air filled with the scent of chocolate and salt and something warmer.

“I missed this,” Bucky says eventually, voice quiet.

You turn toward him. “What? Cake?”

He rolls his eyes, nudging your knee with his. “This…you. This feeling, like the world could actually be….soft, especially after everything.” 

Your heart swells, too full to fit inside your ribs. “I missed it too.”

You both fall quiet again. Then something bubbles up, some memory, some line from the movie and you say it in a ridiculous voice. He snorts. You try to hold back your laugh, but it bursts out. He doubles over. You both laugh so hard your sides hurt, your cheeks burn, tears leak from your eyes.

The laughter fades. Slowly…gently. Until all that’s left is breath and warmth and the way you’re still looking at each other.

He reaches for you.

His fingers brush a piece of hair behind your ear, slow and reverent. His touch lingers, drifting along your jaw. Traces the curve of your face like he’s trying to memorize it all over again. His eyes are darker now, heavier with something unspoken.

His hand trails down to your chin, then to your lips. You’re breathing harder now. You don’t even realize it until his thumb drags lightly along your bottom lip, and your chest rises sharply, like your body is answering for you before your mind can.

He leans in, closer, his face inches from yours.

“Are you sure?” he whispers, his voice low and hoarse.

You nod. “I’m sure.”

Then he kisses you.

It’s soft at first, barely there. Like a memory trying to find its way back. Then your hand finds the back of his neck, and he tilts into you, and the kiss deepens. Grows. Becomes something hungry and aching and full of everything you’ve both been holding back.

His hands slide under your shirt, fingertips skating along your skin like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. You tug at his, lifting it over his head, tossing it aside. He helps you out of yours. You’re both breathing hard now, chests pressed together, skin on skin.

There’s a pause. A moment suspended in time.

His forehead rests against yours.

“You’re still the only person I’ve ever done this with,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Only you.”

Your heart breaks open. You kiss him again.

It’s slow at first, painfully slow. Like you’re both rediscovering something you never really forgot, that you never got the chance to truly have, something you took for granted. His hands are everywhere. Yours are too. There’s a desperation in it, but also a tenderness. A need to be careful. A need to feel.

And when he finally presses into you, you gasp his name, your hands trembling where they clutch at his back. He stills for a second, his eyes locked on yours, and the look there, it’s worship. 

You move together in a rhythm that feels like coming home. Every breath, every sound, every movement, it’s all laced with years of want and grief and hope. His skin is hot beneath your hands, the muscles in his back flexing under your fingertips as you cling to him. You feel his breath in your ear, his whispered affirmations, the way he groans softly when your name slips past his lips.

His hands cradle your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, his mouth trailing along your jaw, your collarbone, your shoulder. Each kiss is a vow. Each touch, a promise. It’s not fast or wild, it’s unhurried and reverent. Like you’re something holy. Like this is something sacred.

He murmurs things you can barely hear. You’re beautiful. I missed you. I missed this. I missed us. You feel his thumb brushing away a tear you didn’t even realize had fallen. You open your eyes to find his already on you, so full of you it’s almost too much to bear.

When your hips meet again, everything in you clenches. It’s slow, drawn out. You gasp his name, and he holds you closer, his forehead pressed to yours like he’s trying to fuse your bodies, your hearts, your souls. You wrap your arms tighter around him and breathe him in like he’s oxygen.

You feel every second of it, every inch, every wordless I love you tucked into the press of his body against yours. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t pull away. He moves with you, over and over again, until the ache becomes something molten, something rising and breaking and settling in its place like truth.

And when the wave crests, when your nails dig into his right shoulder and your lips part in a silent cry, he’s right there with you, hand cupping the back of your head, his own breath stuttering in your ear as he follows.

After, your bodies are tangled beneath the sheets. Skin against skin, legs woven together like you’re afraid of being pulled apart. His arm is wrapped around your waist, hand warm and steady over the dip of your back. You’re both facing each other, noses barely apart, breath shared in the hush between heartbeats. His eyes are heavy-lidded, glazed with something soft and unguarded. A sleepy smile curves at his mouth one of those quiet, private ones that only ever belonged to you.

He kisses your forehead. Then your temple. Then the corner of your mouth.

“It’s always been you,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with truth. His thumb begins to draw slow, lazy circles along the small of your back. “Only you ever was you.”

You reach for his hand and slide your fingers through his like second nature. Like no time has passed. “I know,” you whisper.

For a while, there’s only silence. It’s comfortable and intimate. His thumb shifts from your back to your hip, and when his eyes lift to yours again, they’re serious, searching.

“It’s not time yet, is it?” he asks, gently. Not accusing, just… knowing.

You shake your head, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “I just want to tell Lily. I want to put everything behind me before we start anything new. I want it to be clean. Whole.”

He blinks too, and a single tear slips down his cheek, catching the light. But he doesn’t look away. “Don’t apologize,” he says, voice rough but unwavering. “Don’t feel bad. I told you before…I’d wait a lifetime for you.” His fingers squeeze yours. “I meant it.”

You stare at him, heart swelling so tight it almost hurts. “I can’t believe I’m worth all this to you, Buck.”

You lean in and kiss him, it's slow, reverent. Your foreheads pressed together, breath mingling in the quiet.

He smiles, the kind of smile that cracks something open inside you. “You’re worth more than the whole goddamn universe to me, beautiful.”

---

The chaos didn’t sound like freedom, not at first.

It sounded like more fire. More screaming. More boots stomping over dirt floors slick with blood. It wasn’t the first time the world had gone to hell around him, and it wouldn’t be the last. But this time… this time something was different.

Bucky’s vision was blurring around the edges. Too much blood loss. Too much pain. His left arm dangled off the edge of the rusted table they’d strapped him to, what was left of it anyway. Bone. Flesh. Muscle, ruined. Shredded. A machete, twice, clean through. They hadn’t even bothered to stitch him up, just wrapped the limb in wire and filth and left it to rot when the screaming stopped giving them answers.

The others had broken weeks ago. Sam was the only one still kicking and cussing and keeping the rest of them sane. God, Sam. Bucky didn’t even know if he made it through the night.

There was shouting outside now. Gunfire that wasn’t from their captors. A different rhythm, a different rage.

American.

It hits him slow, like a delayed explosion, this might be it. Not the end. The beginning.

“Bucky—” It’s Sam’s voice now. Close, too close. Bucky doesn't even remember the last time he saw Sam, probably the night they were taken. 

He blinks, heavy lids fluttering. His body is ice, sweat coating his chest, making his dog tags stick. He can barely turn his head. But Sam is there, stumbling through the busted-open door, rifle still raised, blood smeared across his temple.

“Jesus Christ,” Sam breathes, voice cracking. “Buck—Buck, I got you. I got you.”

He’s at Bucky’s side in a second, eyes flicking down to the mangled arm.

“Oh my god.” Sam turns his head. “MEDIC! GET IN HERE! NOW!”

Bucky coughs. Tries to sit up. Fails.

Sam catches his shoulder, eases him down. “No. No, don’t move. You hear me?”

“You… look like shit,” Bucky rasps, lips split and dry.

“You’re one to talk,” Sam answers, but there’s no humor in it. His voice is shaking. “Shit. Buck. I thought you were dead. I heard the screaming and then it was just silent, I thought I lost you man.” 

Bucky tries to nod, but even that’s too much.

“They did something,” he says instead, barely audible. “To my arm…”

“I see it, man. I see it. I got you, okay? We’re getting out.”

Bucky lets out a rattled breath. “Don’t think I’m gonna make it.”

“Don’t say that,” Sam snaps, grabbing a clean cloth from the medic who’s now at his side, pressing it against the open wound. “You don’t get to say that. You’re gonna make it.”

But Bucky’s eyes are fluttering now, his body starting to go slack.

He can feel it, his heart slowing, his body pulling away from itself.

“Sam…”

“No—no, no, don’t do this—”

“Listen to me,” Bucky croaks, forcing his eyes open, locking them on Sam’s face. “You go find her.”

Sam shakes his head, confused. “What?”

“Y/N,” Bucky says, every word a slice of glass through his throat. “You go find her. You tell her…”

Sam grips tighter, panic bubbling in his chest. “Bucky—”

“You tell her…” Bucky’s voice trembles. “I’ve been in love with her my whole damn life. Since I was eight. My life didn’t start until I met her.”

Sam’s eyes burn. “Buck—”

“You tell her that,” Bucky breathes, voice fading. “Please. You tell her.”

The medic is shouting something now. Hands on Bucky’s arm. Wrapping. Stabilizing. The hum of a chopper in the distance. Sam’s vision blurs, but he doesn’t let go.

“No,” Sam growls. “You’re gonna tell her yourself. You hear me? That was too damn poetic for me. You’re not dying on a goddamn monologue.”

Bucky lets out a weak laugh, a gasp of breath that’s more pain than sound, and then, he passes out. His head tips back, the table rattles. The medic curses.

Sam keeps holding his hand.

“You better hold on, Barnes,” he says, fierce and quiet. “She’s been waiting long enough.”

—

The light filtering in through the narrow hotel curtains is soft and golden, casting a sleepy warmth across the tangled sheets and the quiet space between you. You’re sitting at the edge of the bed, one sock on, the other dangling from your fingertips. The room smells like him. Like cedarwood and clean soap and something warmer beneath it that you can’t name but know by heart. It smells like home.

Behind you, Bucky stretches, shirtless, his arm slung over his face before he groans softly. “God, I hate being away from you,” he mumbles, voice still raspy from sleep.

You turn, watching him with a fond, amused smile. “You say that every time,” you tease gently, pulling your sock on.

He peeks at you through his fingers. “That’s because it’s true. I hate it. I wanna glue myself to you.”

That makes you laugh, soft and full and real and you roll your eyes as you stand and tug your shirt over your head. “That’d get uncomfortable quick,” you say. “You’d get annoyed with me by lunch. I’ve been told I’m annoying.”

He props himself up on one elbow, watching you like you’re the only thing that exists in the room. “Never enough of you,” he says quietly. “I’ve got years to make up for. Years I should’ve been there. All this lost time, it’s like a hole in my chest. Every second with you, it fills a little more of it in.”

You swallow hard, standing frozen in place for a moment. Because goddamn, he means it. You see it in his eyes. You feel it in your chest.

You cross to him, sitting at the edge of the bed again, brushing your fingers through his hair gently. “What’s your plan today?” you ask, keeping your voice soft.

He sighs and leans into your touch. “New physiotherapist, another new doctor,” he says, nodding toward his left arm. “It’s been acting up again. Some nerve issues, maybe. They want to run tests. I don’t know.”

Your brows draw together in quiet concern. “Your arm?”

He nods again, but it’s casual, like it’s not the thing that wakes him up some nights with a searing jolt or makes it hard for him to button his own shirts some mornings.

He doesn’t have his shirt on, and your gaze drops to the line of scar tissue along his shoulder. That old, familiar ache curls in your chest as you shift closer, kneeling up on the bed beside him. Your fingers reach out gently and trace the jagged line that runs along his skin. He holds still, barely breathing.

Then, without a word, you lean in and press a kiss to it. Then another. A slow, unhurried trail of soft kisses up his shoulder and down the line of the scar. He exhales shakily beneath you.

“I love you,” he says, and it’s not rushed. Not breathless. It’s steady and certain and worn into the fibers of who he is.

You lift your head, looking at him through the blur of your lashes. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I know and I’ve always loved you, Buck. I always will.”

There’s a beat of silence between you, and then he exhales, huffing a soft, teasing breath through a crooked smile. “You always gotta one-up me, huh?”

You blink. “What?”

He grins wider. “I say I love you, and you gotta make it sound like a vow you carved into the damn universe.”

You laugh, pressing your palm to his chest. “Sorry,” you murmur. “I like winning and for the record, it is.” 

Bucky sits up a little straighter, eyes narrowing in mock challenge. “You’ll never beat me.”

“At what?” you ask, amused.

He doesn’t answer right away. He just lifts your hand to his lips, kisses the inside of your wrist, and then rests it over his heart.

“This,” he says quietly. “I already won. I’ve got the greatest trophy of all time.”

You raise an eyebrow, playing along. “Oh yeah?”

He nods, eyes locked on yours. “Yeah, your heart.”

Everything inside you just… stills. There’s no smart reply, no flirty comeback. Just this moment. This man and the sacred truth that has always been sitting quietly between you.

You lean in and kiss him again, slower this time, more grateful than anything. Then you press your forehead to his and let yourself breathe it in, his calm, his warmth, the feel of rightness.

After a long moment, you pull back just enough to speak. “I’m going to Sarah’s,” you say softly, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Steve and I are telling Lily today.”

Bucky’s expression shifts gently. 

“He texted me last night,” you say. “I didn’t say anything because yesterday was about us,” you say. “Just us.”

He nods again, lacing your fingers together. “Okay.”

You linger there for a while longer, tangled in each other’s warmth, until the world starts to creep back in the soft buzz of the phone charging on the nightstand. Eventually, you sit up and stretch, tugging your shirt over your head again, your skin still flushed, your hair mussed, you brush it and fix yourself up in record time. Bucky props himself up on one elbow, watching you, admiring you.

“You really have to go?” he murmurs.

You look over your shoulder at him, mouth tilted in a soft smile. “Yeah, I do.”

He nods, slowly. You can tell he hates it not because of Steve but because you’re leaving the room. Which means leaving this. The little pocket of time where everything felt suspended and untouched by reality.

Bucky sits up fully, swinging his legs off the bed. He grabs his jeans off the floor and tugs them on without breaking eye contact.

You kiss his forehead, then step back, reaching for your bag. “Alright,” you murmur. “Wish me luck.”

He leans against the doorframe, shirtless, eyes tracing you like he doesn’t want to forget how you look right now. “You don’t need luck,” he says. “You’re the strongest person I know.”

You smile and step toward the door, then pause. “I’ll see you later?”

His eyes soften. “Yeah, you will.”

And then you slip out into the hallway, the door clicking softly behind you.

----

You wipe your palms on your jeans for the third time before Steve even pulls the car into park. The porch light is already on, casting a warm yellow glow over the steps, and you can see the soft flicker of something on inside maybe a candle, maybe the TV. He cuts the engine, then turns to look at you.

“She’s gonna love you,” he says, but the way he fidgets with his keys tells you he’s nervous anyway.

“You’ve said that three times,” you say, teasing gently, though your own stomach twists with nerves. You’ve been dating for months. Real months and this…the home visit, the meet-the-mom this feels like something more. Something heavier. Especially because you know…you’re the first girl he’s brought home since her. Since the grief that swallowed him whole. And this is your first time meeting anyone's Mom because with him it was never like this, Winnie met you the first day you met him, there was no big anxious meeting. 

Steve exhales. “I haven’t done this in a long time. I haven’t brought anyone home since…”

“I know,” you say softly, reaching for his hand. “It’s okay.”

And it is, you’re not trying to replace anyone, you never have been. You know you never could because no one could ever replace Bucky. But you can’t pretend this isn’t a big deal, for both of you.

The door swings open before he can knock.

“There you are!” Sarah beams, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. Her hair is a little shorter than in the photos on the fridge you’ve seen at Steve’s place, streaked with more gray, but her eyes are kind, sharp. She pulls Steve into a hug and then, without hesitation, does the same to you. She smells like fresh herbs and something sweet in the oven. “Dinner’s just about done. Come on in, shoes off. I’m not mopping twice this week.”

You laugh, already relaxing just a little. Steve rolls his eyes but kicks his boots off, brushing your hand as you toe yours off beside his.

Dinner is simple, cozy. There’s a casserole bubbling in the oven, garlic bread wrapped in foil on the stovetop, a little bowl of salad that’s mostly croutons and cheese. The radio hums from the corner, some old song crooning softly beneath the clatter of dishes and Sarah’s storytelling. She talks fast, like Steve, and you recognize little bits of him in her, the sarcasm, the warmth, the way she smiles when she talks about someone she loves.

You and Steve settle into the old wooden chairs at the table while she finishes plating. When she asks him to run downstairs to the cellar to grab “the good wine, the one behind the pickle jars, you’ll know it when you see it,” Steve hesitates, glancing at you.

“I’ll be fine,” you say, smiling. “Go get the wine. I wanna know what the ‘good stuff’ tastes like.”

“Don’t believe her if she says I’m drinking more than one glass,” Steve mutters to his mom, but he kisses your temple before disappearing down the creaky stairs.

And then it’s just you and Sarah.

The silence isn’t awkward. It’s quiet, but it hums with something familiar. She sits across from you, tucking the dish towel in her lap like it’s muscle memory, and folds her hands.

“He’s happy,” she says. “He’s finally happy.”

You glance toward the basement door. “I hope so.”

Sarah smiles. “You’re good for him. I haven’t seen that look on his face in years. Not since…” She trails off, the implication hanging in the air like steam.

“Natasha,” you offer gently.

She nods. “It gutted him. Losing her like that.” Her voice dips lower, not mournful exactly, but honest. “I didn’t think he’d recover from it. He carried that loss like it was stitched into his skin.”

You swallow. “I understand that kind of loss,” you say. “Maybe that’s part of why we… why we understand each other.”

“I know you do,” Sarah says, and her tone shifts. Her eyes soften, her brows pull just slightly. “I can see it in your eyes.”

Your brows furrow. “What do you mean?”

“I see the loss of a great love,” she says. “It’s in the way you look when you think no one’s watching. That kind of ache, it doesn’t fade. It just gets quieter.” She pauses, then adds, more to herself than to you, “It’s the same look I see when I catch myself in the mirror.”

You blink. “Sarah…”

She lifts a hand to wave it off gently. “I’m not trying to put anything on you, sweetheart. I just… I’m saying I know that look.” Before you can respond before the silence can turn too fragile, Steve returns, wine bottle in hand and grin on his face.

“Found it,” he says, oblivious to the weight that’s just been shared. “And I only knocked over two pickle jars.”

Sarah stands and takes the bottle. “That’s a new record.”

You smile at him, still feeling the echo of her words in your chest, and when he slides his hand across the table to link his fingers with yours, you squeeze his hand just a little tighter.

Sarah says nothing more about it for the rest of the night.

--------

You pull into the driveway and park beside Sarah’s old Buick. The house hasn’t changed, the same rose bushes, same wind chimes, same smell of lemon cleaner and cinnamon that greets you the second you step inside. It still feels like home.

Before you can even knock, the door swings open and Sarah pulls you into a hug, warm and firm and familiar.

“Oh, honey,” she murmurs against your hair. “It’s good to see you.”

You cling to her a second longer than you mean to. “You too,” you say, your voice a little shaky.

She pulls back and studies your face. “Come in. I made tea.”

You follow her into the kitchen, sliding into your usual seat at the table. The teapot is already steeping, and there are lemon cookies on a plate between you.

“Where’s Steve and Lily?” you ask.

Sarah smiles as she pours the tea. “Steve had to take her to get frozen yogurt. She wouldn’t stop asking.”

You laugh softly. “Of course she wouldn't.”

Sarah slides a mug toward you, then sits down across from you. Her eyes are gentle, knowing.

“You’re nervous,” she says.

You nod. “I feel… awful. Like I failed them. Failed all of us.”

Sarah takes your hand. “You didn’t fail anyone, sweetheart.”

“I left. I broke our family.”

She shakes her head slowly. “No. You loved with your whole heart. You tried. You showed up, every day. That’s not failure. That’s life.”

Your eyes sting. “I just… I worry about Lily.”

“She’s got two parents who love her more than anything. That’s what matters.”

You nod, wiping under your eye. “I didn’t want this to hurt anyone.”

Sarah leans back in her chair and smiles, slow and thoughtful. “You know,” she begins, “Steve’s father wasn’t my first love.”

That makes you pause. “No?”

She shakes her head. “No. I met someone when I was barely out of high school. Thought I’d marry him. Life had other plans. But if he showed up on my doorstep today…” She trails off, eyes far away for a moment. “I don’t know what I’d do.”

You’re quiet for a beat.

She reaches across the table again. “What you and Bucky have… it’s rare. That kind of bond, that kind of love, it’s once in a lifetime and I saw it then, when you first walked through my front door, clear as day. You don’t let that slip through your fingers especially when life is being gracious to give you a second chance at it.” 

You swallow hard.

Sarah’s eyes glisten just a little, but her voice stays steady. “My son is a wonderful man, don’t I know it and my boy, he’ll be okay. You’ll be okay. We’ll all be okay.”

You nod slowly, letting the truth of it settle inside your chest.

Then the door creaks open and you hear Lily’s laughter burst through the hall.

“Time to talk,” Sarah says gently.

You hear the sound of little feet thudding up the stairs before you see her, her laughter floating into the kitchen as Steve trails behind her, carrying the remains of a half-melted frozen yogurt in a to-go cup. He looks a little more tired than when you saw him last, like everything he’s been carrying finally settled into his shoulders overnight.

“Mommy!” Lily beams when she sees you, and you open your arms without hesitation as she throws herself into your lap. She’s sticky from the yogurt, her cheeks flushed from the cold and excitement, but she smells like coconut shampoo and sunshine, like childhood bottled into something you want to hold on to forever.

“Hey, Bug,” you murmur, wrapping your arms around her, breathing her in.

Steve pulls out the chair beside you, setting the yogurt cup on the table with a quiet clink. Sarah slips out of the room without a word, giving you space like she somehow knew before you even asked.

“Lils,” Steve says gently, his voice soft in the way he only ever uses with her. “We were hoping we could talk with you for a little bit.”

Lily leans back in your lap, blinking at the two of you like she’s trying to figure out if she’s in trouble or if this is one of those grown-up talks she’s supposed to sit still for.

You stroke her hair back from her face. “It’s not bad, sweetheart. Nothing scary. We just… we want to talk to you about something important. Something about our family.”

She nods solemnly, lips pressed together, already bracing herself for something she doesn’t fully understand yet.

Steve glances at you. You nod. And then he begins.

“You know how sometimes families look a little different?” he says gently. “Some kids have two moms. Some have one parent. Some have step-parents. Some have two dads. Every family’s a little different, and that’s okay.”

Lily nods. “Like Emma in my class has two houses.”

“Exactly,” you say softly, smoothing her hair. “Like that.”

Steve leans forward a little. “Your mom and I… we’ve been trying really hard to make things work. We’ve been talking a lot, and we’ve decided that it’s best if we don’t live together anymore.”

Lily’s eyebrows furrow. “You’re getting divorced?”

The word lands heavier than you expected. You feel it in your chest, sharp and inevitable. But you nod, holding her hand. “Yes, we are. But that doesn’t mean we’re not still your parents. That doesn’t mean we don’t love you. You’re everything to us, okay?”

She’s quiet for a long beat, her little fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. Steve reaches across the table and takes her other hand gently.

“You’re still going to have both of us,” he says. “We’re going to work together. We’re going to be a team. And we’re going to make sure you always feel safe, no matter where you are.”

Lily swallows, her voice small. “So who do I live with now?”

You exchange a glance with Steve again, and you smile, reassuring. “You’ll have two homes. You’ll stay with Daddy during the school week, and you’ll come see Mommy every weekend. We’ll figure out holidays together. You’ll always have a place in both our lives, baby.”

Her eyes brim with tears, and your heart seizes. “But I like when we’re all together,” she whispers.

You pull her close again, pressing your cheek to her temple. “I know, baby. I know. We do too. But this way, you get more love. More space. More people who care about you.”

She sniffles into your shirt, and Steve reaches out to tuck her hair behind her ear.

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to us,” he says. “Nothing about that changes.”

She pulls at a string on the cuff of her sweatshirt. “So… are we not a family anymore?”

That question slices through you, clean and cruel and innocent. Steve’s hand finds yours between you on the couch, squeezing gently. He answers first.

“We are always a family,” he says, voice low. “We’re just going to be a different kind of family now. Two houses. Two places that are home. But the same love. The same team.”

You nod, trying to blink back the sting behind your eyes. “We love you so much, baby. That’s not changing. That will never change.”

She stares at you for a long moment. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” you both say at once.

You reach forward, taking her small hands in yours. “No, baby. Not even close. This isn’t about you, it’s about us. Sometimes, even when people love each other, they realize they’re better as friends and that’s okay.”

Lily’s lips press together tightly. Her eyes flick to Steve. “Are you mad at each other?”

Steve shakes his head. “No, bug. Not mad. We’ve just… grown in different directions. But we still care about each other. A lot.”

She looks down. “So I’ll go back and forth?”

“That’s right,” you say gently. “And we’ll talk all the time. You’ll always know where you’ll be, and you’ll always have a say.”

Her nose scrunches. “But what about Christmas?”

You smile a little, tears spilling over now. “We’re going to do our best to spend holidays together, if that’s what you want. It might be different, but we’ll figure it out. Together.”

She nods slowly, processing. There’s a long silence. The kind where you want to reach for her, but you’re not sure if it’ll help or make it worse. She crawls off the armchair and settles between the two of you on the couch without a word. Your arm comes around her instinctively, and Steve mirrors it on her other side. She rests her head against your chest and closes her eyes.

After a beat, her voice floats up small, steady, and certain. “As long as we still love each other… we’ll be okay, right?”

“Right, bug,” Steve says, his voice thick with emotion.

She grins, nabs a cookie off the plate like she’s earned it, and hops off your lap. In a blur of curls and socked feet, she darts down the hallway, her voice trailing behind her. “I’m telling Grandma I want pancakes for dinner!”

And just like that, she’s gone light on her feet, all sunshine and survival. You and Steve sit there, side by side, “I didn’t think it’d go that well,” he murmurs after a moment.

You exhale, your eyes still on the spot where she disappeared. “She’s stronger than both of us.”

Steve looks over, and there’s something reverent in the way he does it. “She’s strong like you,” he says. “You’re the strongest person I know.”

You don’t answer. You just reach for his hand one last time.

Because love, even when it changes shape, still leaves something soft behind.